On day 1583, the two wagons from Caldrin reached Riven Gate.
Mara did not see them arrive. She was still on the western road, one long day’s walk from the staging yards. Rain had slowed the pack animals at the last ascent, and the party had used its shelter stores instead of asking tired animals to earn back the lost hours in darkness. They came down the final slope on day 1584 with wet covers, worn straps, and every member of the six-person party still walking.
The Gate looked larger after the canyon.
Stone, iron, smoke, and the long ridges beyond it made a horizon of things people had built around things they could not move. Mara stopped at the first water trough while the handlers loosened the animals’ loads. Her shoulders continued feeling the pack after it was off.
One courier grinned at her.
“Here.”
“Here,” she agreed.
Not Rootwell. Not the end of the journey. Here was enough for the morning.
