West of Simindâr – 1301 – Midsummer – Morning
(Two days later.)
The distance is greater than I remember. I traveled it scant months ago, and with a child, and still it is greater. The country of Tider-Han through which I ride is all rolling hills, grassland and forest, and there seems to be no end to it.
Seeming is not truth, however. The hills grow shallower. Another day, perhaps, and I will be there.
My intention was to open a dreamway as soon as I was out of sight of the manor. With Gavin as frightened as he is, as sure that sorcery lies at the root of this (and so it does, but not mine), it seemed wisest.
And yet I have not. I ride, and I write in this little book, and I do not open the dreamway that could bring me to the center of Simindâr in a matter of hours. My determination of two days ago drains a little more with each mile I ride, and I cannot now bring myself to open the way. I am reluctant to go to the forest, yes—but also reluctant to see what the dreamway might show me.
All of those possibilities used not to matter. I knew that anything I saw in dreamway-travel might happen, and also that most of it would not, and that whatever happened to me, the world would go on. Now I cannot bear to look, for fear of what I might see.
Has coming to human lands caused me to develop human feeling? I feel as though years have passed since I left Simindâr, who never before reckoned the difference between a year and a day.
What has happened to me?