I have been on holiday for two weeks.

During this time, I have written about one week's worth of chapters for Wind of the Soul on paper.

Currently I am in the process of typing them out and catching up with myself. They will be posted as whole weeks in a bit.

Please bear with me on this one, folks. Hope that explains the lack of recent updates.

In the meantime, review replies:

Casey Drake - A carimka is a totally made-up instrument, simply because I couldn't be bothered to do anything remotely resembling research. As I recall, it was a stringed instrument that fitted into a pack easily... hang on...

"...he draws forth a long, thin object and passes it to me... It is made of smooth, polished wood, and is the length of my forearm, as well as being around the same thickness. The structure is hollow, with an oval hole in the flat top. Dry strings are pinned at both ends, stretched across the hole."

So, start with a small violin (viola?), but thenwith a thinner, deeper soundbox, and designed to be plucked rather than bowed. And with an oval hole rather than those funny curly ones. That should sort of give the right idea. I've explained why I haven't updated.

waaaa - They're coming, as I said.

Also, I note 99 reviews! One more and it's 100! Whooooo!

I'm woken simultaneously by two things.

The first is triumphant, celebratory music; the low thrumming of a deep horn, the clear call of trumpets, the heavy pounding of drums and the myriad voices of fiddles, pipes, carimkas, bells and rattles. It sounds as if an orchestra is marching past outside, and the sound is enough to wake the dead.

The second thing is the hand of Eárin shaking my shoulder. Martin and Dean are with him, all three grinning excitedly at me. I sit up, still bleary from sleep, and see a baffled Brin already crawling over to the tent's entrance to see what all the fuss is about. I decide to join her, and clmaber out, pushing my tangled hair away from my face with one hand.

Ralun's already out and watching; I step from behind his back and gawk as a brightly coloured procession winds its way past, every participant dressed in gaudy clothing to rival rainbows. Rows of musicians march past in full and glorious swing, surrounded at every turn by dancers and tumblers and clowns, every last troupe with their own style and energy expressed in the tone of their music. I recognise more than a few faces from my wanderings over the last week, and in a low whisper my teacher tells me the Durien Troupe have already passed by.

"What is it?" I ask, eyes aglow.

"The Opening Procession," says a voice behind me. I turn to see Eárin grinning at the passing entertainment, still winding its way through the grassy roads of the festival site. "It's the offical opening for the Isbicoed Festival; happens every year, first day of Wyrt Moon. And on the last day there's a Closing Procession, held after dark. That's the one most casual visitors watch."

We stare at him and he shrugs. "I come to see the festival a lot."

"Look," Ralun says, pointing, and I follow his hand to see a gaggle of well-dressed but otherwise unremarkeable folk watching the passing trian in clear delight. "Visitors." He sitcks a thumb over his shoulder to the tent. "Yjadd, spend the morning busking- don't want to waste the day while it's busy. The afternoon and evening are your own, but I suspect Vera's going to be occupied all day, so don't expect any lessons from her necessarily."

I can see the accuracy of his words, and promising my friends that I'll meet them later I find my carimka out of my pack and find a good spot in which to sit down and busk. Within minutes I can feel the difference in the festival grounds; the expectant, waiting feeling of the last week has evaporated, along with the dry calm, to leave a hectic and chaotic existance in their wake. Yet still there is an odd camaraderie to the place, a feeling of kinship with all present, and a sense of being in a special and unique world.

By the time I pack up and leave for the afternoon, I've made a heavy purse from Festival-goers. From my own observations and from words with the stall-keepers around me, I've identified three main kinds of visitor; first are the day-trippers, often rich folk from nearby, out to see the entertainers and the stalls and feel the atmosphere of the place before heading back to their own comfy homes. Then there are those who've arrived for the long haul, intending to stay to the end and indulge their love of the festival and everything about it. And then there are a few who have come because they have the money and time to actively seek such celebrations all the year through and attend all those that occur.

