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.

“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 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, with a wide park whose bare trees were exuberantly decorated with bright ribbons and paper flowers. At one end stood an ugly, looming, massive stone building. The Paladins had to press people back to create a passage. Karis followed her escort, and at least the wildly clamoring people had the sense not to mob her. So they reached their destination and climbed an impressive flight of stairs to the front door, where Karis turned and patiently let the people of Watfield look at her: a big, determined woman who knew exactly what to do. Finally, she stepped through the door, and her people followed her into an echoing, extravagant hallway.

Even Medric was astonished into silence.

Zanja said, “People live like this? Why, do you suppose?”

No one seemed capable of responding. “Here’s the cloakroom,” said a Paladin.

After Zanja had taken off her boots, she sat on the bench in that vast, warm, convenient cloakroom. As it filled with boots and coats, it emptied out of people, and soon she sat alone there, breathing in the rising odor of leather oil and wet wool. The puddles of slush melted into the mats. She realized abruptly that she was waiting for the short night to end, and the swift sun to rise. She rubbed her face, and pressed her fingers to her aching eyes.

The door opened, and Emil looked in at her. “There are more comfortable places to be alone, if that’s what you want.”

“Emil, I’m afraid.”

“I’d be afraid too, if I could find the time for it.”

“This house–!”

He groaned. “Not you too! Everyone tells me that they can’t endure a single night here! And Karis has declared this place to be a travesty. No more complaining, please!” He entered the cloakroom and took Zanja by the hands. “If you love me–”

“If?”

“Because you love me,” he corrected himself, with a smile that could not quite erase the lines and shadows of weariness from his face, “I beg you to let me spend just one night of my life on a feather bed!”