her.
‘Perhaps you’ve cracked a rib,’ he said. They started slowly down the street.
‘No,’ Wess said. ‘It’s bruised. It will hurt for a while, but it isn’t broken.’
‘How do you know?’
Wess glanced at him quizzically. ‘I may not be from a city, but my people aren’t
completely wild. I paid attention to my lessons when I was little.’
‘Lessons? Lessons in what?’
‘In knowing whether I am hurt, and what I must do if I am, in controlling the
processes of my body – surely your people teach their children these things?’
‘My people don’t know these things,’ Lythande said. ‘I think we have more to
talk about than I believed, frejojan.’
The Maze confused even Wess, by the time they reached the small building where
Lythande stopped. Wess was feeling dizzy from the blow to her head, but she was
confident that she was not dangerously hurt. Lythande opened a low door and
ducked inside. Wess followed.
Lythande picked up a candle. The wick sparked. In the centre of the dark room, a
shiny spot reflected the glow. The wick burst into flame and the spot of
reflection grew. Wess blinked. The reflection spread into a sphere, taller than
Lythande, the colour and texture of deep water, blue-grey, shimmering. It
balanced on its lower curve, bulging slightly so it was not quite perfectly
round.
‘Follow me. Westerly.’
Lythande walked towards the sphere. Its surface rippled at her approach. She
stepped into it. It closed around her, and all Wess could see was a wavering
figure, beyond the surface, and the spot of light from the candle flame.