Grinsa began to laugh.
“You’re not going to tell me, are you?”
He leaned toward her and kissed her lightly on the lips. “No, I’m not.”
“Fine,” she said airily. “I did my share of gleanings, you know. I just won’t tell you about them. I’ll only speak of them to Bryntelle.”
Grinsa suppressed a smile. “That’s fair.”
They rode in silence for a few moments.
“What possible difference would it make if you were to tell me?”
The gleaner laughed again. “It was a good Fating,” he said at last. “Tavis is going to be just fine.” He looked at her. “Truly.”
Cresenne nodded, looking relieved as she faced forward again. “I’m glad,” she murmured.
He reached out a hand and she took it briefly, giving his fingers a gentle squeeze.
Grinsa knew that he had spoken true. Tavis would be fine, and so would Kezi. Even without him. For so long he had carried the world’s cares in his heart, its burdens on his shoulders. Relinquishing them had proven harder than he had expected. But riding eastward toward the sea and an unknown future, he at last felt that great weight lifting, floating free, leaving him feeling that he might rise off his mount and fly with the swifts and swallows darting overhead.
“Grinsa, what is it?”
He glanced at her, smiling, and shook his head. “It’s nothing. I just…” She was so lovely, as was the girl she held in her arms. His family. How long had he wished for this, fearing even to believe in the possibility? “I’m ready to go home.”
Cresenne frowned. “Home? What do you mean?”
“I’m not certain yet. But we’ll know it when we find it.” And this he also knew to be true, for he was a Weaver.