I meet up with my friends and we start to wander the packed festival. Brin still isn't speaking to me, but she'll talk to the others, and together we note how odd it is that nobody in the place is concerned about theft or crime. Somehow such considerations seem unfounded, despite the great mix of people present; nobles and musicians, merchants and performers, tinkers and traders and labourers all rubbing shoulders calmly without fear. There are a thousand bright trinkets to lure every sense, and the afternoon passes for us in a haze of colours, scents and sounds. A few moments stand out amongst the rest; Martin getting blasted in a spray of ladies' perfume... Brin and Eárin having a competition to see who could eat the most pasties in one sitting... me getting given a rose by a young man in a blue and yellow hat, who held a great bunch and was cheerily giving them away to every other passing female... but the rest all fade into one marvellous day of enjoyment.

Evening draws in, but with torches and paper lanterns all about the night is a playtime as much as the day; we join Jorn and Meia for a meal once more, but afterwards continue our explorations, reluctant to leave the vibrant life of the Festival for the cool darkness of out tents. It must be well after midnight when we finally seek rest, and yet even as my thoughts fade I can still hear the laughter and music of the festival beyond, pervading my dreams long into the night.

The morning is, not surprisingly, a slow one. Quite a few people are up and about, but most of them seem to be nursing headaches and wince painfully at loud sounds and bright lights. This is later in the day, mind you; I find it impossible to rise at dawn, as do my friends, and Ralun sympathetically suggests that Brin and I spend the day relaxing.

"We've a full moon to earn money yet," he points out, before vanishing off once more. Ralun has more than coin on his mind; he's seeking a wintering place for us amongst the thousands who have come to the festival.

My first act of the day is to take off with Eárin, a specific aim in mind as I comb through the stalls of trinkets and baubles I noted yesterday. The others may be happy enough, but Brin is still angry with me. I need a peace offering.

It's Eárin who finds it, buried between two carved bowls and in a tangle of string: a simple charm bracelet, a small pewter leaf hanging from its thin chain. There are no other decorations on it, for this is an item to be built by the wearer rather than made for them in whole. Smiling broadly, I haggle with the stallkeeper until I can obtain the thing for less than the wealth of a small kingdom, and hand over the coins from my own meagre store. Then my friend and I go in search of my adoptive sister.

She's not hard to find, sitting with Martin and Dean to watch an escapologist at work. The man slips easily from ropes and chains, his comfortable patter causing merriment amongst the crowd. I settle myself in next to Brin, who gives me a cold look. I hold out the charm bracelet in response, and see a small gleam enter her eye.

"It's for you," I tell her softly. "I'm sorry."

Her hand is limp as I fasten the small chain around her wrist; suddenly she reaches out and grabs me in a tight hug.

"Thank you," she whispers in my ear, and the two of us share a smile, best friends once more.

The escapologist finishes his act and a steady of patter of coins fall into his waiting hat. A quick search of our pockets produces payment for the five of us, earning a welcome smile from the man. Peformers ourselves, we can't imagine enjoying the show and not paying for it afterwards.

As it's the afternoon by now, Brin suggests we seek out the Durien Troupe and see if Vera's in any position to teach. We find them down by the village once more, earning both applause and coin from a large group of adoring fans, and sit to wait until someone can find the time to speak with us.

Vera herself comes over between shows, green eyes glittering as she looks over my companions and greets them all. She tells me that it'll be hard to instruct me properly at any time over the next moon, as they're all so busy.

"But I did have one idea," she adds, just as my heart is sinking into my boots. "If you were to play during our show, it would add extra stlye, I think, and you would be able to watch us at work, see how we do it. Not to mention gaining practice in improvisation and earning a cut of the profits."

Excitedly I nod, knowing a good deal when I hear one, and at the acrobat's insistance hot-foot it back to our tent where I grab my carimka and set out once more. Things left in a tent are usually safe at fesitvals, according to Ralun.

"Most of the thieves are working as performers anyway," he joked as an afterthought when he was telling me. At any rate, I feel no worry over leaving my possessions unguarded, hurrying eagerly back to join the Durien Troupe. There, I discover that my friends are helping out too, rounding up crowds for the next performance. I take a seat beside the two grinning Durien youngsters and their drums, then try to think of what music will suit this show best.

