In Eagle's Rock, the people lived together in the place Sarka had noticed from the road, the building with light glowing in the windows. As they arrived in front of "the commune," the sentinel took Donkey-Meat's rein from Sarka's hand and hitched the beast to a rickety fence.

Sarka began, "I won't-"

"I'm not the only watcher. He won't be stolen. This way."

Sarka clutched her satchel to her side as she followed the man through the wide double doors of the building. At the end of a short hallway was a huge communal living space. People were seated at long trestle tables inside, so many of them that Sarka's mind spun; she was used to and sparse gatherings and had never seen so many human beings in a single place. Against one wall stood a large brick oven and a stove with metal pipes snaking up toward the roof.

The man indicated the cook stoves, as if noticing Sarka's interest. "Easier this way-sharing. Fairer. Don't get any ideas. If we catch you stealing food, we'll have off half your fingers. I'm Ro." He extended his hand.

Sarka was taken aback by the juxtaposed warning and introduction. She stared at Ro's proffered hand for a moment before offering her own. They briefly grasped one another's wrists in a belated greeting. "Sarka. I think I said. Of Gold Eagle's Roost."

"Aye, you said. What happened to your face?" Ro lifted his goggles away from his eyes so they rested on his forehead.

Sarka's first true impression of Ro was delayed until she saw his eyes, and her first impression was this: he was a man who should have been surrounded by books. It was an errant thought, contrasting sharply with her initial impression of him as a shadowy soldier-especially since books were rare in the ashlands. His eyes were keen and intelligent, of an uncertain color in the poor light, and framed by lines that made him seem open and good-humored despite the spear he held. He had dark skin and wore his curled beard close-cropped to his chin.

He raised his brows as the silence spun out between them. Sarka realized he had asked her a question. "Ah...it's a long story," she said. She looked around the room. "How many folk are here?"

"About a hundred, give or take. Was it an animal?"

Sarka looked back at Ro and frowned. "Yes. It's dead now. How close are you to the next town on?"

"Crystalton? Not far. There are ash-walkers there who trade to the coast. Sometimes they make it as far as us, sometimes farther. To you, I suppose."

"Yes, sometimes. Not often enough." Sarka saw how much a difference three days' distance made. Before the Cataclysm, the distance between Eagle's Rock and her home would have made for an easy journey, but now it was long and thirsty and lonely. The people of Eagle's Rock, being only a little closer to Crystalton and the hubs of trade beyond, were much better off. They clearly had sufficient food and fuel.

"I want to get to the coast," Sarka said.

"For?"

"I just need enough food and water to get me there. I've a needle and thread and a good hand for mending. I'm ready for other work, too, if there's anything."

Ro pointed toward a trestle table. "Sit, girl. You'll have supper, and tonight you'll stay downstairs and get a good rest. You're a sore sight, and it isn't just because of those scars. We aren't heartless. But I was serious: steal anything, and I'll cut off your fingers myself."

With that, Ro left her and headed to the cooking area, where a graybeard was busy with pots of steaming food.

Left with no alternative, Sarka went to a table and sat. She looked around to see if others had noticed the stranger in their midst. They had; sitting in small groups at their own tables, they glanced her way with furtive curiosity. Seeing their looks, Sarka was satisfied simply acknowledging her status as an outsider, and she ignored them.

A plate clattered onto the table, startling her. Ro dropped onto the bench across from her, his cheek already bulging with food. He nodded at her, speaking around the mouthful: "Eat."

Sarka needed no goading. She snatched up the spoon and began to shovel hot food into her mouth without even looking to see what it was. The taste came to her in fragments: rice, meat gravy, sweet potato, some kind of green vegetable.

Ro retrieved a grain of rice from his beard. "Thought so. You're a skinny thing."

"That tends to happen when there's nothing to eat." Sarka paused, glancing up to judge Ro's expression. If he was irritated at her ingratitude, he did not show it in his face. Still, she needed him and the rest of these people, for now. "Sorry. Thank you, Ro. I didn't come to fall upon your charity."

"It's not charity. You won't be sewing anything if you faint from hunger. Gylla," and here Ro nodded at a gray-haired woman at the neighboring table, "says she's got quite a bit of work for you to do."

"Good. I'll start immediately." Sarka bent her head to lick the gravy from her plate, then wiped the smears of grease and bits of rice from her cheek and licked her fingers, too. Her stomach felt round and warm. It was a pleasant feeling.

"Weren't you listening? Sleep first." Ro pushed his plate aside.

"I haven't the time. I must leave in the morning."

Sarka's heart sank as Ro pulled his goggles off his head and set them aside, looking at her with an expression that portended a conversation. She did not want conversation. She did not have time for conversation. She wanted to earn enough food to take her to the coast and leave, and she wanted to do these two things as quickly and efficiently as possible.

Ro began to unwind the long scarf from around his neck. "Sarka, do you know where the coast is from here?"

"North."

"Roughly. Do you know what lies between here and there?" He pulled off his gloves. As he set them aside, Sarka noticed that his left hand was abbreviated: the first two fingers were missing, and only half the third was there, leaving him with his little finger and his thumb.

"What happened to your hand?" Sarka asked. He'd threatened her with amputation as punishment for theft. Was he a thief?

Ro smiled. "It's a long story," he said, returning her earlier reticence. "Do you know?"

"Ash. Dust. A wasteland, like everywhere else. Hopefully another settlement or two, so I can replenish my water."

"Ash and dust-of that you'll see plenty. A few towns, a few wells. But you'll also cross through territory that could kill you. It's not an easy journey for anyone, let alone a girl on her own."

"I'm not a girl. I'm a woman. I can handle myself."

"You don't know what you're getting yourself into."

"It can't be that bad. A woman in my town was an ash-walker, and she must be twice my age or more."

"Ah-you must mean Aneir. Aye, she was an ash-walker. But twice the age means twice the wisdom, girl. When were you born? Do you remember a time when there were roads, sign posts, maps?" Ro's expression had changed. He looked grim.

Sarka was silent.

"As I thought. It's hard to mark the time since everything ended, but not impossible. Twenty-six years. That's our best guess. I do not doubt your resolve, Sarka, but if you go on your own you won't make it. Aneir knew her way because she traveled before the end, and after it, we traveled together. We learned it together. Successful ash-walkers do. They don't brazenly adventure into the wilds without a clue as to where they're going. I'm not invested in your life, girl, but I'm guessing you are-and if you are, you won't go alone."

Sarka stared down at her empty plate. She felt a queer mixture of anger and a deep, helpless ache, a feeling that had lost its sting.

"Now, come with me and I'll find you a bed, and in the morning, you can tell me why I should show you the way to Horn Harbor."