Talar crested the final rise of the pass of Gentle Crossings and stopped to catch his breath with Bledig, Jillyn, and Gerid. He’d returned to Carthway twice in one year. This was becoming a habit he hadn’t wanted to develop. A really bad habit.
With the festival over, the city should have been a muddy field with the sprawling Inn and the towering Goddess’s Seat, but the Clan Council was in session. While the elders awaited word about the peace treaty, the clans had gathered. Colorful tents littered the area, men, women, and children went about their lives and the livestock grazed, unpenned, on the new grass.
“Are you sure the elders will be at the Goddess’s Seat?” asked Gerid, hands on his thighs, head hanging, gasping for air.
“Looks like it.”
A cloud drifted across the sun, easing the spring glare as they started down the hill. What he wanted was to lie down and rest for a week. And he would, just as soon as he talked to the Divine Voice. After that. . . .