When it begins, though, and I see the siaring, agile forms of the performers, I have no doubt in my mind. The lively, exotic Kalimere scales spring to my fingers, an improvised tune appearing to match the movements above. I am a part of this show, one of the creators of this wonder that causes the audience to gasp and coo in delighted awe. I can no longer see my friends, but I know they're out there in the crowd, marvelling at what should be impossible just as I am.

I play until my fingers ache and my wrists are sore and my head thrums with music, but all too soon it is sundown and the Troupe are taking their final bows. As the audience dissipates, I see my friends, still standing and waiting for me. They hurry over to hug and congratulate me, then fall silent as Vera approaches.

"That was excellent," she smiles. Then one elegant hand waves back to her people. "Would you care to eat with us tonight?"

I hesitate, wanting to go but thinking of Jorn and Meia. Eárin makes my mind up for me.

"She'd be delighted," he says, before whispering "We'll explain" in my ear. I thank just as quietly before bidding the others goodnight and dociley following Vera towards the inn.

The Troupe eat in the main room, and I find myself appreciating the meal around a table. The company is good, too; the crowded interior feels warm and friendly, the jostling good-natured. The food is substantial and well-cooked, and I realise exactly how long I've been eating the kind of mush that stays in a bowl. Not that I dislike that, but change is nice.

The meal ends, and with fond farewella I head back to the tent I share with Brin and Ralun. They're both there and asleep by the time I arrive, so I slip into my bedroll as quietly as possible before swiftly passing out.

I'm woken by an energetic Brin, who wants to hear all about my meal last night in perfect detail. I'm feeling a bit grubby and Ralun's already gone, so I change into fresh clothes as I tell my exciteable sister all about it. Vera has told me the mornings are my own time as far as she's concerned, so along with Eárin and Brin I set out to explore. Martin and Dean don't join us, because they're having a lesson today.

Our meanderings take us to the most curious place; a stall run by a middle-aged woman and her daughter, both with skin as brown as earth and coal-black hair. They sell clothes, for the most part, lightweight and brightly coloured, the same exotic styles as they themselves are wearing. What really catches my eye, though, is the chair where they give customers a new hairstyle, also like their own. That is to say, dozens of tiny braids, finished off with bright beads and string.

Brin seems baffled by my interest, Eárin overly patient, but they browse quietly while I interrogate the daughter (whose name is Noni, and who speaks with a definite Fenlander twinge) as to the braids. Yes, they're easy enough to maintain. No, they're not expensive to do at all. They just take a while... oh, not that long. But I'll have to be patient.

I check my money, haggle a little, check again and eventually cave for what actually seems to be a reasonable price to me. Still, before I can back out, Noni has taken my money, got me in the chair and is brushing my hair out, trimming the ends a little as she does so. I cast my eyes over to Eárin, who reads the message in them clearly. Moments later, he and Brin vanish, leaving me alone with gentle fingers on my scalp.

At first I'm impatient and jittery, anxious to be done, but then I realise how silly this is. It's not as if I have to go anywhere yet. I relax, finding the chair quite comfortable, and hear hear Noni humming a strange tune. It's hypnotic, and my eyes begin to close. I'm drifting on a cloud of soft thoughts, detached from myself and feeling fine about it. It's the oddest of feelings, but a pleasant one, and so I feel almost disappointed when the smooth voice behind me says:

"We're done."

I sit up and immediately feel the strange weight of the braids on my neck. My hand goes to my head, and suddenly I can't stop playing with them. Noni, grinning, finds a circle of polished copper, and I look at the stranger reflected within, her pale hair tight to her head and divided in decorative braids around her coffee-coloured face.

I share the young woman's grin, and thank her warmly.

There's no time left to find my friends, so I hurry towards the village and the Troupe, glad I picked up my carimka as I left the tent this morning. I arrive breathless and Vera turns to greet me.

"Oh, good, you're... Yjadd! Your hair!" But the squeal she gives is one of delighted approval as she shepherds me to sit down. I smile happily, starting to tune my instrument. The other members of the troupe wander over to express curiosity and approval.

