stand. The ground is parched and bare. They have turned south and she smells the sea. Waves lap lazily against a battered shoreline. They pass over a ruined town whose stone walls have fallen into heaps. A cockroach scuttles along the stones. No. It is a person, small and fragile but somehow still alive. Then the town falls behind
.
So close to the sea nothing moves except the wind through what remains of vegetation. Out in the water she sees the smooth back of a mer-creature split the surface and slide beneath
.
Is it Gnat, or Mosquito
?
The griffin shrieks, and banks to the right in a wide circle. Below, marching along parallel to the shoreline, walk human figures. So many! Two thousand at least, or four or ten, impossible to count so many. It is a refugee host strung out in double or triple file and marching into the worst of the devastation. There are many children and old people among them. It seems there are more groups coming up from behind, all moving in the same direction
.
She wants to cry out. She wants to warn them: “Turn back! This way lies ruin!” But she has no voice
.
And then she truly sees them
.
By face and feature they are Ashioi. Where have they come from? There were not so many children among the exiles as she sees in this company. The larger help the smaller. The warriors march in the van and at the rear to guard the helpless, who are also the most precious. They are well dressed in tunics and knee-length cloaks, their warriors in fine armor and brightly painted masks
.
The Ashioi she lived among, however briefly, were so poor that none had more than a rag or worn skin to cover themselves with, not even the warriors. That’s why she sleeps beneath a covering woven of reeds. Eldest Uncle doesn’t even have a spare tunic to gift her so that she might not sleep, or wake, naked. All the animals died in exile, and toward the end even the fields of flax withered
.
These are not the same people. Yet who else can they be
?
Ahead, the ground raises up to mark the blast zone. To the northeast the earth steams, but along the shoreline the way remains barely passable because the sea has cooled the fire out of the depths. The earth lies quiet. The Old Ones have withdrawn their power. All that is left is the wasteland. On the strand a boat lies beached. A single figure rushes, shouting, to greet the refugees
.
Her sight tunnels. She fixes on her prey, and recognizes her: Sanglant’s mother, who is also Eldest Uncle’s only daughter. Kansi-a-lari runs forward, then stops short, staring at the man who leads the rest. Her mouth drops open. She exclaims aloud, and he laughs, mocking her
.
“So you are the one!” he says. “I met your son. But I did not believe him. Greetings, Daughter.”
“Daughter?” Her fierce expression clouds and her brows pinch together with confusion as she stares at the prince, who is certainly younger than she is. “Why do you call me—”
“Look! Look up there!” Behind him, a warrior wearing a fox mask lifts her bow, draws it deep, and looses an arrow
.
“Hai!” cried Liath, jerking upright, torn right out of sleep and startling Eldest Uncle, who sat, as usual, bending and plaiting supple willow into a large basket.
“Ai, God!” she said a moment later in frustration, pulling the mantle around her as Eldest Uncle chuckled. “Is there
nothing
I can clothe myself with?”
“Indeed, Daughter, the women have concerned themselves mightily to please your modesty. See here.”
Out of a second basket he lifted a folded square of cloth as though it were more precious than gold. “In the vaults beneath the council chamber the last treasure has been removed, oil and grain stored against the final drought, bronze tools, cloth, and the scrolls sacred to He-Who-Burns.”
The cloth was undyed although a trifle yellowed with age, and finely woven out of a thread whose softness she did not recognize. When she unfolded it, she discovered a sleeveless tunic that reached to
.
So close to the sea nothing moves except the wind through what remains of vegetation. Out in the water she sees the smooth back of a mer-creature split the surface and slide beneath
.
Is it Gnat, or Mosquito
?
The griffin shrieks, and banks to the right in a wide circle. Below, marching along parallel to the shoreline, walk human figures. So many! Two thousand at least, or four or ten, impossible to count so many. It is a refugee host strung out in double or triple file and marching into the worst of the devastation. There are many children and old people among them. It seems there are more groups coming up from behind, all moving in the same direction
.
She wants to cry out. She wants to warn them: “Turn back! This way lies ruin!” But she has no voice
.
And then she truly sees them
.
By face and feature they are Ashioi. Where have they come from? There were not so many children among the exiles as she sees in this company. The larger help the smaller. The warriors march in the van and at the rear to guard the helpless, who are also the most precious. They are well dressed in tunics and knee-length cloaks, their warriors in fine armor and brightly painted masks
.
The Ashioi she lived among, however briefly, were so poor that none had more than a rag or worn skin to cover themselves with, not even the warriors. That’s why she sleeps beneath a covering woven of reeds. Eldest Uncle doesn’t even have a spare tunic to gift her so that she might not sleep, or wake, naked. All the animals died in exile, and toward the end even the fields of flax withered
.
These are not the same people. Yet who else can they be
?
Ahead, the ground raises up to mark the blast zone. To the northeast the earth steams, but along the shoreline the way remains barely passable because the sea has cooled the fire out of the depths. The earth lies quiet. The Old Ones have withdrawn their power. All that is left is the wasteland. On the strand a boat lies beached. A single figure rushes, shouting, to greet the refugees
.
Her sight tunnels. She fixes on her prey, and recognizes her: Sanglant’s mother, who is also Eldest Uncle’s only daughter. Kansi-a-lari runs forward, then stops short, staring at the man who leads the rest. Her mouth drops open. She exclaims aloud, and he laughs, mocking her
.
“So you are the one!” he says. “I met your son. But I did not believe him. Greetings, Daughter.”
“Daughter?” Her fierce expression clouds and her brows pinch together with confusion as she stares at the prince, who is certainly younger than she is. “Why do you call me—”
“Look! Look up there!” Behind him, a warrior wearing a fox mask lifts her bow, draws it deep, and looses an arrow
.
“Hai!” cried Liath, jerking upright, torn right out of sleep and startling Eldest Uncle, who sat, as usual, bending and plaiting supple willow into a large basket.
“Ai, God!” she said a moment later in frustration, pulling the mantle around her as Eldest Uncle chuckled. “Is there
nothing
I can clothe myself with?”
“Indeed, Daughter, the women have concerned themselves mightily to please your modesty. See here.”
Out of a second basket he lifted a folded square of cloth as though it were more precious than gold. “In the vaults beneath the council chamber the last treasure has been removed, oil and grain stored against the final drought, bronze tools, cloth, and the scrolls sacred to He-Who-Burns.”
The cloth was undyed although a trifle yellowed with age, and finely woven out of a thread whose softness she did not recognize. When she unfolded it, she discovered a sleeveless tunic that reached to
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