“The clouds,” he whispered. “I would take a cup of moonlight once more, an ancient sea barge at my feet, thin clouds clinging to my darkling sky, the blue-gray cloak around my shoulders and horses neighing nearby.” “My Lord is troubled,” Moneo said. The compassion in his voice wrenched at Leto. “The bright shadows of my pasts,” Leto said. “They never leave me in peace. I listened for a soothing sound, the bell of a country town at nightfall, and it told me only that I am the sound and soul of this place.”