"It does suit you," Vera agrees as a crowd begins to gather. She casts a glance over her shoulder towards them and sighs theatrically. "Must go. See you later!"

The show begins and goes as well as yesterday's. Today I throw in more Istanian and Satht Da'yri music with the Kalimere, and it goes down well, the crowd responding to the acrobatic feats more strongly than usual with my careful backing. Evening arrives and with it my payment, as Vera counts coins into my hand.

"We're earning a bit mre than we normally do," she tells me triumphantly. "D'you want to join us for dinner again?"

Regretfully I decline, choosing to go to the tinker's camp instead, where everyone comments fanourably on my new hair except Dean, who claims it looks like rat-tails growing out of my head. We all laugh, then tuck in to our food. I give Ralun the money I earned, and he gives me his congratulations. He still hasn't found a wintering-place, but there's plenty of time and our moods are good, so we're all optimistic about our chances.

It's a fun night, which comes to a happy end as we all make our way back to our respective tents. Brin and I, friends again, are practically leaning on each other we're so tired, and Ralun's not much better. He trips over guide ropes more than once on our journey back, and each time we giggle as we help him onto his feet once more and continue on our way.

In time we reach our shelter, and with it our bedrolls. It is with great relief and exhaution that I collapse into mine and instantly fall asleep.

The first thing I do upon waking is check my hair with a hand; I'm still not used to the many tiny braids that adorn my head, and there's something comforting about playing idly with them.

But there's little ltime left over for that, as Martin and Dean arrive with Eárin and the five of us set out once more. Today as we explore, Brin and Dean hang back and talk quietly to each other, their low voices inaudible. I find a small smile creeping across my face at the idea my sister might find some romance; aww.

We stop off to watch a pair of mages, identical twins by the look of them, as they delight an audience with their magics. They're careful tricks, chosen not to resemble the conjuring sleight-of-hand any dextrous and practiced entertainer can achieve, and we clap and cheer their skill with everyone else.

In fact, we seem to have found a whole cluster of tents and stalls dedicated to magics of varying natures; after some debate, Brin and I decide to visit a fortune-teller, they boys electing to wait outside in order to tell us how daft we are.

Brin goes first, ducking into the star-covered red tent and emerging several minutes later with a broad smile on her face.

"She says I'm going to fall in love, marry, and have a full, rich life," she tells us by way of explaination. Martin rolls his eyes.

"That's what they always say," he points out laughingly. "Still want to get conned, Yjadd?"

I reply with a rude gesture, drawing a laugh from our companions before stepping into the dark, heavily-scented interior. Inside, amongst astrological charts and thick rugs, a veiled woman sits at a small table, a crystal before her. Her dark eyes smile at me from a lined face.

"Come, sit," she invites, and I recognise her accent.

"You're Satht Da'yri," I say, settling on an ornate stool opposite her. She raises a single quizzical eyebrow.

"As are you," she replies in our native tongue. "Through your upbringing as well as your mother's blood." She scrutinises me a moment longer. "Your father was not there, was he, Windsoul?"

I blink in surprise. How does she know all this? A slow chuckle emerges from the woman's lips as she leans in towards me, her perfume making me feel a little dizzy.

"I am named Sathteyj," she tells me softly. "My fate has been kinder than yours shall be, I fear."

An icy hand grips my heart. Eternity-child is a name known for giving prophecy and foresight: no Satht Da'yri would lie as to their name, and so I must believe her words. But I must also know more; she says my fate will not be kind. Afraid, I ask her to elaborate, and so she does.

"The wind is a fickle master, child, far more so than time. There is pain in knowing what is to come, but at least I can prepare for what I know will arrive. The wind, though, shall change to go where it wills. This will is within you, and will give you always more control over your life than many have, but the price of this is the storms that you will have to weather. This you know already, from the teachings of our people. But for you, there will come three great regrets, choices made on the wind that will bring you sorrow that will last until your death. These things I will not, cannot warn you of; as Doresoth, nothing but you may guide your path. But I will give you these words to reassure you when the sadness comes; in the end of your days, you will choose your path knowingly, a gift few are given. And before that time, you will have joys to relieve the sorrows a hundred times over."

