Page 67 of Unlikely Omega

“How far is it to the Summer Capital?” I ask Finnen.

“What does it matter?”

“Just tell me if you know.”

He shrugs his broad shoulders. “Four-five days, probably, if the road is free and the bridges don’t fall.”

“Why would they fall?”

“Storms.”

I glance up at the sky where a few fluffy clouds are sailing. “What storms?”

“The ones coming,” he says. “I can smell the rain on the air.”

“How can you smell—?”

“If it storms on the high passes, the river will swell coming down and carry logs and other debris with it. That could sweep away the bridges and delay us.”

“That’s speculation. You can’t even see the sky. I don’t see any storm clouds. It’s all just—”

“Smell.”

“Smell, right. Never mind.” I sigh. “As if you can smell the rain before it falls.”

“I can tell you there is a village about three miles from here. I smell the smoke from the fires and the manure from their fields. And there is a town about twenty miles off.”

“How would you know? You can’t smell something from so far off!”

“I came down this road to the Fort just a couple of months ago. I remember.”

“That’s cheating.”

He huffs something that resembles a laugh. “When you can’t see, you need to remember where things are.”

“Like—”

His hand shoots out, grabs mine unerringly. “Tracking by sound, placing everything on a mind map, always preparing yourself for the next move, the possible obstacles, always listening, listening for movement, for danger, for change. Change is your enemy when you’re blind.”

“And I’ve caused a lot of change in your life,” I whisper.

He releases my hand. “Change is inevitable. So say the gods.”

The cart shakes as the coachman takes a seat and grabs the reins, the horses moving restlessly. Where are the Commander and his men?

“You never told me why you sent me away that night after we escaped from the cage,” I whisper.

A few heartbeats pass before he speaks. “I was fighting myself.”

“And now? Are you still fighting yourself?”

He doesn’t reply. He often doesn’t, so maybe it means nothing. Or maybe it means he is still fighting himself. He must be.

He lives in change, but he himself doesn’t seem to change at all, a rock in the path of a stream, forcing the water to part around him.

But won’t it wear him down eventually? Won’t it carry him away?

And why am I worried about that when we’re being taken away to die?

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