By Jo Clayton
Imprisoned via a spell for hundreds of years, Serroi breaks unfastened and reveals a task in her unusual new world--to convey a newly created equipment to the chief of a far off city-state. unique.
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I should do that or I’ll never get my feet back in mine. Vai vai, too lazy and comfortable to move .... Serroi blinked as the door opened and several men bustled in, carrying blankets and a tray with an absurd collection of mugs and glasses and a large bellied pot of coarse reddish earthenware with steam rippling from the spout. They deposited the blankets and the tray on the bench beside Zasya, fetched in Camnor’s cases and stacked them beside the door, then left without saying a word. Zasya looked at the tray, then at her hands, and went on polishing her boots.
He was shorter than his fa-ther, shorter than her, slender, though his shoulders were broad enough. His burned and bruised hands were wrapped in cloth and salve, but she thought she’d never forget them, big hands for his size, callused and rough from the hard labor he’d done for the past ... how many years had it been? Left home at seventeen, hard to tell how many years since with that bruise in the way, crow’s-feet at the corner of his unmarred eye, deep lines from his nose to his chin. Strong nose, like his father.
He bent and touched his son’s cheek, then strode from the room. “He’s not the only one,” K’vestmilly murmured. “Poet? ” She crossed her long legs and sat watching the man sleep. He was shorter than his fa-ther, shorter than her, slender, though his shoulders were broad enough. His burned and bruised hands were wrapped in cloth and salve, but she thought she’d never forget them, big hands for his size, callused and rough from the hard labor he’d done for the past ... how many years had it been?