The woman breaks off, and frowns in consideration. "Do not fear to love, no matter what," she adds. Then, with a smile: "and remember, although it is a great you have undertaken to find your father, victory may still be closer than you think."

So saying, she covers her crystal with a cloth and I pay her, stepping out of the tent to blink dazzledly in the bright sunlight. My mind still dwells on her words: the others want to know what she said, but I stall them, saying only that the woman was Satht Da'yri and could be believed.

As Brin joyfully recounts her glowing future, we continue to explore the fair. It's only as evening comes and I go to dine with the others at the tinker's camp I realise the woman's words don't matter. There's nothing I can do about my future until it becomes the present, and so the words will stay safely locked away until they bear meaning for me.

Still, the predictions haunt me as I try to sleep, my eyes locked open by her words and their meaning.

Do not fear to love, no matter what.

The festival has been underway for four days, but it's only as I wake today that I realise exactly how all-pervading its spirit is. The first thing I hear are the sounds of celebration, music and laughter.

The second thing is the rain.

It's been drizzling most of hte night, exploding into a full-blown downpour aropund dawn, but nobody seems to have been discouranged by the icy water that falls in sheets from the sky or the thick brown mud that seems to be working its way into every crevasse. Canvas tarpaulins have appeared, the grass streets half-protected in some places and open in others. Everyone with boots is wearing them, skirts are hitched up, and trousers are rolled away from the mud.

Eárin and the others are waiting for me across the way, sheltering beneath the wide cover of a pie stall, munching on the wares. I find out my mestyr cloak, slip it on, and dash across with my friends applauding me... mockingly, of course.

Nothing seems dampened by the rain, except in a purely literal sense. It's amusing to see the clearly rich ladies who, on previous days, minced genteely about. Today they're lifting their skirts indecently high and wading through what could reasonably be called swampland, still smiling. Brin's doing the same; the rest of us are smug in breeches. Mud-splattered breeches.

Afternoon, and we track Vera and her acrobats down to the inn, where they're slowly drinking their way through the cellar. They explain, in slurred tones, that the weather makes their job too difficult and dangerous, and that they won't even be practicing until everything dries out. We spend a while in their increasingly inebriated company, then I part with the others and go in search of a good place to busk. It can't be anywhere too damp, as that would risk my carimka's strings, but most of the best places are taken.

Then I get lucky, as a bard retiring for the afternoon offers his place to me. I thank him and settle down on my cloak; with Ralun searching for a position, it's up to me to make money, as Brin isn't experienced enough yet. The area on which I'm sitting is dry by now, thanks to the heat of my predecessor, and it's beneath a wide section of creamy canvas, surrounded by stalls. Ideal. I set about drawing people in.

It's cold with the wind blowing the rain in, but I soon forget about that as a small audience gathers around me. I fall headlong into the music I'm playing, willing to take requests and surprised to discover how many tunes I actually know now. I sing to accompany the instrument, and the number of listeners swells; money pours into the folded cloth I've placed before me on the ground.

My friends wander past from time to time, stopping to cheer me on indiscriminantly, but that's more or less expected. The big surprise I get, however, comes when the red-haired circus man who once turned me down stops by and requests the song I wrote to mock him. He listens with a slight smile, and tosses a rather large coin into my collection afterwards.

"We did indeed miss out," he chuckles. "But I thought you should know... we've had better business than ever, this year, and I think it's all down to that song. People want to see what all the fuss was about!" He grins. "Actually, I was wondering if you'd be happy to let us use it on a regular basis..."

I nod enthusiastically.

"I can even write a friendlier version, if you like," I offer, but he shakes his head.

"I like the one we've got," he tells me firmly, before leaving. Buoyed by this, I sing the tine several times over after his departure, and to my surprise, people do seem to appreciate it. One or two mention hearing it elsewhere, and a flush of pride runs through me when I realise I've written something that will last.

Yet I'm not the only one; the next time Brin passes, I exchange a few whispers with her, and shortly afterwards sing another song: Forest Green Eyes, as written by my sister. I pour all the heartwrenching power of a Sorrowsoul ballad into the words, and thus shaped they are highly effective in drawing tears from my audience. Brin really does have the art of wordsmithing.

