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. "A weapon. Or perhaps four."
But though they pressed him, the young mage only
settled back into the warmth of his cloak and did not answer
further. He stared into the fire.
As Tanis set the night watches he wondered what
weapons Raistlin might be forging out of the silence and
the flame.
Pytr knew that the squirrel was in trouble. This was not, he
realized, a squirrel after all. The dreams said that. But what
he might be, Pytr did not know. He did know, however, that
whatever the squirrel might have been before now would
fade and vanish one day. With no piece of his real self to
cling to, whoever he might have been, he would wake,
dreamless, to find that he was indeed a squirrel. And likely,
Pytr thought with a cold shudder, he would never know that
there had been a time when he wasn't.
COME, SQUIRREL, TELL ME YOUR NAME.
MY NAME? SQUIRREL, I GUESS.
NO, TELL ME YOUR REAL NAME. I DON'T THINK
YOU ARE TRULY A SQUIRREL. WHAT IS YOUR REAL
NAME?
I DON'T KNOW.
THINK, WON'T YOU?
The squirrel tried, but thinking only made his head throb
worse. LET IT GO, CAT - PYTR. I THINK I'LL NAP.
I DON'T THINK YOU SHOULD.
WHY? MAYBE I'LL DREAM AGAIN, MAYBE . . .
Ah! The dreams. Pytr purred softly, nudged the squirrel
through the bars, and managed to ignore the cat-hunger that
reminded him just how tasty a squirrel could be
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