By the time they’d finished talking last night, he’d been quite embarrassed about the whole thing and agreed that, yes, lingering grief over his mother had caused him to react foolishly to the new travel configuration. They spent most of the day walking companionably, as quiet conversation turned to lighthearted storytelling and heated debates. Of course, they did not forget they weren’t merely strolling through the steppes. They were still hunting for Alvar’s camp. They’d decided that, having not seen a shadow stalker since the previous afternoon, they’d either encountered all who had escaped or they were headed in the wrong direction. Since the latter seemed more likely, they changed course. After a half-day’s walk they found an empty shadow stalker corpse. The man was not one of the bandits. Nor was he dressed as if he’d come from Edgewood or Fairview. He was perhaps in his fifth decade. His coloring suggested he was native to the steppes, and his bag contained items that had clearly come from the bandit’s wagon, meaning he’d happened upon it and helped himself to the abandoned goods.
