Seven steps this way and seven steps that way is how Marchwyr found his way dancing on the cloud-path that led to the mountaintop where the best bards in the land assembled to vie for the prize. He stepped down from the sky and set foot on the solid ground of the rocky peak to join the company. There was a fluttering of feathered capes as several of the ollamhs, adorned in their finest ceremonial dress, turned to stare him down. He was a misfit in their midst, a brown sparrow novice alighted in a nest of phoenix-plumed poets.

I belong here as much as they do, he told himself bravely. She invited me!

Looking past their stony glares, he saw her. The mysterious girl, a vision within a vision, still clad in a silken garment of amber-hued flame, eyes shining like stars. And again, as before, she lifted a hand in greeting.

"Welcome, Marchwyr! I am glad you are here. You are the last poet. Let us hear what you've composed."

Marchwyr's mouth fell open. Nothing came out. He stared at the girl, drinking up her beauty with his eyes. He had no words prepared, only seven and seven in his head, seven this way and seven that way, empty paces on a foolish path of clouds, blind strides in a sunless moonless void.