Their gray eroded fingers stretched out and down, as if greedy for the lush land far below. Between plunged valleys, graveled and scarred and barren. Winter storms scoured what life was left after the M’hir Wind roared through and cracked stone. Spring meltwater gifted the valleys with gentler sounds. The burble of streams. The rustle of breezes through thin stems and leaves. For hardy plants emerged from the ground with the return of warmth and moisture. Quickly followed by the rattle as rock-that-wasn’t found any plant that dared grow too far from a stream and crushed it into tasty goo. Old, these mountains. And life here dared many things. “Of course they made a game of it.” “It’s not safe!” Aryl Sarc’s hands flattened possessively over the faint swell at her waist. “What if—” She stopped, chagrined. “I sound like Husni.” Enris sud Sarc chuckled. “Never.” The two shared a smile as much inside as out. Chosen, Aryl thought happily, could do that. “Trust the young ones,”
