Avishraa Reloaded

It was quite possibly the longest period of exertion in Demarath's life up to that point, especially while flying. They had been able to take to the ground and move along in half-sleep through the forests for a while, but search parties had started closing in on them again. Warned by Ilirith's psionic senses, they'd had to wake up fully and gallop onward, taking flight again when there was sufficient clearance to do so.

They were all exhausted by the time it began to seem safe, and Ilirith had led them to what appeared to be the jungle-infested ruins of an old building. There, barely having spoken and not having eaten since they'd left Alvraan, they all slumped to the floor and slept, in necessary disregard for the wisdom of having someone keep watch.

By the time Demarath awoke, it was the second vigil after their escape. It had gotten darker - not the full dark of night, but a dusky twilight - and, through the vine-choked windows, even that was being cut off by heavy-looking clouds rolling in from the south. Ilirith seemed not to be present, but Zadireth was there and already awake. There was a sort of bag on a sling around his neck, and he had taken out of it a very small box, inside which there were some objects which he was evidently arranging.

“Ah,” he said quietly, when he saw Demarath awakening, “I was wondering how long you'd be asleep - not that it matters much right now, anyway. We seem to have lost our pursuit for the time being, though we should probably move on once we've recovered a bit.”

Demarath murmured a groggy, half-coherent greeting to Zadireth in response, gradually shifting towards a stand – and then wincing slightly, his muscles evidently still upset at him for the ridiculous strain they've been under. He settles himself into a sitting position instead, managing after a bit to find a position that was vaguely comfortable.

The next few moments were spent taking in his surroundings – as soon as they'd been able to rest properly, he'd been out like a light, and so this was his first real look at their current shelter. Not that there was much to see, given how dark it was. After a long pause, he asked, “Where's Ilirith?” Then, a few moments later: “…Is there anything to eat around here?”

“Fortuitously,” Zadireth replied, sounding cheerful, “the answers to your questions are linked. Ilirith seems to be familiar with this place, and she said she knows where to catch fish. Though we aren't far enough away from prying eyes that we should be lighting fires - so we'll likely be having raw fish - we should probably go to her, since she can't be expected to haul all her catch back here for us.”

Zadireth got up, and grimaced, a sure sign that he hadn't been much less affected by the previous day's exertion. “…though we don't necessarily have to power-walk over there or anything,” he added.

Demarath breathed a soft sigh, laced with exhaustion and a trace of irritation. At least he wasn't in prison any more… though it was hard to say whether 'fleeing for his life' was really much better. Then with a bit of effort he managed to stand. “Well, we should probably get going if we want to be there before dinner, eh?” he replied, a wry grin spread across his features. With that, he turned towards the building's exit, and began slowly making his way out.

Zadireth gave him an amused look.

But it was hard even for the bronze to maintain that kind of expression in the environment outside. The overgrown building in which they'd slept, it became clear, was just one, and among the smallest, of many. Stretching off into the distance were humps and bumps that, it slowly became clear, were not just clumps of trees or low hills, but the shattered ruins of a great city.

Alvraan had been carved into the subterranean passages of a tepui, or at least its richer portions had; the lower classes lived outside in constructions of wood or other vegetation or mud. As far as Demarath knew, most other towns were built the same way; cities constructed of stone were ruinous in expense and effort to build. And yet, this had been one of them. Even the streets were stone, with huge blocks having been sunk into the soft ground of the rainforest to form a flat, paved surface. And it still remained, there beneath their paws, though grass and small trees now forced their way up through the cracks.

Zadireth looked around. “Ilirith seemed to know this place was here,” he said quietly. He was going on his hindlegs, partly because his forelegs still burned a bit, partly because he was still holding the box in his paws. “She said it was called Kar Oram. I assume the Empire built it.”

Once they were in the comparatively-brighter outdoors, Demarath got his first proper look at their surroundings. He'd barely been able to keep himself half-awake on the way in here; he recalled Ilirith saying something about this being safe and just blindly accepted it. Now that he could actually think again, he realized just how strange and wonderous this place was. How had anyone built this place? The amount of effort to build a single stone house was staggering enough that even nobles wouldn't waste their resources on such a thing. And yet here was what remained of a great city of stone, even the roads were paved with massive blocks of it.

As they walked, the scope of the place seemed to become even more overwhelming. How many people had lived here? What must it have been like, when they were still alive? And what had happened to them?

