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You five have stopped a little further up, inside an alcove carved in the rock.
The Asterite needs her fifteen minutes of sleep.
Willow’s suggestion still rings in your head.
But you know it cannot be true.
Uxoria did betray her cadet, in the end, but did so under the influence of the Seven Sisters. That happened years before the coming of the Stilladìa. She couldn’t have been the Adversary.
The Worm took care of her, and Saint Bragia took care of the Worm.
Wilow’s theory does not make sense.
And yet — here you are. Five people, hundreds of years later, on a mission…
It rings a bit too close. A rhyme wrapped up in itself.
You take a long breath. No matter what happens, you will have to trust in the Sun-Birther.
“Candente. You always seem troubled these days. I miss my scatterbrained country bumpkin,” Rubida says sitting next to you, passing you her water skin. “You still daydream, though.”
“I do not know, Rubida. If only my faith was stronger.”
“My uncle’s faith was strong as well,” she replies, draping her arm around your shoulders, comforting you. “I like to think that was one of the reasons why he fell.”
“I—”
“A mighty tree could resist any storm, and then snap in twain by some hidden rot.”
“Then what kind of tree should I be?”
“A good one, Argia. One blessed with lots of rain. Remember?”
[cont.]
