more usual cynicism, Ecko brandished it like a dare.
He threw the words. “Only ’til I find the way outta here.”
Remarkably, Roderick managed to say, “Of course,” without sounding remotely smug.
PART 2: RIPPLES
4: THE MONUMENT
THE CENTRAL VARCHINDE
Across the vastness of the Grasslands, the sun was setting.
The low rays were warm on the riders’ backs, around them, the open Varchinde glowed in celebration of a summer’s day done. Soft brown shadows grew from the hooves of the creatures they rode.
Their progress had been steady – they would make the Monument on time.
Around them, insects were beginning to sing. Ears chilled from endless wind, Amethea spat out the stalk she’d been chewing and reined her beast to a patient halt.
“Thea?” In the final stages of his ’prenticeship, Feren stopped beside his tutor.
“Just stretching.” She lifted her pale braid of hair away from her neck. Under her, her heavy, slope-shouldered chearl leaned his ugly head down to snort among the grasses. Tiny flecks of life scattered. “Long day.”
“Aye.” He looked behind them, maybe at Roviarath’s distant Lighthouse Tower, the safe city world he’d left – maybe at the great shadow of the Kartiah Mountains growing over the empty plain – Amethea couldn’t tell. “And off the trade-roads.”
“Nervous?” She smiled.
He shrugged. “Just tales.” Running his hands through his shock of orange hair, he shook the dust out of it. “My cousin Redlock used to scare us kids when we were knee-biters. How the Kartiah are haunted and some such... Got any more water?”
“Told you not to guzzle all yours.” Leaning over in the high-backed saddle, Amethea passed him her waterskin. “You said yourself, we’re off the trade-roads, no one comes out here – even assuming we’re lucky with the taer, it’ll be late tomorrow before we get back to the river and any hint of civilisation.”
Feren took a careful swallow of lukewarm water and gave her a cheeky, sunburned grin. “You wouldn’t fail me. Not after everything.”
He had a point.
Taer was dusk blooming, found in only three places across the Grasslands and sought for a pollen that knit bones like hide glue. Crossing the open plainland herself was a huge undertaking – taking her ’prentice on his final test was as much an assessment for her as it was for him. “Go with caution,” Vilsara had said, “and return with wisdom.”
All very well for Vilsara, far to the north-west in Xenok’s hospice... Amethea and Feren were two days out of the Great Fayre at Roviarath, nearly a full day from any kind of safety. The vast emptiness of the open plainland was powerful, unknown, dangerous. Only the Deep Patrols came off the trade-roads – and they were an odd lot, somehow changed by the desolation.
“...Days since we’ve seen a decent tavern.” Feren was muttering under his breath. He suddenly interrupted himself with a pleased grin. “Unless The Wanderer comes out here.”
“The Wanderer?” Amethea chuckled. “Wasn’t it in Xenok? You think it’s following us?”
“I wish it was.” Feren’s grin broadened.
The teacher shook her head.
“We see it out here, I’ll eat my saddle and ride home bareback.”
“Really? Now, who told me the Gods had a sense of humour...?”
“You want me to finalise your ’prenticeship?” Checking about her, Amethea swung one leg over the chearl’s spike-maned neck and slid, with a groan, to the ground. The grasses reached past her knees and she leaned forwards to pound stiff thighs with her fists, making dust and pollen fly. Her chearl turned and blew noisily on her breeches. Absently, she scratched his great head.
“Are they? Haunted, I mean?” Feren was back to watching the distant mountains.
“You are nervous.” Amethea, too, turned westwards – the setting sun, the rising shadow. “It’s superstition, that’s all – that and your cousin pulling
He threw the words. “Only ’til I find the way outta here.”
Remarkably, Roderick managed to say, “Of course,” without sounding remotely smug.
PART 2: RIPPLES
4: THE MONUMENT
THE CENTRAL VARCHINDE
Across the vastness of the Grasslands, the sun was setting.
The low rays were warm on the riders’ backs, around them, the open Varchinde glowed in celebration of a summer’s day done. Soft brown shadows grew from the hooves of the creatures they rode.
Their progress had been steady – they would make the Monument on time.
Around them, insects were beginning to sing. Ears chilled from endless wind, Amethea spat out the stalk she’d been chewing and reined her beast to a patient halt.
“Thea?” In the final stages of his ’prenticeship, Feren stopped beside his tutor.
“Just stretching.” She lifted her pale braid of hair away from her neck. Under her, her heavy, slope-shouldered chearl leaned his ugly head down to snort among the grasses. Tiny flecks of life scattered. “Long day.”
“Aye.” He looked behind them, maybe at Roviarath’s distant Lighthouse Tower, the safe city world he’d left – maybe at the great shadow of the Kartiah Mountains growing over the empty plain – Amethea couldn’t tell. “And off the trade-roads.”
“Nervous?” She smiled.
He shrugged. “Just tales.” Running his hands through his shock of orange hair, he shook the dust out of it. “My cousin Redlock used to scare us kids when we were knee-biters. How the Kartiah are haunted and some such... Got any more water?”
“Told you not to guzzle all yours.” Leaning over in the high-backed saddle, Amethea passed him her waterskin. “You said yourself, we’re off the trade-roads, no one comes out here – even assuming we’re lucky with the taer, it’ll be late tomorrow before we get back to the river and any hint of civilisation.”
Feren took a careful swallow of lukewarm water and gave her a cheeky, sunburned grin. “You wouldn’t fail me. Not after everything.”
He had a point.
Taer was dusk blooming, found in only three places across the Grasslands and sought for a pollen that knit bones like hide glue. Crossing the open plainland herself was a huge undertaking – taking her ’prentice on his final test was as much an assessment for her as it was for him. “Go with caution,” Vilsara had said, “and return with wisdom.”
All very well for Vilsara, far to the north-west in Xenok’s hospice... Amethea and Feren were two days out of the Great Fayre at Roviarath, nearly a full day from any kind of safety. The vast emptiness of the open plainland was powerful, unknown, dangerous. Only the Deep Patrols came off the trade-roads – and they were an odd lot, somehow changed by the desolation.
“...Days since we’ve seen a decent tavern.” Feren was muttering under his breath. He suddenly interrupted himself with a pleased grin. “Unless The Wanderer comes out here.”
“The Wanderer?” Amethea chuckled. “Wasn’t it in Xenok? You think it’s following us?”
“I wish it was.” Feren’s grin broadened.
The teacher shook her head.
“We see it out here, I’ll eat my saddle and ride home bareback.”
“Really? Now, who told me the Gods had a sense of humour...?”
“You want me to finalise your ’prenticeship?” Checking about her, Amethea swung one leg over the chearl’s spike-maned neck and slid, with a groan, to the ground. The grasses reached past her knees and she leaned forwards to pound stiff thighs with her fists, making dust and pollen fly. Her chearl turned and blew noisily on her breeches. Absently, she scratched his great head.
“Are they? Haunted, I mean?” Feren was back to watching the distant mountains.
“You are nervous.” Amethea, too, turned westwards – the setting sun, the rising shadow. “It’s superstition, that’s all – that and your cousin pulling
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