I sit playing and performing in my corner until gone sundown, taking only a few short breaks to relieve my weary hands and voice or to count my takings. The figure staggers me somewhat in the end; it's more than I've ever seen in one place since I started travelling with Ralun, and even before then it would have been substantial.

Ralun, too, is impressed when I hand over the purse, and everyone at Meia's fire celebrates. As we start to eat, I see the woman take Brin to one side away from Dean and start to speak to her quietly. From the shade of the girl's face, I can guess the topic, and I quickly hide a grin behind my hand. Meia seems to consider our well-being her responsibility, but she's only done well by me, so I don't suppose I can complain. And I can't be both mother and sister to Brin.

She's slipping something into her pocket as she rejoins us; nobody comments. I suppose we all know Meia well enough.

Still, when we go to bed and Brin's asleep, I check to see if my guess is right. I sleep with a smile: Meia's given Brin a pair of golden hoop earrings.

Yesterday's rain has let up, and more temporary "roofs" have appeared overnight. Some are treated canvas or enchanted cloth, some planks of wood or metal sheets. Over the mage's area, the raindrops soparkle brightly off multi-coloured domes.

The three of us... Ralun, Brin and I... are sat in our tent eating a modest breakfast. The floor of the small space is invisible beneath our tangled, unmade bedding and the scattered contents of our packs. None of us, it seems, considers tidiness a virtue. There's something comforting about about the clutter, though, and the close feeling I share with these two people is worth any amount of mess.

Ralun's telling us how his search for a patron is going, a tale that we've heard at dinner as a series anecdotes but which now has a more businesslike cast to it. There's a difficulty, in that those looking for a minstrel over winter are not looking for two apprentices as well, and the point is a fair one, although it makes our lives harder. But as the old bard says, someone somewhere will be happy to have us; we've just got to find them.

Martin, Dean and Eárin appear shortly afterwards, and we once again start our roaming, unnoticed by most at the festival save for those who know us. Martin, Dean and Brin have all been appointed to train with the boy's mentor this afternoon, so we all try to cram as much as we can into the morning, since I have to perform and Eárin "has a place to be" in his own words.

"Where?" Martin demands. "For that matter, where is it you vanish off to every night?"

It's not the first time he's asked, and Eárin has his answer ready.

"I go to my parents' camp," he replies easily, and we give in. Further questioning will, we know, result in nothing. Our friend he may be, mysterious he remains.

Still, the festival is a joy, especially when we run into Vera and Lyn, another of the Durien Troupe. The rain means they cannot perform, so they're enjoying the festival with everyone else, and we stop to recommend a few spots to each other. Most of the ones the two women comment on are in the marquees; we've more or less been avoiding those, given that they tend to charge more than we have for entry, but with solid backing from friends we decide some may be worth a try tomorrow or the day after. Thanking them, we go our separate ways.

When the sun reaches its zenith, I wave goodbye to my friends and set out for the place I busked at yesterday. The man who occupied it that morning is there today, too, and all too happy to hand it over.

"Can't work all the time," he explains cheerily. "Say, maybe we could make this a regular thing for the rest of the festival!"

I explain regretfully my position with the Durien Troupe, and he shrugs.

"All the same to me," he grins, before wandering off and leaving me with the spot. I settle down for another afternoon of performing, and soon I'm lost in the music once more. The weather today is actually marginally better than yesterday: there's less wind, and the rain isn't as solid and wet. There's not as much mud on people's clothes, either, unless it's left over from yesterday.

Once again, I sing mine and Brin's songs as well as all the others I know. They seem to go down well with the watchers; a few stop to ask me questions about several songs, mostly seeking translations or histories. I appreciate Ralun's attention in teaching me these things, now, knowing that others actually are interested in them.

Evening comes as always, and I head straight off to join Ralun and my friends for dinner, with enoug momey to feed us all for a week and more. I'm starting to feel a firm confidence in my abilities, one that carries over to become a spring in my step and and a bold smile on my face.

