Date: September 18, 540, from the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored
The road west that Gil had chosen for herself turned out not to be a path through the thick of the forest, like the others, but an old, rutted trade route. It was wider, but no less lonely. For the last two days, her only companions had been her own shadows, changing length from sunrise to sunset, and the persistent rustle of leaves in the roadside groves, each time making her turn, expecting to see something dangerous in the greenery. In her pack remained the last handful of rusks, and the girl was beginning to ruefully remember the days when her main problem was deciding which book to re-read today.
It was at that moment, when hunger and weariness were truly beginning to weigh down her steps, that her ears caught a distant, but undeniably familiar sound—the creak of unoiled axles and the steady thud of hooves. Her heart beat faster, but this time, not only from fear. This was an opportunity.
She cautiously crept to a bend in the road and peered around it. A caravan of three wagons was crawling slowly down the road, like a tired creature. They were loaded with bales covered in tarred tarpaulin and crates bound with thick ropes. The wagons were modest but sturdy, and the people driving them looked much the same—worn but serviceable clothes, tired, sunburned faces, and habitually wary glances scanning the roadsides.
Gil froze in hesitation. The rules of survival, gleaned from books and Miss Elira's instructions, screamed danger. Strangers. Men. But the same logic told her that alone, she wouldn't get far. The city of Nest, which she sought, could still be weeks away. This caravan was her only real chance.
Taking a deep breath and adjusting her pack on her shoulder, she stepped into the middle of the road, positioned herself so she could be clearly seen, and raised her hand in an uncertain but clear gesture, asking them to stop.
The front wagon creaked and slowed. The driver, a stocky man with gray stubble and slit-like eyes, sternly looked her up and down.
"Get out of the way, little one!" he grumbled, showing not the slightest interest. "We don't take passengers."
"I'm not asking for a free ride," Gil's voice was quieter than she intended, but surprisingly firm for her age. "I can help. Copying, keeping accounts, reading maps..." she trailed off, realizing how pale and insignificant this sounded in a world of physical labor.
The driver snorted and was about to snap the reins, when another head poked out from under the tarpaulin of the second wagon. The face belonged to a man of about fifty, with a high forehead, thinning hair, and intelligent, tired eyes that held not severity, but rather, chronic pensiveness. His gaze, sliding over Gil, didn't assess her shabby clothes or pack. It lingered on her eyes—wide open, thirsting for knowledge—and on her hands, instinctively clenched as if they still held one of the books from the orphanage.
"What have we got there, Bork?" he asked, his voice slightly muffled but clear.
"Nothing, Master Rod," the driver replied. "Local riff-raff asking for a ride."
The man named Rod, ignoring Bork, continued to study Gil.
"You said you can read maps?" he asked again. "What would you say about the one we're using now?"
This was a test. Gil understood from the first word. She straightened her shoulders, casting aside her uncertainty.
"If you're using the standard map of the Northern Triangle trade routes, it's most likely outdated after last year's landslides in the Grumbler's Gorge," she blurted out, recalling snippets of conversation from the merchant at the orphanage. "They added a new trail further south, but most copies don't have it yet."
Rod slowly nodded, and slight wrinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes—a semblance of a smile.
"Knowing a fact isn't always the same as having knowledge, but it indicates an inquisitive mind," he murmured, more to himself than to her. "And accounts? Can you check my last inventory list for errors? Bork seems to get confused with addition."
Bork muttered something discontentedly under his breath, but fell silent under Rod's gaze.
Gil felt a thrill of excitement run down her spine. This was her chance. Her element.
"I can try," she said simply.
Rod gestured for her to come to the second wagon. Inside, among crates and bundles, it was cramped, but arranged with maximum possible comfort. On a small folding board lay papers spread out, next to it a traveling inkwell and several quills. It was a miniature office.
He handed her a worn notebook with columns of figures. Gil settled on the edge of a crate, took from her pack a fragment of pencil she had brought as a memento from the orphanage, and immersed herself in the work. The world around her ceased to exist. Only the figures remained, their strict logic and harmony, which needed to be restored. Her fingers moved quickly down the columns, her lips silently repeating the numbers. She found the first mistake in two minutes—Bork had indeed erred, adding up the cost of two batches of goods. The second, three minutes later.
"Here," she pointed to the lines, "and here. A difference of seven silver pieces and twelve coppers."
Rod took the notebook, checked it against some of his own notes, and nodded again, this time with undisguised approval.
"Remarkable. Most literate people get lost in practical calculations, preferring higher matters. Where did you acquire such skills?"
"There was... a library at the orphanage," Gil replied, hesitating slightly. "And tasks. We kept our own inventory."
She didn't lie. The truth sounded plausible enough and didn't raise unnecessary questions.
"An orphanage..." Rod repeated thoughtfully. "So, your journey began from there. And where is it leading you now?"
"To Nest," Gil answered honestly. "They say there, one can find... knowledge."
She spoke the last word with such reverent awe that Rod paused for a moment.
"Knowledge..." he sighed. "Yes, there's plenty of it in Nest. And quite a few who are ready to sell it, trade it, or simply bury it in their archives." He looked at her with new interest. "Do you have a goal? Or just a thirst for reading?"
Gil hesitated only a second. She trusted her intuition, which told her this man could be trusted.
"I want to understand how this world works. So that one day... to help change it."
She was afraid he would laugh. But Rod didn't laugh. He looked at her intently, and in his tired eyes flickered a spark of something that could be taken for hope.
"Ambitious," he stated. "And extremely naive. But it's often naivety that drives the greatest discoveries." He paused, looking at the trees slowly drifting past the wagon's awning. "Alright. There'll be room for you in the wagon. You'll help me with papers, inventory, and, if you have the strength, with preparing meals. That's payment for passage and protection. Agreed?"
Gil felt the weight of fear and uncertainty lift from her shoulders. She nodded, unable to speak for the feelings overwhelming her—relief, joy, and anticipation.
"Agreed. Thank you, Master Rod."
"Just Rod," he corrected her, burying his nose again in some manuscript. "Make yourself comfortable. We have a long way to go to Nest. You'll have time to think about whether you're truly ready for the knowledge that awaits you there."
The wagon creaked back into motion, its sound now merging with the beating of Gil's heart. She sat on the crate, watching the road recede behind them, and for the first time in a long while, allowed herself to relax. She was not alone. She had found her first landmark in the vast, unfamiliar world. And this landmark was leading her straight to the city where the answers to all her questions were stored.