4
Khaidu breathed deeply and closed her eyes, savoring.
Yes.
She hadn’t realized how much she missed it—the smell of fresh grass in a soil-scented wind, reaching for miles in every direction. The Steppe.
Well, almost. Khaidu knew it wasn’t exactly the Steppe. Instead of the roll and swell of the dappled long-grass of her home, here the shallow hills were covered with shorter bluegrass. At a distance, glimpsed through the shimmering door of the Palymi in the Garden, the grass had looked almost furry. But now, when she touched it with the tips her fingers, her eyes still closed, it felt rough, bristly. It reminded her of the downs of upper Karila. This place was probably not far from the place where she had first encountered the Majestva trapped in the bodies of eagles.
The memory of it
