The stupid rock held firm-it was held in place by little tufts of moss that grew on the ground and stuck to things like stones, holding them down as shelter against the wind. A small windspren, like a white ribbon in the air, started to follow her. She zipped along, wind pushing back her long black hair, tugging at the loose overshirt she wore atop her tighter brown undershirt, which was tucked into her loose-cuffed trousers. Grass startled all around her, curling as it yanked down into stone burrows. She slid as if on ice, whipping through the field. Suddenly, the ground didn’t rub against her at all. She Slicked the soles of her feet with it, and leaped into a skid. She drew on the stuff inside of her, the stuff that made her glow. “Mistress,” he pled, “can’t we please just go back?” He didn’t have a face at the moment, but could speak anyway. He took the shape of a vine, growing along the ground beside her at superfast speed, matching her pace. “Mistress!” Wyndle, her pet Voidbringer, called. But for once, Lift wasn’t in the mood to eat. Lift’s run startled a group of axehinds who had been grazing nearby the lean creatures leaped away on four legs with the two front claws pulled in close to the body. Afterward they’d pop back up, like a rude gesture made at the passing winds. In a storm, they’d fall over flat and just lie there. They had some official name, but everyone she knew called them drop-deads because of their springy roots. The occasional trees were tall and twisty, with trunks that looked like they were made of interwoven vines, and branches that pointed upward more than out. The place was overgrown with brown grass a foot or two high. She sprinted across an open field in northern Tashikk, a little more than a week’s travel from Azimir.

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