Zadireth's comments at least partially answered that last one – it had fallen when the Empire fell. Though most places the Empire had formerly occupied still had some people in them – or so he thought. Apparently this wasn't one of them, for some reason. “…How do you think they built this place?” Demarath asked, turning his attention to Zadireth.

“I'm not much of a student of history,” Zadireth commented, looking around, “but the same question occurred to me once. I had just returned home, as I recall, after visiting the ruins of Kar Iitan - that was the Imperial capital, you see, and it made this place look like a hamlet. I'm lucky enough to be acquainted with someone who can see through time, and she obliged me by trying to look backward to see the answer, though I think she thought it was a silly question.” His antennae flicked upward in a grin. “Her response was, and I quote, 'overwhelming application of hamfisted political will and backbreaking mass labor'. Alas, being able to actually see the past robs it of its romance, I suppose.”

Their voices echoed faintly between the stone piles rising on either side of what looked like it had once been a busy street; the arcades of the lower levels housed what had the look of shops, though there were few artifacts left in them to confirm any such suspicion. Ahead was the faint sound of running water; it splashed noisily, as if spilling over some obstacle.

“Of course,” the bronze continued, “constructing something like this is much easier when there's an ample supply of magic around to do it with. Our escape from that place you lived didn't go quite as I expected; but now that the two of you are free of it, you'll be able to see for yourself.” He cast an amused look at the transient glory around them. “We haven't attained the scale of Kar Iitan, but Oldstone is bigger and more sophisticated than this is. And not in ruins, a valuable bonus.”

Demarath paused in his tracks, a dumbfounded expression on his face. There were about twenty questions burning in his mind now, all of them fighting to get asked first. “Wait, hold on, what? Did you say see through time?” What did that even mean? 'Find out what happened in the distant past', apparently. “Another witch? I didn't even know something like that was possible, even with magic.” Somehow it seemed even further removed from the realm of possibility than even trying to imitate Ilirith's magic. “How does that work?” he asked, starting to follow Zadireth again.

Zadireth had slowed down a bit to give Demarath a chance to catch up. “Yes, another witch,” he replied easily, “though I would learn to let go of that terminology, if I were you. We are Chosen. And we are going to a place whose population is composed almost entirely of Chosen, many of whom would be much discomfited if you were to persistently call them 'witches' to their faces - though most will forgive a few lapses from a newcomer.”

“As for your other questions - yes, I said 'see through time'. As to how that works, I haven't the faintest idea. She's the only one who has it, and she can get frustrated just trying to translate for those of us stuck in the here and now. It's enough to know that she can, in fact, really do it. The first time I met her, she was able to determine a good portion of my childhood, much to my discomfort, though usually it takes her more time to get any detail.”

'Chosen'? Demarath frowned slightly at the term, though more out of confusion than distaste. It was an odd term, which raised the obvious question, 'Chosen by who?' But in terms of the scale of questions buzzing in his mind, it felt like a fairly minor one. But a place composed almost entirely of wit– of 'chosen', rather– was difficult to imagine. “That's the 'Oldstone' place you mentioned, right?” And it was larger than this place. Larger than Alvraan….

It defied belief. How could so many witches– so many 'chosen'– exist in one place? How could there be so many of them, when all his experience showed there were so few? He recalled a comment of Aveshinoth's about 'witch-clans in the north' – he'd thought it a ludicrous rumor at the time, but now…?

“And you've been to this 'Oldstone'?” Demarath asked, a trace of skepticism wriggling into his demeanor, tinging the hopeful desire to believe it's true. “What's it like?”

“Not just been, dear boy,” Zadireth replied cheerfully. “I live there. Or, I should say, my home is there. I spend a lot of time out and about, you know, looking for Chosen stuck out in the world - like you and Ilirith - and bring them back, if they'll come. Assuming neither of you are keen on sticking around here, I'll be leading you back there. You'll get to be among your own kind for a change.

“As for what it's like… well, it's a fairly lively place. When you're not born to it, it takes some getting used to. Cram a bunch of magic-wielders in one place and interesting things are going to happen whether you're ready or not. But when they're used constructively… ah, the wonders that can be made. Fountains of living sand! Halls lit by heatless flame in any color your can think of! Mansions shaped from the very mountains, not by tools, but by thought and will and magic! Healers that can ease pains and banish diseases!”

