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you
did it, the stupider I became." She must talk faster, faster, faster. "Can
you
change me, make me like that, so I continue like that, even without your
touch?"
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Karis said nothing.
"Answer quickly," Clement said.
"I can do it. But down the roadù"
"To hell with the bloody road! Do you want a hero tomorrow? Or a spineless
coward? Bloody hell!"
It had her again. And then it was gone, for Karis laid a hand upon her
forehead.
Karis said, "Listen, while you are clear, before you get stupid. You will pay
a
price, a terrible price. Every day you're without pain will give you a legacy
of
worse pain. This fear may be intolerable nowùbut later it will drive you
insane."
"I understand, Karis," said Clement. "But only tomorrow matters. I'll pay
whatever price must be paid."
Karis did not speak again. She stayed with her. Until the healer returned with
a
potion, until the potion began to take effect, Karis remained beside Clement,
with her hand upon her, granting her that costly mercy.
Chapter 19
The roads were firm, the sky clear, the air cool but not cold, the inclines
gradual. Zanja's winter fat had sloughed off like the skin from a snake.
Though
her load of gear was not light, she jogged easily past other early-season
travelers. Even a rich man on horseback with nothing better to do could not
keep
up as he attempted to engage Zanja in conversation. She ran most of the
distance
to Shimasal, where she left the highway and trotted along eastbound wagon
tracks, waving to farmers in orchards and in fields, where the spring plowing
and planting had begun. After she reached the Kisha highway her pace slowed
somewhat as she climbed into the highlands, down into the Aerin River Valley,
across the river and up into highlands again. She had outrun spring: Some few
flowers had begun to bloom behind her, but here in apple and nut country the
trees had scarcely awakened, and nearly the entire populace had turned out to
repair the highway.
When Zanja told a friendly innkeeper that she intended to leave the road to
go
west, the innkeeper protested, "There's nothing west of here. Nothing but
rocks." He was wrong, for there were more cultivated lands, but after one
last
night in a bed and one final generous breakfast, Zanja trotted right past the
edge of Shaftali civilization. Now, far ahead of her, she could sometimes
spot
the hazy jumble of foothills that marked the meeting of western and northern
mountains. Trees became sparse and stunted, and she had to slow to a walk so
she
could hunt for meat and collect firewood as she traveled. The pathless last
leg
of her journey was by far the slowest. Yet by the time Zanja was wading
through
the heather that in her time still would cover the rockscape of the
northwestern
borderlands, only fourteen days had passed.
Alone in the desolate landscape, she was the only thing moving between the
horizons. Shaftal's walls had been built to make the world smaller, she
supposed, so that within those narrow horizons people could feel like gods.
Now,
especially at night when she lay in the open without even the symbolic
comfort
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of a fire, there was no escaping her own unimportance. She could believe it
was
possible to literally die of loneliness.
At last she reached the edge of the canyon, that vast earthwork with which
the
Otter River guarded Shaftal's northern border. She had not been to this place
since she and Emil and Medric had brought Karis here, after rescuing her from
Mabin.
There Karis had been helped by water magic as she fought her way out of
addiction. There Karis had begun to remake all her old decisions. There she
and
Zanja, on the verge of clasping hold of each other, had nearly lost each
other.
And then it had begun.
The wind made a hollow cry as it moved through the canyon. The sun lay low on
the horizon, and to the east and the west the canyon seemed a black wound in
the
ruddy flesh of the earth. But at Zanja's feet the canyon was so wide that the
beautiful lake that lay cupped in its vast hands still glowed with light. She
could not possibly have failed to find Otter River, but she had not expected
she
could aim herself so accurately at the lake itself. Now, to find herself
unexpectedly so close to her destination made her impatientùtoo impatient to
even look for a path. She stashed most of her gear, took off her boots, and
climbed down the escarpment by twilight.
The sky was still red, but in the canyon it was full dark when Zanja reached
the
loose boulders and rubble that cluttered the canyon bottom. Here she was at
greater risk of injury from uncertain footing than when climbing the
perpendicular walls. She had to scramble over boulders taller than she, and
the
moonless night grew ever darker. When she reached the lakeshore, she was
scraped, bruised, and limping. There she could faintly hear frog song and the
echoing cry of a waterbird.
The island in the middle of the lake lay silent: no distant fires glowed, no
voices or laughter carried sweetly across the water. The possibility that she
might not find the people she sought had scarcely occurred to Zanja. Yet this
canyon was no more inhabited than the rocky heath above. The Otter People
were
not here.
She sat on a stone, stunned. The sky filled with stars, and suddenly she
could
no longer bear to be under the open sky. When she and her friends had taken
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