Stephanie Williams's Arc

Chapter 4 of 9

The road was full now, and that was the trouble. Stephanie had spent weeks filling it. Gideon Ash had preached her willows safe, and travelers believed him. But Gideon kept a count in his head, the way he counted dry river years. He knew how many carts passed his corner. He knew how few reached the town beyond. Now he had started saying the number out loud. She found the preacher at his usual spot near the waystation, his chalk board propped against the stone wall. He did not shout when he saw her. He watched her the way he watched the sky before rain. "Forty went past me last month," Gideon said. "Nineteen reached the market. I asked at both ends." He dropped the fact and stopped, red eyes steady. "People wander. Roads split," Stephanie said. "They don't split for twenty." He tapped the board. "I told them this ground was safe. I put my mouth to it." He looked at the willows, then back. "I want to know what I sent them to." Stephanie understood she could not talk him quiet. He kept numbers. Numbers did not forget. If he preached his suspicion tomorrow, the road would empty, and her claim would empty with it. Killing him would work once. Then the missing preacher would become his own warning, and the count would prove him right. So she gave him a truth shaped to hold him. "You're right," she said. "The road isn't safe past the trees. Bandits work the far stretch at night. That's why I hired you here, at the waystation." She pointed to the stone shelter, its mossy roof dark against the dusk. "Tell them to sleep here and walk in daylight, together. No one alone after dark. Preach that." Gideon studied her. "You knew." "I own the road. I hear things." She held his stare. "Warn them the way you warn about floods. Save the ones you can." That reached him. His whole belief was warning people who would not listen. She had handed him a warning that fit. He picked up his board and read the words he'd painted over his mother's scripture. "Daylight. Together. Rest at the stone house." He nodded slow. "I can preach that." He did. By week's end the travelers moved in packs, warned and grateful, arriving whole. The count evened out. Gideon's suspicion turned into a sermon that served her, and the road stayed full. But Stephanie's night hunting had ended. The stragglers she fed on now stayed with the group, guarded by the very warning she'd invented. Her ground was busy and safe, and it no longer fed her. On the waystation's mossy roofline, a compact owl settled, its yellow eyes glowing, watching her count the crowd she could no longer touch.