He shook his head. “No,” he said. Zindre had never said he would stay, merely that he would return safely, and he supposed that someday he might.
Just now, though, he did not particularly care whether he ever saw Shulara again — and what’s more, he didn’t care whether Zindre had been absolutely omniscient, or a lying old thief.
“Good!” she said. “Well, then, we’ll go on to Shan, and you can see it properly, without worrying about nasty old drunks or stealing severed heads or troublesome little children, and we’ll have a wonderful time, won’t we?”
“No,” he said again.
She stared at him. “But Kelder, why not?” she asked, baffled.
“I’m going to Ethshar,” he said. “To stay, I think.”
“You’re still confused,” she said, patting his arm. “I’ll talk to you again when you’re feeling better, and we’ll decide what to do.” She stood. “Goodbye, Kelder,” she said.
Then she turned and left the room.
He watched her go, her white and gold tunic draping splendidly over her curves, and he realized that she hadn’t changed at all; she was just as she had been the day they met.
And after all, why shouldn’t she be? That was less than a month ago, a month out of more than two centuries, for her. Brief as the time was, though, he knew he had changed. So had Asha. So had Ezdral.
And Irith hadn’t.
And she never would.
And really, destined or not, how could he marry a child like that?
Chapter Thirty-Six
Kelder hefted the pack onto his shoulder and looked up.
Irith waved a final farewell, then swooped eastward, her wings gleaming brightly in the morning sun. She dwindled in the distance.
He wondered if he would ever see her again. If he did, he suspected she wouldn’t recognize him, or would pretend not to. And he would not presume on old friendship, he promised himself.
Valder and Asha were busy inside, he knew, but he waved a farewell to them, as well, just in case they happened to be looking out the window. Then he set his foot firmly on the highway and set out toward Ethshar.
He was looking forward to seeing it, to finding himself a place in the city — and perhaps even finding Azraya there.
He had never heard Azraya laugh; perhaps she, too, had a laugh like birdsong. Any number of women might have such a laugh.
And Zindre might have been just a charlatan; it really didn’t matter any more whether the prophecy was absolute truth or nothing but lies. He would live out his life as he saw fit, taking it one step at a time, and not worrying about whether it fit any predictions.
He rather hoped he would meet Azraya again, when he got to Ethshar. Maybe, he thought, they could find a place together.
He smiled at his own eagerness, and shook his head. Maybe they could.
Or maybe not.
Author’s Note: Linguistics
Some scholars may wonder how the people of the Small Kingdoms are able to learn foreign languages as quickly as they do.
It must be remembered that all of the two hundred languages spoken in the World in the fifty-third century of human speech diverged from a single mother tongue within the last five hundred years — and that that mother tongue, Ethsharitic, is still alive and flourishing.
For a Dwomorite to learn Quorulian is not equivalent to an American learning Japanese, but to an Italian learning Spanish. Many of the so-called “languages” are in fact merely different dialects. The difference between, say, Krithimionese and Ethsharitic is no greater than the difference between English as spoken in York and New York — perhaps less.
Trader’s Tongue is a simplified version of Ethsharitic with various borrowings, an altered accent, and a certain bantering tone suited to haggling added in.
The greatest linguistic disparity in all the World, between Semmat and the Island dialect of Tintallionese, is roughly the same as the difference between English and German.
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Taking Flight loe-5 Page 27