As Zadireth spoke his litany, they came upon an area near what must have once been the city center. A wide, deep stream flowed through it, and it had once been spanned by a number of stone bridges; but one of them had collapsed into the stream, damming it and turning the surrounding plaza into a wide pool. Just above the shoreline, there was a small pile of fish; not far away from it was Ilirith's cloak, neatly folded and set on the ground, and next to it was a complicated web of soft leather with pockets and pouches sewn to it. It seemed to be some kind of harness. Ripples and the occasional soft splash in the depths of the pool suggested Ilirith was still fishing.

“Oldstone is the center of it, and it's wondrous,” the bronze continued, “but it's also rather noisy. It may prove not to be quite the kind of environment you'd prefer, and you're not alone in that. There are outlying towns and villages to live in - not nearly so impressive, but much quieter, and the quality of life should be far better than what you've had out here.” He looked down at the pile of fish, and took one. “She seems to be quite good at this, you know,” he commented.

The list of accomplishments, impressive as they sounded, felt just a little too forced. Or perhaps just practiced. Perhaps it was just that Zadireth had given this speech to enough other 'chosen' to be practiced at it by now. The rest of it, at least, sounded genuine, enough to put his fears of being mislead to rest.

“I guess I'll have to see once we get there,” he commented, seemingly in response to the comment about relative quiet and quality of life. He eyed the small pile of fish, wondering if it would be more polite to wait until Ilirith resurfaced before eating. After a few moments, though, his hunger got the better of him, and he grabbed one of the fish, examining it briefly. He hesitated for a few moments, trying to figure out if there was anything he could do to prepare it. Short of starting a fire (which they should really avoid), there really wasn't much, and they were too small to do much of interest with by themselves. And he was really hungry. “When in the jungle,” he muttered to himself with a sigh, then stuffed the fish into his mouth, chewing at it a little before swallowing it mostly-whole.

Maybe it was the hunger tricking his mind, but he could swear to the Six that it was the best thing he'd ever eaten.

From the branches of a tree that had forced its way up through the pavement over the eons, a sikirin watched them with an avaricious set to its antennae. Zadireth saw the spindly six-limbed thing, and glared warningly at it. “Oh, go get your own.”

In the other direction, Ilirith emerged dripping from the water. It was the first time Demarath had seen her without her cloak; she was wiry rather than bulky, which in a certain sense added to the boyishness suggested by her face, but her hips did not look at all boyish. One had to assume that her cloak did an amazing job of obscuring her shape, though possibly wearing the harness helped as well.

She looked a bit haunted, though it was hard to square the expression with the fish in her mouth. She dropped it on the pile, glanced uncomprehendingly at the two of them, then began to turn around. “Uh, Ilirith,” Zadireth called, “I think we have enough. You can probably stop and eat now.”

Ilirith froze in midstep, and remained still for a moment, then sighed faintly and flopped unceremoniously to the ground, examining the fish unenthusiastically.

There was a moment of apologetic panic as his gaze shot up to Zadireth, thinking his comment some criticism of his own actions – but no, he's just talking to animals. (Could witc– could Chosen talk to animals, and make their words understood? He'd never tried. They probably wouldn't make very interesting conversationalists.) Secure in the knowledge that he hadn't committed some grave faux pas, he grabbed another fish.

Just as he was stuffing his face with fish number two, the sound of splashing water drew his attention to the shore of the pond – and the sight almost caused him to choke on his fish. Back in his cell, he'd thought, in her presence, that Ilirith was 'pretty' – it was now clear that this was a wholly inadequate adjective to describe her beauty. Her figure was… definitely not what he'd expected. Certainly not for the Matriarch's assassin, certainly not from the shape of her cloak. Some young men might be put off by the juxtaposition of a wiry frame and those hips, but evidently that combination had the exact opposite effect on Demarath.

…And then those thoughts crashed headfirst into a stone wall, as he parsed the expression on her face. Despair? Or just exhaustion? Her attempt to return to fishing before Zadireth's interruption didn't bode well for her current mental state, either. After a long, awkward silence, Demarath settled down across from her, nudging one of the larger fishes in the pile in her direction. “What's wrong?”

Ilirith's stare at Demarath was, for a moment, dull and uncomprehending; then she focused on him as his question sank in.

