The thirst was beyond bearing as the sun reached the zenith. There was no water, had been none since a small stream the day before-or the day before that. Time blurred since he had entered this land. He began to wonder if he had already missed the ship, bypassing it over one of the gently rolling hills. That would be irony: to live by the skills of pinpointing a ship from one star to another and to die by missing a point over a hill.
He turned west finally, toward the sea, thinking that he could not fail at least to find that, hoping that the lower country would have fresh water. The changing of the seasons had confused him. He remembered green around the ship, green in winter. Had it been so far south? The sailing-he could not remember how many days it had taken.
By afternoon he ceased to care what direction he was moving in and knew that he was killing himself, and did not care. He started down a hillside, too tired to take the safer slope, and slipped on the dusty grass. He slid, opening the lacerations on his hands and knees, grass and stone stripping sunburned skin and blisters from his exposed flesh as he rolled down the slope.
The pain grew less finally, or he adjusted to it, he knew not which. He found himself walking and did not remember getting to his feet. It was not important any more, the ship, the sea, life or death. He moved and so lived, and therefore moved.
The sun dipped horizonward into dusk, a beacon that lit the sky with red, and Kurt locked onto it, a reference point, a guidance star in this void of grass. It led him down-country, where there were trees and the land looked more familiar.
Night fell, and he stood on the broad shoulder of a hill, leaning on his staff, fearing if he sat down now he would not have the strength in his burn-swollen legs to get up again. He started the long descent toward the dark of the woods.
A light gleamed off across the wide valley, a light like a campfire. Kurt paused, rubbed his eyes to be sure it was there. It was a pinpoint like a very faint star that flickered but stayed discernible in all that distance and desolation.
He headed for it, driven now by feverish hope, nerved to kill if need be to obtain food and water.
It gleamed nearer, just when he feared he had lost it in his descent. He saw it through the brush. Men’s voices- nemet voices-were audible, soft, quiet in conversation.
Then silence. Brush moved. The fire continued to gleam. He hesitated, feeling momentary panic, a sense of being stalked in turn.
Brush crashed near him and a strong arm took him from behind about the throat, bent him back. He fell, pulled down by two men, weighted with a knee on his right arm, another hand pinning his left. A knife whispered from its sheath and rested across his throat.
The man on his left checked the other with a hand on his wrist. Kurt ceased to struggle, trying only to breathe.
“It is t’Morgan,” said a whisper. Gentle hands searched his belt for weapons, found nothing, tugged his arms free of those who held him and drew him up, those who had lately threatened him handling him carefully, lifting him to his feet, aiding him to stand.
“Are you alone?” one asked of him.
“Yes,” Kurt tried to say. They almost had to carry him, bringing him into the circle of firelight. Other nemet joined them from the shadows.
Kta was among them. Kurt saw his face among the others and felt his v sanity had left him. He tried to go toward him, shaking free of the others.
He fell. When he managed to get his arms beneath him and tried again to sit up, Kta was beside him. The nemet washed his burning face from a waterskin, offered it to his lips and took it away before he could make himself sick with it.
“How did you come here?” Kurt found his own voice unrecognizable.