He looked down at the pieces of gleaming glass and lead on the table before him. The beauty of the stained-glass image he had pieced together astonished even him, yet it still could not touch the wonder of having been the tree. He touched it with his fingers, tracing the trunk and the graceful branches. Caressing the image was like touching his own body; he knew it that well. Behind him he heard the soft intake of Berandol's breath. In his state of still-heightened awareness, he could feel the priest's awe flowing with his own, and for a time they stood quietly, glorying together in the wonder of Sa.

“Wintrow,” the priest repeated softly. He reached out and traced with a finger the tiny dragon that peered from the tree's upper branches, then touched the glistening curve of a serpent's body, all but hidden in the twisting roots. He put a hand on the boy's shoulders and turned him gently away from his worktable. As he steered him from the workroom, he rebuked him gently. “You are too young to sustain such a state for the whole morning. You must learn to pace yourself.”

Wintrow lifted his hands to knuckle at eyes that were suddenly sandy. “I've been in there all morning?” he asked dazedly. “It did not seem like it, Berandol.”

“I am sure it did not. Yet I am sure the weariness you feel now will convince you it is so. One must be careful, Wintrow. Tomorrow, ask a watcher to stir you at midmorning. Talent such as you possess is too precious to allow you to burn it out.”

“I do ache, now,” Wintrow conceded. He ran his hand over his brow, pushing fine black hair from his eyes and smiled. “But the tree was worth it, Berandol.”

Berandol nodded slowly. “In more ways than one. The sale of such a window will yield enough coin to reroof the novitiates' hall. If Mother Dellity can bring herself to let the monastery part with such a thing of wonder.” He hesitated a moment, then added, “I see they appeared again. The dragon and the serpent. You still have no idea. . . .” he let his voice trail away questioningly.