Meia's cooked the most wonderful stew in all creation and we all eat appreciatively, swapping stories about our days as we do every night. I have a few good ones to tell, such as the noble lady who stopped off to enquire as to the meaning of what was actually a bawdy song wrapped in metaphor. Everyone around had gone very quiet when she did that...

My friends and I lay our plans for the morrow before sloping off to sleep. Sandwiched between the two people I now consider my family, I am comfortabole and warm until the falling raindrops on the canvas tent lull me into a deep and restful slumber.

The rain appears to have worn itself out in the night to leave a bright, glistening day in its stead. When my friends and I gather, we hold a short debate as to whether our decision of last night should still hold, given the good weather; do we really want to hide under canvas?

In the end, though, it's the sun that decides morning is rapidly becoming both hot and humid, and we all know that it'll be ten times worse in a marquee. So decided, we agree to take a break from the festival itself and go exploring in the woods beyond.

It's cool under the trees, soft green light a welcome relief from harsh sunshine. There's a smell of damp leaves about, and the occasional stray drip of water plops onto our heads or necks as we pass. Like the festival site beyond, it's still wet, but warm and airy too.

The idea of exploring the woodlands sounds exciting but rapidly becomes dull. Even Eárin, whose observational skills are conmprehensive and whose knowledge of our current surroundings could be described as encycleopedic, ends up kicking at loose twigs as the morning palls; that's just the atmosphere of the day. One tree looks much like another, from a certain perspective, and that's the one we've stumbled across today.

Still just messing about, we start to go climbing trees and swinging from the branches. My exercises and work with Vera have given me better balance and confidence, so I easily scale to greater heights than my friends and, daringly, jump from one tree to another, several lengths up. This is fun for a bit... until my foot slips on a damp branch, and I overbalance, barely snagging my hands around the timber on the way down.

The next few minutes as I make my way back to the forest floor are precarious, and as soon as my feet are on solid earth once more I suggest we make our way back to the festival grounds. The others agree, and so we set out.

Bright things sparkle here as they haven't for a day or two; deciding from my own close encounter that the Durien Troupe won't risk performing, we head down to the village, and sure enough find them practicing with hay bales to cushion any falls caused by slippery surroundings.

Vera's glad to see me, and the others all wave goodbye as they exit the inn's courtyard. My lesson begins.

Once again, Vera impresses on me the five things I need; imagination, concentration, strength, flexibility and balance. The first two I have, the second two I'm gaining. The last, I don't think I'll ever have the way my teacher demands. Even on the trees this morning, I was slow and cautious. If I'd tried to move the way she does, I'd have broken my neck.

I say as much, but the acrobat laughs it off. "If you worry about accidents, you'll never do a thing," she points out. "Confidence. That's the key; should be on the list." She considers for a moment, then nods. "In fact, I'll put it there now. Confidence, imagination, concentration, strength, imagination and balance. That's what you need."

She then proceeds to increase my confidence, concentration and balance with a series of exercises that sound almost, but not quite, impossible. Forwards roll up a narrow plank, and backward roll down it; hop along hte wall surrounding the courtyard; jump and pull myself up onto the door lintel... things that seem difficult but which turn out to be possible with effort. Part of what Vera impresses on me is a smiling face.

"Make it look easy," she advises me as I breathlessly whisper curse-words and grunt. "You might be having trouble, but people don't want to see that. They want to see the impossible; give it to them."

I don't think she hears what I call her; there's not much air in my lungs at that point. But although I can't quite manage a smile, I do slap on the neutral face of a card-player, because I can see the point of her words.

Vera gives me an invitation to join the troupe for dinner again, but though I'm tempted I decline. People are waiting for me elsewhere, and I don't want to just vanish on them.

I make my way across the darkening festival ground, lut by the gentle glow of fires and candles. Dinner comes and goes, and with Ralun and Brin I head back. It's true dark by now, and the stars are glittering overhead, bright silver points of light in a dark sky. They're mirrored by the orange campfires below, and together the two lights guide us in the darkness.

Ralun still hasn't found a wintering place, and we're a week into the festival. I worry about this a little as I fall asleep.