...until he fell into a trance. In the black void of the windowless hut, marking seven steps this way and seven steps that way, Marchwyr's feet eventually lost touch with the floor. He escaped! The ceiling melted into nothingness and the walls went away. He might have been treading on clouds for all he knew, seven steps this way and seven steps that way. If he stopped pacing, surely he would fall to his death.

Treading on clouds? His vacant vision was suddenly filled with the face of the fair maiden he'd met by the well, the young woman who was the cause of all this trouble in the first place. Perhaps he could find his way to her bardic contest after all. But first he must compose a poem that would win the prize!

Seven words this way and seven words that way...