“What's… wrong?” she asked unbelievingly. “You don't find anything wrong in this? We're fugitives from that vile daughter of the Matriarch-” She refused, utterly refused, to call Aveshinoth Matriarch. Or by name, for that matter. “-we've lost our homes, our possessions, our positions, everything that was ours - so what's wrong? I should say that everything is damn well wrong!” By the end of the sentence, her voice had risen sharply in volume.

Zadireth spoke up in a soothing sort of voice. “I understand this must be somewhat… traumatic for you. But it's important to look forward. Everything you've lost would have been lost sooner or later, you know. A better life lies in the future.”

“I expected to have to leave, yes. I didn't expect to have to leave now,” Ilirith retorted. “Just another half a cycle or so, and I'd've been ready for it. And the Matriarch was on my side, she had plans…” She trailed off, glancing briefly at Demarath. “Anyway,” she began again, after expelling air through her nostrils in a sigh, “you may have been talking with Demarath here, but I hardly know you, and I hardly know anything about this 'Citadel' you tried to tell me about. It sounds like a fairy tale.”

She still seemed angry, but more angry at the situation than at either male personally. But it had evidently restored her appetite; she took the fish that Demarath had nudged toward her and ripped somewhat viciously into it.

“Some skepticism is warranted, under the circumstances” Zadireth said amiably. “Nevertheless, were I in your position, I would be at a loss to explain why another Chosen would go through the trouble of rescuing me if there wasn't some destination in mind.”

“I suppose it doesn't matter,” she muttered indistinctly. “We have to go somewhere. Back isn't an option, and I don't want to stay in these ruins whether that's an option or not.”

Regret clenches around Demarath's throat as Ilirith goes into her tirade, antennae flattening against his neck apologetically. Honestly, he expected it would probably be something along these lines. It was a stupid question to ask, she'd lost so much – though really, hadn't they both? But she'd had so much more to lose – a position she seemed to accept, with the respect and trust of the Matriarch. And now that very Matriarch was dead, by the hand of one of her least favorite people in the world.

And what had he lost, by comparison? Status he'd inherited from his mother, but little he could claim as his own. A job that kept him safe from the public eye and offered him a small chance to be useful, even if it had become mindlessly repetitive. A family… a sharp pang struck him as he realized, for the first time since their flight, that he'd probably never see his mother or his father Ashernath again. Even the thought of no longer having to put up with his sisters' political games had a tinge of bitterness to it.

Demarath was quiet for a long moment, giving Ilirith's anger some time to calm itself. At least she's eating now, an optimistic part of him pointed out. The mention of the Matriarch's plans had piqued his curiosity, but now felt like the worst possible time to ask about them. Not that they really mattered much, any more. Something else tugged at his focus instead, the need to make up for his idiotic question.

“Not everything,” he points out softly. “We've lost a lot, yes. But we still have our lives, our wits, our skills. Our magic. We're not hopelessly lost. We have each other – which, granted, we've only known each other for a couple of vigils, but we've already proven we can work together under pressure. And at least now we're free.” His gaze lowers to his forepaws, fingers clenching into fists. “We've lost our resources, we can get new ones. We've lost connections, we can– we can build new ones. Our plans are in tatters, so we'll craft new ones. Our home…” A pause, a tremble. “…We can… We will find a new one. Or make one, if we have to, if this Oldstone place doesn't… work out, for whatever reason.”

Zadireth drew a breath, intending to comment on the prospect of Oldstone 'not working out', but then simply let it out. Apparently it occurred to him that it might do more harm than good just at this point.

Ilirith downed the remains of her fish, unable to help feeling somewhat abashed. A cool head in a crisis was, generally speaking, supposed to be her role, and while to be fair she'd never been exposed to a crisis of quite this level, the idea that Demarath was functioning better than she was was a sobering one.

(The talk of making a home, on the other paw, in conjunction with the previous comment about 'having each other', proved difficult to dismiss from her head - though, no doubt, it had been entirely innocent phrasing. No doubt.)

“Yes… well,” she managed, “I suppose you're right. I wouldn't know where to make one, but there must be places somewhere where we- where there's not so many people, or something…”

“Mmmm,” said Zadireth, who was eyeing the two of them carefully. “Well, let us hope that you will have no need. Or that the Citadel will meet your needs regardless. There are, here and there, those who prefer to live by themselves rather than in Oldstone or one of the other settlements. I prefer busier surroundings myself, but I understand it can be a cozy way of living.”

