Amanda Lynn's Arc

Chapter 4 of 14

Amanda Lynn made it twenty steps up the ridge road before her body quit. Her bare foot found a sharp rock, and the ruined heel behind her buckled. She sat hard in the dirt. Dawn was hours off, and she could not scout a single mile like this. No shoes meant no route. No route meant no race. She limped back toward the guild hall to think. Near the wall stood a stack of storage crates, one carved with feather shapes along its sides. Runners left gear here between legs. She pried the lid loose, hunting for anything to wrap her foot. A low sound stopped her hand. B.A. Ware's creature stood at the crate's edge. Half its coat ran pale, half dark, the split clean down its spine. The animal had led her around the flood two nights back. Now it watched her with steady eyes and did not bark. It turned and trotted a few steps, then looked back. Amanda Lynn hesitated. Trust the guide, and she risked another trick. But the creature only led. It did not speak, did not lie, did not want the crown. She followed. The creature brought her to a second chest set against the hall, this one divided into neat wooden shelves. On one shelf sat a pair of worn courier boots, laces knotted, soles thick. A cast-off pair, left by some runner. The creature sat beside them and waited. Amanda Lynn picked up the left boot. She pressed the sole. Firm. She checked the size against her foot. Close enough. Her heart kicked. She stripped the ruin of her old shoe and eased the boots on. The leather bit her raw skin, then held. She stood. She put weight on the bad foot. It hurt, but it held. She took a step, then five, then walked a full circle without buckling. For the first time since the fork, she stood on two working feet. She looked down at the split creature. "You didn't have to," she said. It only blinked. Somewhere its owner slept, the half that would bury her and the half that would help. She could not thank B.A. Ware. But the animal chose no side. A swift cut low across the yard, fast and dark, gone before she tracked it. She watched the line it flew. Straight along the ridge, up and over the crest. The birds knew the shortest air. She could not fly it. But now she could walk it. Amanda Lynn faced the ridge road. The boots gripped. The dark held maybe four hours of quiet before dawn. She could mark every turn now, every loose stone, every place the trail narrowed. She started up the slope at a steady walk, and this time her feet carried her forward.