I sat comfortably embraced by the cushioned hanging qumlaut chair which had been prepared for me within the tent I shared with Ince.

 

It was evening and we were camped along a shallow brown river. A river broad and very shallow which passed so slowly through its sandy channel that it did not seem to move at all. We were far out upon the flatlands with grass in every direction. We joined 2 clumps of gnarled trees with flaking bark at the river's edge.

Tents had blossomed from the very soil it seemed, these silken globes of pink or ivory, as I stepped down from the mount. I had ridden all the day with Ince but we had scarcely spoken. She held no more anger that I could see but she was withdrawn into her thoughts and I did not disturb her. I would have liked to have helped her, eased her, but I had learned that there were things riders must do and no 1 could help them. Efforts to assist them then merely hindered, and worsened.