Sect Year 3 · eleventh month · night of day 11 · the thirty-third life: Ammel Gorge, her thirtieth year
Ysha was still on the arch when the rain came back harder, and it didn’t ease when she came down. It hammered the toll-house tiles and ran off the roof edges in ropes. By the time she reached the foot of the steps the lamps were lit on the terraces above the gorge, and the water had covered the lower ford. Ysha stood below her father and watched the grey pool behind the doorstep climb the face of the dam one course of stone at a time.
Her father sat on the steps. He had a blanket around his shoulders and the tally board across his knees, and the rain came off the roof edge a hand’s breadth in front of his boots without touching him. He had dragged himself out from the bench while she was on the arch, and he hadn’t moved since. When the cough took him he bent over the board and waited for it to pass, and then he straightened and looked at the Span again.
“Come up to the road,” Ysha said.
“No.”
“Uncle has the cart at the top of the path. The herders are already going up with their goats. You can ride in the cart.”