Demarath shifted his gaze between Zadireth and Ilirith, trying to gauge the latter's feelings on the 'let's try this Oldstone place' proposal. After a few moments, he gently shrugged. “I think it's worth going there, if only to see it in person. At worst it's just a waste of time, right?” His eyes settled on Ilirith, offering a hopeful, encouraging smile. After slightly-too-long silence, he quickly shifts his attention down to his forepaws. “Um… though, maybe after we've had a vigil or so to rest and recover from yesterday. I could certainly use one, at least.”

Ilirith's antennae twitched. She wasn't used to being looked at - at least, not with any kind of smile. She was left feeling confused by it, especially since her antennae seemed quite warm (fortunately, she could not see that that had also darkened slightly in a blush).

Zadireth offered a sympathetic look at Demarath. “No doubt, no doubt… but simply lying up here, I suspect, would be rather unwise. This is still the territory of Alvraan - I'm right about that, am I not?”

Ilirith drew herself out of certain hopeful speculations that had entered her head, and nodded soberly. “People stay away from the ruins unless they want to reuse some stone, but patrols get sent here. We need to get across the river, at the very least, but if we're heading north, the borders are well beyond that.”

“Yes, I was afraid so,” Zadireth murmured. He picked up the box he'd been carrying. “We can spare another rest or two, but then we really should be moving along, before we're found. We can affect a more leisurely pace one we're safely away from your ambitious young princess.” He opened the box's lid a crack and glanced at what was inside.

Demarath's eyes shot up to Zadireth at the mention of them still being in Alvraan's territory, expression one of disbelieving despair. His antennae droop on hearing Ilirith's confirmation, a soft whine escaping his throat. Inwardly, he chastises himself – he should know where the borders of his own homeland are. To be fair, this is the first time he's been this far north – at least, he thinks so? There's the river port his mother still controls, which he recalls visiting as a child, but he's not sure where that is relative to here.

“… Okay. Let's… not rest too long, then,” he replies, trying to quell his muscles' lack of enthusiasm for another day of travel as he found a not-entirely-uncomfortable place to flop. One that happened to be a little closer to Ilirith than where he'd been before.

As he glances to his two companions, he notices Zadireth once again peeking into the small box he's carrying, and the lull in conversation joins with a spark of curiosity. “What's in the box?” he asks, antennae perking up slightly.

“You could call it a sort of test,” Zadireth replied. He looked up, smiling. “A curious thing that was noticed, once enough of them gathered in one place to see the difference, is that there is in each Chosen a trend to their nature that is entirely separate from their magic. Quickly finding out which way that trend points is often a useful thing for those, like me, who meet new Chosen out in the world and have little leisure to observe their behavior.”

The bronze carefully tilted the box up so that the inside could be seen. The bottom of the inside of the box appeared to be covered in a close-fitting jigsaw of tiles, the surfaces of which made up a complicated, intricately symmetrical pattern of colors. “So some of the more lateral-thinking minds devised this as a sort of field test. If you don't mind humoring me for a moment: how does the sight of this make you feel?”

Ilirith peered at it. “It's… rather pretty,” she said. “Sort of fascinating.”

Demarath tilts his head, peering inside the box. …A bunch of tiles? He stares at it for a little while, trying to make sense of what he's seeing. “Um. I guess they're pretty?” He sidles a bit closer to the box, then reaches in to pry one or more of the pieces loose, trying to get a better look at them.

“Wait, don't-” Ilirith stiffened, and reached out to stop Demarath from fiddling with the tiles, but too late. She clamped her mouth shut into a very thin line on her muzzle, in the fashion of one trying to suppress the urge to yell.

“Yes, right, good,” Zadireth said quickly, gently removing a tile from Demarath's grip and putting it back in place. He shut the box firmly. “That told me what I wanted to know. You, Demarath, are a Kaean, if you're interested to know. Tendency to be attracted to new situations and opportunities, no real regard for patterns or organization. Ilirith, like me, is Srian, and is therefore… sort of the opposite, really.” Zadireth grinned. “Think of it as being of either Khezri's persuasion or Seluurin's.”

