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504 pages, Kindle Edition
First published March 6, 2018
History, geography, politics, the classic Urrathi tales: none of these were taught any longer, save by private tutors.
They are walking on dragonflies, hundreds of thousands strong, black pearl eyes and rainbow wings, dessicated, dead. All of them facing the same direction, which happens to be their own. As if the swarm had set its collective mind on crossing the Yskralem and flown due east, low and purposeful, moving as on. Until strength abandoned them, or the last trace of water in their bodies, or simply their will...For over a mile, they wade in this river of silver corpses. Then the wind starts to blow, and the insects click and clatter over the salt pan like a curtain of beads.
"The past is never gone. We're stuck with it, like our fingerprints, our eyestains. Like the shape of our heads." The brothers wait, saying nothing. Their uncle's voice is strange in the darkness. "You get a girl with child, you have to live with that forever. Deny her, and it rips out a part of you. Oh, you may get away with it, as far as the world ever learns. But you'll feel it inside. The spoiling, the rot."
"Uncle," says Kandri carefully, "are you talking about something in particular?"
"Why do you ask so many questions?" snaps Chindilan. "Try listening for once. Can you manage that?"
"I'm listening," says Kandri, stunned.
"It's the same if you harm a girl in some way," says his uncle, "or if you stand there and watch while harm comes to her. You have to live with your choices. Sometimes, your children do also. Sometimes, the whole world."
No matter how long death walks at your elbow, the thought of it can still pounce and astonish. And that is how it will happen, finally. In the long storm of arrows, one at last knows your name.