He was talking about
riots. He was jabbering mystical gibberish which I couldn't understand
and didn't want to understand, and rabble-rousing anti-Terran propaganda
which I understood much too well.
Another blaze of lights and another long scream in chorus:
"Kamayeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeena!"
Evarin stood in the blaze of the many-colored light.
The Toymaker, as I had seen him last, cat-smooth, gracefully alien,
shrouded in a ripple of giddy crimsons. Behind him was a blackness. I
waited till the painful blaze of lights abated, then, straining my eyes
to see past him, I got my worst shock.
A woman stood there, naked to the waist, her hands ritually fettered
with little chains that stirred and clashed musically as she moved
stiff-legged in a frozen dream. Hair like black grass banded her brow
and naked shoulders, and her eyes were crimson.
And the eyes lived in the dead dreaming face. They lived, and they were
mad with terror although the lips curved in a gently tranced smile.
Miellyn.
Evarin was speaking in that dialect I barely understood.
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