Clement said, “I have to tell you, I don’t know how to make peace. I can’t be certain that all the garrisons will follow me. And I may only be general for a few months.”

The Truthken’s expression became distinctly appreciative. “I understand these qualifications.”

Clement said, “I will do whatever is necessary to make peace with Shaftal.”

“Karis, the general declares a sincere intention.”

“Oh, we’ll solve these problems,” Karis said.

The bugler had begun sounding a sequence of notes that had never been heard in Shaftal. Clement couldn’t even be certain her soldiers knew what the signal meant. But Ellid had also sent her officers in person to pass the word, and the soldiers’ voices were a rising roar. On the other side of the wall there also rose up a growing wave of cheers. A bell had begun to peal.

Surely,Clement thought belatedly, none of this is possible. It can‘ not possibly be so simple as this.

Karis said, “What happened to the storyteller?”

Clement said, “A raven got in the way of the ax. It missed her entirely. But she seems to be unconscious.”

The gray man uttered an exclamation. “Karis, why did you interfere? How many times must we make up our minds to kill her?”

“One last time, Emil,” Karis said.

“Are you the one who’s managing this business of feeding the garrison? We’re ready with the bread.”

Garland was being addressed by a rather floury woman, who had seen fit to tuck under her arm a hot loaf of bread, which crackled and steamed in the chill. She brought him into a wonderful conversation about butter and jam with a dozen other people. Then Medric blundered into the crowd of cooks, his vision obscured by a paste of snow and powdered lime. “Is Garland here? I’ve got to get to Karis. Useless bloody spectacles!”

Garland took him by the elbow, saying irritably, “If you would just ask Karis to mend your vision, you could throw the spectacles away.”

That startled Medric into a moment’s silence, but then he responded firmly, “Just because she canfix everything doesn’t mean she should.Get me over these rocks, brother.”

As they tripped and stumbled their way across the spreading carpet of rock, Medric said, “Can you see Karis? What is she doing?”

“She’s on her knees in the snow. There’s a raven beside her–it looks like it’s dead. She has a woman, a body, in her arms. It must be Zanja. Gods, does Karis get to feel not even a moment’s triumph?”

Medric swayed wildly from side to side. “What in Shaftal’s Name has she done to these rocks? This wall will neverbe finished falling! I would not have expected her, of all people, to be so immoderate!”

Garland said, “Norina’s unbuttoning her coat to get at her dagger.”

Medric shouted shrilly, “Gods of hell! Karis! Don’t let her do it!” Arm waving wildly for balance, he added, “Did they hear me?”

Emil had turned; he noticed their approach. He lay a hand on Norina’s arm. “Emil heard,” Garland said.

“Of course he heard,” Medric said. “He’s a listening sort of man! Are we anywhere near them yet? How long do these bloody rocks continue?”

“The snow’s next,” Garland said. “Here we go.”

They waded past Sainnite officers, who clustered intently around their rapidly talking new general. Emil had come through the snow to meet them and took Medric’s other elbow. “Karis says her heart is still beating, but the spirit is gone. She says she just needed to know for herself. And now she does know.”

“But she only knows what her hands can tell her,” Medric said. “She can’t know that the storyteller is dead because she was expect ingto be killed. But think, Emil, think of what’s possible now!”

“Think?” said Emil. “At this moment?”

“Must we go through this again?” said Norina impatiently as they drew up to her.

“Here’s Karis,” Garland said, and put Medric’s hand onto her shoulder.

The limp woman lay in Karis’s arms. A piece of cut rope hung from one of the woman’s wrists, and a long, slender braid of her hair trailed across the snow. Garland remembered her vividly: her silence, her alert, fierce attention, her astonishing courtesy, and the extremely pared‑down beauty of her sharp‑edged face. But now she merely looked dead.

Karis raised her bowed head. “What, master seer?” she said. Her voice, her face, her eyes, all were terribly calm.

Medric felt blindly for the woman’s head, picked up the long braid, and wrapped it several times around one of Karis’s hands. “If this hair were a rope, and Zanja were dangling at the end of it, what would you do?”

Karis looked blankly at her hand. And then she closed her fist over the slender braid, and pulled.

The barren land of the unending mountains sped past below. The sun popped into the sky and popped down again. Day became night in the blink of an eye. Dizzy, sick, numb, shouting with pain, Zanja dangled by the hair from the claws of her god. Faster and faster, the owl flew. Time passed in a blur, thousands of nights. She cried, “Salos’a, when will this journey end?”

Salos’a looked down at her. The god’s eyes were round circles of light. The god’s feathers frayed out into blinding fire. “There is another boundary you must cross,” said the owl. And then the god let her go.

She cried, “Not again!” She fell: into light, a blare of horns, a shattering ringing of bells, hoarse cheering voices, fragments of speech, torn shreds of blue and red and then an eye‑burning white. She was falling, tumbling through light, through brittle air and wide spaces. She saw faces, stones, a glittering cloud, the round, blinding face of the sun.

She stared at it until a hand covered her eyes, and a beloved, racked voice said, “You’ll go blind that way.”

“No,” she breathed. “No!” she cried in despair. More words would not come.

Voices spoke, but the words shattered into fragments. There was no pattern, no meaning, no possibility of understanding.

Zanja felt a dizzying, tilting sensation. Blinding light again, followed by impenetrable shadow. Hands gripped her clothing, voices filled her ears. She cried, “Gods–how could you–have I not served you?”

“Shaftal,” a blurry voice said. “Oh, blessed day!”

Something heavy enwrapped her: a comforting warmth, and then the sensation of being held, rocked, the voice, less blurry now, saying roughly, “Zanja, Zanja na’Tarwein, oh my sister …”

She heard a heartbeat. She felt the rise and fall of a ragged breath. Who was calling that familiar name? “Emil?” she said in disbelief. “Is everyone dead?”

The shadow that blocked the blinding light bowed over her. “No one is dead,” said Emil.

“Karis is dead.”

“No.”

“I heard her voice.”

“You heard her living voice with your living ears.”

“What,” she said in bewilderment.

“Look over there. Do you see that wall?”

She peered in the glare of light. She saw stones letting go of each other and falling in a happy tumble. “Not a wall,” she said. “Rubble.”

“Well, it wasthe wall of Watfield garrison. And look over there.”

She turned her head and saw a proud, rigid woman in Paladin’s black, taking the hand of a younger, tireder, prouder woman in Sainnite gray.

“Mabin?” said Zanja.

“And Clement, General of Sainnites.”

“Oh. Oh, Emil!”

Now the confusion of voices began to sort itself out: Norina, scolding as usual, Medric, making a rather plaintive speech on the difficulties of getting desperately needed assistance, and then Karis’s distinct raw voice, saying, “Just take one step forward so I can reach you.”

Zanja peered into the haze of light and watched Karis pluck the spectacles from Medric’s nose, spit on the lenses, and wipe them clean on the tail of her shirt. She examined them critically in the sunlight, then put the spectacles back on Medric’s face. He blinked at her. Then, he looked down at Zanja and cried with vivid joy, “It’s you!”