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amusement
as Clement was, commenced a speech about the historical importance of this
occasion. But she was summarily interrupted by the runaway cook, who led in a
parade of self-conscious townsfolk carrying steaming hot, luscious-smelling
dishes. Under the influence of this extraordinary meal, seriousness became
impossible. Even the soldiers, who had been dutifully but grimly attempting
to
say a few words in Shaftalese, began to laugh a little as they ate standing
up
with their erstwhile enemies.
Gilly lay his gnarled hand over Clement�s. �With meals like this, the peace
will
last forever,� he said. �What fool would fight when he could be eating, eh?�
Clement gazed fondly at her old friend, who had the sleeping baby tucked into
the crook of his arm. �A lot of work lies ahead of us, though.�
�Work worth doing,� he replied.
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�At last.�
Clement looked across the table at Karis, who was poking distractedly at her
beef in onion sauce over shredded potatoes. Zanja, who had eaten only some
more
bread and the richly flavored soup, now rested her head against Emil�s
shoulder.
The two of them could have been lovers, so delighted were they by each
other�s
company. But Zanja and Karis had not spoken to each other yet, had not even
met
each other�s gaze.
This had been a remarkable morning. But much yet remained to be resolved.
Only rubble remained of the wall that had divided Sainnite from Shaftali. On
one
side of the fallen wall, new timber frames had been established in the
snow-covered ashes of burned buildings. On the other side, the stone and
slate
buildings of the Shaftali town seemed almost bereft without the garrison wall
to
crowd up against. The stones were still rolling; the rubble piles continued
to
spread and flatten until no stone lay atop any other. Soldiers and townsfolk
stood watching the restless rocks�fearful, curious, or amazed.
This is Watfield, Zanja reminded herself: a prosperous midland city,
fortunately
situated on the River Corber, which was an important route for bringing goods
into and out of Hanishport, six days� journey to the east. Despite these
facts,
Zanja felt utterly dislocated and kept seeking the sun to remind herself that
she was walking north, with the sun sinking westward and the Corber behind
her
to the south.
She wore a jacket of finely woven wool with silver buttons; she was wrapped in
a
thick cloak with a silver clasp at the shoulder. Her head felt light; her
hair
was gone. The people around her�her family�they also were changed. Leeba had
learned some caution. Emil had become a Paladin general. Karis�
Karis and Clement had stepped onto the fallen gate piled with empty food
baskets. Clement, m her begrimed leather coat and squashed hat, might have
just
come home from a bruising campaign. The baby Gabian was buttoned into her
coat,
with the top of his blue cap just under her chin and her gloved hand
supporting
the back of his head. Karis towered over her: her hair in a tangle, her red
coat
powdered with pulverized mortar. Leeba rode on her hip, asking question after
question with no pause for the answers. Karis looked as ordinary as she could
ever manage to look: a laborer in the midst of an exhausting building
project.
But her stance had a weighty dignity that spoke of the power of ten
generations�the power of Shaftal�s seeds, stones, wombs, hands. And the power
of
finally knowing what to do with that power.
Karis crouched over to kiss Clement like a sister. The hoarsely cheering
people
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who crowded the street seemed to swallow their shouts for a moment, and the
soldier�s cheers also faltered. For a long moment Karis gazed gravely at the
silent, frowning group that stood just beyond the gate, draped with white
banners on which were painted names�the names of the dead?
Zanja�s heart clenched with the old guilt and sorrow. Surely, the ghosts of
the
Ashawala�i people would condemn her for making peace with their killers, just
like these name-draped witnesses condemned Karis for it. And surely, by
refusing
to satisfy them, Zanja� and Karis�were condemning themselves to the unending
haunting of other people�s unsatisfied angers.
What have I done to us? Oh, what have I done? Zanja dug a hand into her
pocket
and felt there the familiar, worn, warped pack of glyph cards. But even these
could not comfort her. The storyteller�s glyph pattern had seemed not merely
ambiguous, but unreadable. Had life become so momentous that all her answers
would now be nothing but a tangled muddle of contradictory possibilities? She
almost missed the clean clarity of those empty months�years, really�of
walking
the mountainous wasteland between life and death.
Then, she felt the strong grip of J�han�s supporting hand on her elbow.
�You�re
awfully tired,� he reminded her in his old, timely, pragmatic way.
They walked through Watfield down a street so crowded with people they
sometimes
could scarcely get through. At Zanja�s left, Medric maintained a continuous
commentary. �Here come the town elders�they�re looking rather self-important,
aren�t they? Are they telling Emil that they�ve found us another place to
stay?
That�s too bad. I rather liked that drafty, humble old house in the alley.
Does
Karis think she has to talk to every single person in Shaftal, starting with
the
people of Watfield, right at this moment? Well, perhaps she does! But surely
she�ll wear out her voice again? There, Norina has put a stop to that
nonsense.
We don�t all have Karis�s supernatural energy! Emil is looking pretty worn,
don�t you think? Still, we�ll be up talking half the night, just like the
Sainnites will. Greetings, Garland, you�ve been busy! Is it possible that you
and I are now Shaftali?�
This last was addressed to the cook, who was toting a basket of wax-covered
cheese, dusty bottles of spirits or wine, and highly polished apples. Medric
had
predicted he�d find his way to them, and here he was, no longer lost. The
cook
said, �Well, weren�t we Shaftali already? Oh, there�s the man with the
bacon.�
He trotted off to add another package to his basket, to acquire a second
basket
crammed with bread, and to converse joyfully with a woman riding atop a wagon
load of barrels. Everyone he talked to was left smiling in his wake, as
though
happiness were a contagion. His pockets were crammed with packages, and
people
pressed more items on him until his baskets overflowed.
Zanja stared about herself at the high slate rooftops, the extravagant
lightning
rods, the crowded shops of the prosperous city. And then they came to a
square,
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