“Where did you catch up with him?”
“Just there, at the edge, one moment before we saw you.”
Leelson shut his eyes, concentrating. Was he trying to reach Leely? Most likely he was, for all the good it did him. I didn’t know what Leelson thought, but I thought Leely had not been lost among the Nodders any more than he’d been lost when he sneaked out during the night. Leely didn’t get lost.
Lutha obviously thought otherwise. Her eyes were full of exhausted tears, and I realized that though Leelson and I had seen how quiet the Nodders were when the boy was among them, she would not have seen it. Not if she’d been running this way and that, seeking the boy at ground level. Would she have felt more or less fearful if she had?
I caught Leelson’s eyes upon me and flushed. He turned away, but I knew he was probing at me, trying to figure out what I knew or felt, which, Weaving Woman be thanked, was little enough. I didn’t want to know anything. I said so mentally, over and over, a little litany. I know nothing about Leely. I know nothing about the Nodders. I know nothing about anything. I am an ignorant Dinadhi woman, an unworthy Dinadhi woman, of no possible use to anyone!
When I finally looked up, Leelson was helping Trompe restore the reins to their ordinary use. Wordlessly, we got moving into the canyon, Leelson driving and the rest of us trailing behind. A few dozen paces farther on, the ground was suddenly clear of curved rock fragments; the footing was blessedly good; we could actually look around us as we went. Still, Lutha never for a moment relinquished her grip upon Leely, even when he began to fuss at her.
The canyon went away in a long, westward-curving arc, and we did not pause until the Nodders were no longer in sight. When we stopped, the ravine was level, widening toward the west, where the sun lay in a shallow notch, like an apple in a bowl, tempting us. That notch was a definite place, discernible, reachable, pulling at us despite our weariness. The temptation to go on was in all our faces, a yearning to be done with this, to be away from the canyons. Even the gaufers leaned into the harness, stamping impatiently.
But Leelson said no. He said the sun was low, we would finish the trip tomorrow. He said we should be well rested when we arrived. He was no doubt right, but it was hard to wait. Beyond that notch was the world’s gate, through which the beautiful people would go on their way to heaven. All of them would come, lost children, slain fathers, grandparents dead of age. Bernesohn Famber’s outlander ghost, he would be there. My mother would be there. Even now she was probably sitting near a fire fountain in the Canyon of Burning Springs, deep in meditation. Saying good-bye to this world. Saying good-bye to me.
It did not seem fair. The outlander ghost had lived among us for almost a hundred years. My mother’s spirit had lived among us for only a few. If she hated me when she went, she would never have a chance to love me again. If this was the choice we had made, shouldn’t it be fair for everyone. Shouldn’t she be allowed to stay longer? To see her grandchild born?
But then, why would she? Her only child was unworthy of her. If I were one of the beautiful people, would I choose to stay with an unworthy child, or to go on to heaven? Perhaps that is why they meditated, making up their minds.
I looked up to catch Leelson and Lutha watching me. His gaze was intent, hers sympathetic. He wanted to know what I thought; she already knew. Mothers, her eyes seemed to say, always choose happiness for their children, no matter what they or the children have done or not done.
Where was my happiness? Was I less worthy than Leely?
I turned my back on them, pulled my veil across my eyes, and let the tears come. Cry and be done. Soon enough this journey would end and then I might know the truth.
Halfway up the wall of another canyon, one southeast of the omphalos, Mitigan of the Asenagi and Chur Durwen of Collis emerged from the mouth of a shallow cave and stood looking down upon the narrow sea of smoky mist below them. For the last two days they had been traveling in a region of boiling springs, each spring surrounded by multitudes of Kachis, all immobile, all seemingly insensate.
“Quite a change,” remarked Mitigan, unwinding a bandage from his forearm and disclosing a nasty-looking bite wound. He smeared it plentifully with reeking salve from his pack, then replaced the bandage. “Damned critters have dirty teeth.”
“I told you the thing was behind you,” Chur Durwen remarked mildly. “You’re getting slow.” He examined the line of knives on the stone before him, seven of them, including the ones from his wrist scabbards. All of them needed cleaning and sharpening. Kachis blood was corrosive, and Chur Durwen had bloodied all his knives repeatedly during the earlier stages of their journey.
“If I hadn’t ignored the one behind me, you’d have been dead,” said Mitigan. “The one I killed would have had you by the throat.”
“You’re right. Which tells me the throat flap on my battle mask was badly designed. I doubt the Collis Arms Consortium had vampire butterflies in mind when they created it.” He took a sharpening stone from his pack and ran it along the edge of the largest knife with a repeated wheeping sound. “They certainly aren’t interested in biting now, are they? What do you think they’re doing?”
“Could be dead,” said Mitigan. “Could be in
