“I don’t have a horse,” she said, “So I suppose the only one left to try is the straight path.”
Turning to Tarin, she jumped. Tarin wasn’t there. Instead of him, a white horse with a mane of gold—not simply gold color, but actual spun gold—stamped in place with hooves that sparked silver. Everywhere the sparks fell on the ground, snowdrops grew.
Flowers again, Khaidu complained internally.
“So not the straight road, eh, horse-man?”
The horse tossed its head and spoke in Tarin’s voice. “Think sideways, Khaidu. Remember, consider the symbols.”
She looked at the waystone again and tried to remember the stories. There were different ones, of course. It wasn’t a waystone in the Gumiren stories, it was always an old, gnarled man sitting on a stump at a crossroads. But the idea was the same.
