Tarashana Rachel Neumeier (top 10 motivational books TXT) 📖

of my strength than I had understood. I discovered this when I tried to climb out of the water onto the bank. This took several attempts, and when I finally crawled out of the stream on my hands and knees, I could not get up at once. I sat where I was, on the bank. Water ran from my hair and remaining clothing. I pressed out the water as well as I could with my hands. At least the air was warm. Gathering my still-dripping hair with both my hands, I drew my knife. In my mind, in my memory, I heard my younger brother call out again, desperate and disbelieving.

I understood now why Garoyo had cut his hair after he had left me as tuyo. He had not had any other good choice. But he had still left me.

I had not chosen to abandon Raga to that kind of death. That had not been my choice at all. But I had still abandoned him. I would never not hear his voice crying my name as I ran away and left him to die there.

He might be alive. Geras was alive. Probably Raga lived. I hoped very much that he lived. But I could not bear to face him. Both he and I would always remember what I had done. We would both remember his death. I would always remember how Aras had taken my will and made me his slave. Shame and rage stabbed into me more sharply every time I thought of it.

I lifted the knife to my hair and made the first cut.

Before I made the second, I realized someone was near me.

I did not feel afraid or angry. Even in that first instant, I knew this was a Tarashana person, not any kind of danger. Not my younger brother, who of all people I wanted least to see; nor, almost as bad, my elder brother. Certainly not Aras.

I turned, and indeed, a Tarashana man was there, waiting. He must have been there for some little time. He was sitting on the streambank a small distance away, his legs drawn up and his arms wrapped around his knees. He was not looking at me, but gazing up at the sky, waiting for me to acknowledge him or not, as I chose.

I sheathed the knife, though there was no sign he felt any alarm at the naked blade.

One of those uncountable stars must be his. I wondered whether he might lift his hand and point out his own star if he chose. Probably he could.

Even now that I watched him, he did not glance at me, but continued to gaze upward. I felt this was a kind of courtesy, a way of letting me look at him without requiring me to speak or acknowledge him. For some moments, I studied him in silence. He wore clothing that suggested he might be someone important: robes in a yellow so pale it was almost white, embroidered with patterns in a tan color so pale it was almost cream. A fine tracery of indigo and light blue lines spiraled around his right eye and rippled down his cheek in a series of elegant curves, the colors translucent against the soft radiance of his pale skin. His snow-colored hair rippled over his shoulders and down his back, long and loose, but strands had been braided from either side and wound around his head in a complicated circlet. One of his ears had been pierced. Nine tiny beads of amber gleamed along the curve of that ear. His eyes were a dark color, like the sky at dusk, but became a vivid blue as I looked at him, and then darkened again. I did not know what those changes signified. He was neither smiling nor frowning. I felt he had been waiting a long time for me to notice him, but I also felt he could have waited much longer without any kind of impatience.

I looked away from him. The vault of the sky was as soft and dark as before, but the Moon had gone and the Dawn Sisters had followed her, standing now almost where she had stood, above the mountains. In this place, the Sun would not rise. But I felt that time had passed and that it might be something like morning. I felt unutterably weary, but also quiet in a way that was not weariness.

If I thought about the things that had happened, I would become angry. I felt that anger waiting. I set bitter memories and anger aside, breathing slowly and deeply, trying to come to a better balance in my heart.

The man turned his head, feeling, perhaps, that I was better prepared now to speak to him. “Ryo inGara,” he murmured. “If you wish to come, I will show you a place near this, where I hope you may rest comfortably. If you prefer to stay here, I will have a pavilion raised up in this place. If you wish to be alone, I will go and see no one comes near you. If you want something else, tell me and I will supply your wish if I can.”

He spoke in taksu, almost entirely without accent. His voice was lower in pitch than I might have expected. He spoke softly, and turned his head away again as soon as he had finished speaking, to show that he did not require me to answer at once, but would wait until I was ready to speak.

I did not know what I wanted. I did not want anything. I sighed. Then I said, “Show me this place.”

“Yes,” he murmured. When he stood up, I saw he was almost as tall as an Ugaro, though of course much more delicately built. When he walked away, I got to my feet, again surprised by the effort this took, and followed.

As he had promised, he