Hunger. Thirst. Water dripping upon saturated moss. A wound on the Hist tree, oozing sap like slow tears. Golden light, piercing the darkness like an arrow. Lightning. Sparks. Betzi blinked several times, considering the visions. Why did the Hist show her the same thing? She wondered if her meditations were any use. She touched the fruit, nudging aside the woven twigs forming its nest. "A Zaht stone?" Connections jumbled together in her mind's eye, then spooled into the correct order. Unprepared for the onslaught, Betzi cried aloud. Zaht stones would protect Hissmir. But how?