Demarath's eyes nervously dart between the other two takmar, clearly feeling like this is some kind of test he's failed. Zadireth's explanation feels… curt. “…I don't understand. Is that… Good? Bad? Both? Is this going to be a problem?” His gaze wanders over to Ilirith, concerned he might have upset her somehow. A moment later, confusedly: “…There's only one or the other?”

“Oddly enough, only one or the other.” Zadireth tucked the box into a small bag, attached by a thong looped around his left shoulder. “Whether it's good or bad, I suppose, depends on how one handles it. Some Srians don't get along well with Kaeans, and vice versa, and things can get complicated when you gather large numbers of both in the same places; but things tend to go well enough, as long everyone keeps everyone else in mind.”

He cast a meaningful look at the two of them. “Some people admire the tiles as they were designed to be arranged, and become upset if they are disturbed. Others like to take them apart and examine their possibilities, and become resentful if not allowed to. So long as the two associate, neither is going to have things all their own way. I trust that you can see that.”

Ilirith gave Demarath a sideways glance, meeting his nervous gaze, and mumbled, “Yes. It was just a little… well. Disturbing.”

…It doesn't sound good. It doesn't exactly sound bad either, for that matter, just complicated. “It's… fine, I'm not angry or anything. I… guess I'll just try to avoid messing up any, uh, nice pretty arrangements of tiles we happen to come across in the jungle?” Or bland boring ones, for that matter. “Or… I'll just… try to keep this… difference in mind.” His attention trails off a bit, eyes downcast, one forepaw tracing random shapes in the dirt.

A short pause later, he abruptly looks back up to Zadireth. “I'm sorry, I'm still confused by this. You're saying that… everyone? Everyone with magic? Has some kind of… something about them, that they all fit neatly into these two boxes –” He gestures with his forepaws, holding an imaginary box in each one, “– and you can tell which box someone's in by showing them some tiles. That… might be the strangest thing I've heard today, including the bit about someone who can see through time.”

“Have you ever tried showing the box to… you know… a regular takma, who doesn't have magic? What would they do? Would whatever they do reflect some aspect of… whatever 'being a Srian' or 'being a Kaean' means, attitude towards patterns I guess? Do they fit in a box?”

Zadireth looked vaguely amused. “An Unchosen - a 'regular' takma, as you say - would not fit in a box; or, perhaps, it would be better to say they'd be in one of their own making. They might react like a Srian would, or like a Kaean would, or might react differently at one time or another, or might not react at all. But being Chosen, being born with magic, also means being born into one of those two boxes.”

He stood up and stretched. “Mind you, the boxes can be quite big. Being in one of them can mean anything from just a general tendency with order or chaos, to a complete obsession - and, either way, it's only one facet of their personality. That's why the tile test is really sort of a field test only; it gets you a fast result, but not necessarily the most accurate one. Sometimes someone's reaction to simply seeing the tiles, for instance, doesn't tell you much, and you have to find a different stimulus.” Zadireth grinned. “My next step would've been to suddenly dump the tiles out and see who grimaced.” Ilirith's jaw visibly tightened at the thought of it, but she said nothing.

“Now,” Zadireth added, “now that we've had a chance to eat and rest, we should probably be moving along. It would be better to get into someone else's territory where they won't be looking for us - and, besides, we have a long way to go.” He paused, and added, “And it would be best if we started approaching it before the sun goes down again. It's in the mountains, and the way gets very cold during the night vigils.”

The explanation is met with some skepticism from the younger takma, but eventually he shrugs it off. Either Zadireth is right, and this is a weird magic thing, or it's a pattern found by someone who likes finding patterns in things. Given how few examples of magic-users he knows, there's no good way to tell. Soon he'd know more, though.

There's a soft whine at the notion of moving again. Already? He slowly pushes himself up to his feet, trying to ignore the lingering aches in his muscles. “All right,” he replies, tone more unenthusiastic than he'd strictly intended. “I'm ready when both of you are.”

Ilirith climbed to her feet and buckled her harness back on. She was no less aching than the others were, but easing it could wait. Getting well away from pursuit might not. “Which way are we going?”

“North-northeast,” Zadireth said. “We'll be aiming for the Sahvarr River, where I know my way along more firmly. If you know any of what's between here and there, you might be a better navigator for the moment than I am.”

Ilirith looked in the indicated direction. Her nostrils flared. “Follow me, then.”