Ro limped out of the Razors when the moon was high, using his spear as a walking stick. Behind him came Sarka, her head hanging low with exhaustion. The donkey followed; by some unanticipated miracle, he had survived the wicked forest of knife-sharp rock entirely intact.
"How is your foot?" Sarka asked, staring gratefully up at the moon. Twisting veils of ash whisked across it, but its face glowed with unaccustomed brightness that night.
"Terrible," Ro replied.
"You can ride Donkey-Meat tomorrow."
"We'll camp here. Can you manage the tent?" Ro slid down to the ground, using his spear to brace himself as he did. "I can't ride that creature. He can barely carry himself."
"You'll have to, because I certainly can't carry you." Sarka began unpacking the materials for their tent. On this side of the Razors, the wind was cold. She wished they had the makings of a fire, but firewood was scarce in the ashlands.
"We'll see." Ro watched as Sarka set up the tent, giving a couple of instructions to help her along her way. Just as she had it standing, he said, "Sarka, that stuff you brought out to bind my foot-what was it?"
Sarka felt the loss again like a lance to the heart. Kneeling with the scarred side of her face toward Ro, she could not see him and did not try. "The makings for embroidery. Handkerchiefs and the like."
"Do you do it in the old style?"
"I do. I'm very good at it."
Ro smiled. "I remember some wonderful things from before the end. True Kogorian embroidery. I and my brother had these matching vests-when we were small, of course-all done up with a golden border, blue birds...wonderful stuff. It was a real art. I had thought you too young to know how. There weren't many women who still did."
"My mother taught me."
"Dead?"
"Yes." Sarka tossed the bedrolls into the tent. "Supper?"
"Yes. I wish there were wine. You know, we'll be there tomorrow, girl. Horn Harbor. The end of your journey." Ro reached up to accept the hunk of bread Sarka extended to him.
"No, Ro. Just the beginning."
And, because this was painfully true, Sarka lay awake that night with Ro sleeping too close for comfort, unable to rest. She knew her life would be divided into two parts thenceforward. That very night was the division. It was her last night as Sarka, beloved daughter of the seamstress Lerna, forgotten daughter of the goddess Kogoren: a daughter of the ashlands.
When the sun rose over the dusty world of her past, who would she be?