All From a Bean?

[Tabelle]

The Quartz City Library had a basement that smelled like paper dust and old binding glue and something faintly mineral, like the air itself had been sitting in the dark so long it had started to calcify. Cool down here, too, the kind of cool that crept in through the floor and settled in your knees if you sat still long enough. Tabelle had been down here for three hours. Her eyes ached and her lower back had that hot wire feeling that meant she'd been sitting wrong in the wooden chair for too long, and the stack of books on the table in front of her had grown sideways into a second stack because the first one ran out of room. A strand of hair had come loose from her braid and she kept tucking it behind her ear and it kept coming back.

Star charts. Navigation logs. A fuel economy manual for mid-range superliminal drives that was so dense with math she'd read the same paragraph four times and still wasn't sure she understood it. An old trade atlas with foldout maps of shipping corridors between Earth and the Interstellar Market, the creases so worn that the paper had gone soft at the joins. None of it fit together yet, not really, but each book added something and she figured eventually enough somethings would start to look like a picture.

Gehn had told her to study. So she was studying.

The atlas was open to a chart of Earth's exports when her elbow knocked the second stack and a book slid off the top and landed open on the floor, spine up, pages fanning. Tabelle picked it up and turned it over and the chapter it had fallen open to wasn't about trade routes at all. It was about Earth. Specifically, about things that grew on Earth that didn't grow anywhere else.

She almost put it back. She was here for navigation, not botany. But the heading at the top of the page said Natural Remedies and Cultivars of Unique Martial Significance and the word "martial" caught her the way a door left open catches you when you're walking past it.

The section was short. Most of it was about medicinal herbs used by martial arts schools in the northern territories, and teas brewed from roots that supposedly improved ki circulation, and Tabelle skimmed past those because they sounded like the kind of thing someone's grandmother swore by but nobody had actually tested. Then there was a paragraph near the bottom of the page, set apart from the rest, with a small ink illustration of a bean that looked like a lima bean's more serious older sibling.

Senzu. A plant cultivar of unknown origin, producing a single edible bean of extraordinary restorative capacity. A single Senzu Bean, when consumed, is reported to fully restore the physical condition and ki reserves of the individual, regardless of the severity of injury sustained. Documented accounts are sparse and largely anecdotal. The plant is notoriously difficult to cultivate, requiring conditions that have never been successfully replicated in controlled agricultural settings. The only confirmed source remains Korin Tower, a structure of disputed age and location in the remote northern highlands, maintained by a figure identified in regional folklore as a cat sage. Verification of these claims has not been possible, as the Tower's precise coordinates are not documented in any modern survey and the structure is not visible by conventional aerial observation.

Tabelle read it twice. Then a third time with her finger tracing the lines because the library was dim down here and the print was small and she wanted to make sure she wasn't filling in words that weren't there.

Fully restore the physical condition and ki reserves of the individual, regardless of severity. That couldn't be real. That sounded like the kind of thing that got written into folklore because someone ate a bean and felt a little better and the story grew legs over the next few centuries. Except the paragraph said "documented accounts," and it said "confirmed source," and those were careful words from a careful writer, the kind of words you used when you'd tried to talk yourself out of believing something and couldn't quite manage it.

The chair creaked when she sat back and the cool basement air hit the spot on her forearms where she'd been leaning against the table. The ceiling above her was low and water-stained and she stared at it for a while without seeing it.

Okay, she thought. Okay, so.

The road ahead of her was getting realer by the day. Gehn was coming back and when he did the trip was going to be longer and rougher than anything she'd ever walked, and he had been very clear about the kind of trouble that lived at the end of it. Training every morning, harder than before. Studying every night. Doing everything she could think of to be ready for a universe that did not particularly care whether she was ready or not.

And here, in a book she'd knocked off a table by accident, was a bean that could put a person back together no matter how badly they'd been taken apart. Her hands went to the page again and her thumb settled on the illustration, that small oval shape with a few lines suggesting texture, and she kept looking at it the way she looked at a route on a map when she was trying to figure out if the road was real or if someone had drawn it in hoping.

What she was thinking about was Gehn and the Changeling. What it would feel like to be somewhere far from home and have someone she cared about bleeding out and have nothing in her pockets but good intentions and no way to help. That was the thing, really. It wasn't about her own body, or not mostly. It was about being the person who shows up and has what's needed, the way her parents always had a tow cable and a first aid kit and a spare fuel can in the back of the hauler because you didn't drive rural routes without being ready to help someone whose day had gone wrong.

The book mentioned a tower. Korin Tower, somewhere in the remote northern highlands, and the way the text described it made it sound like the kind of place that didn't want to be found, no modern survey, no coordinates, not visible from the air. An old cat sage who grew the beans and was selective about who he gave them to, and getting there was

apparently its own kind of test. The book mentioned a pilgrim trail that martial artists had historically followed to reach the tower, and the tower was said to be impossibly tall, visible only when you were close enough to be standing at its base. Arriving wasn't enough. The sage decided who earned what he grew.

The trail had a name. The Path of Whittling. Tabelle didn't know what that meant but she wrote it down on the back of her hand with a pen from her jacket pocket because she'd left her notebook upstairs and she was not going to lose this.

The book's spine cracked softly when she closed it. Earth's Forgotten Provisions: A Survey of Botanicals, Cultivars, and Natural Phenomena of Martial Application. Third edition. Published forty years ago. The library sticker on the inside cover said it had been checked out once.

Once.

She added it to her stack.

The chair scraped against the floor when she stood up and her back complained and her legs had that fizzy feeling from sitting too long. She stretched, arms over her head, fingers laced, and felt the pull in her shoulders and across her ribs where the weighted clothing sat heavy against her skin. The basement was quiet. Somewhere above her, through the ceiling, she could hear the muffled rhythm of the library's main floor, footsteps and the soft thump of books being reshelved and someone's phone buzzing against a table.

The ink on the back of her hand was already smudging a little against her palm. Path of Whittling. She didn't know where the northern highlands started or how long it would take to get there or what the trail looked like or whether the cat sage was even real, but the book had been careful and specific in the way that careful, specific people wrote about things they'd actually found, and that was enough to go on. It was more than she'd had this morning.

Tabelle gathered her stack. The navigation books, the star charts, the fuel manual. And at the bottom, the one about provisions and cultivars and a bean that could save someone's life if she could find the old man who grew them.

She carried all of it upstairs.

 

[Tabelle]

The northern highlands started where the roads stopped being paved.

Tabelle had flown most of it, low and fast over the canopy with the weighted clothing pulling at her shoulders and her pack strapped tight across her back, and she'd felt the temperature drop by degrees as the green below her thinned from forest to scrub to bare grey stone. The library book had said "remote" and she'd read that as "far," which it was, but the better word was "empty." The settlements thinned and then stopped and the roads narrowed and then stopped and eventually there was nothing underneath her but ridge after ridge of pale rock and dark pine and the kind of sky that looked like it went on too long, too much of it, more sky than the land underneath it knew what to do with.

She landed at a place the map called Torrin's Post, which turned out to be eleven buildings and a water tower and a gravel lot where two trucks were parked with their engines off and their beds empty. The air was different here. Thin and cold and dry in a way that she could feel at the back of her throat when she breathed deep, like drinking water that had been sitting in a metal cup. She liked it. It tasted like altitude.

The supply shop was the largest of the eleven buildings, which wasn't saying much. A flat-roofed structure with faded green paint and a porch where someone had left a pair of boots to dry on the railing. Inside it smelled like lamp oil and grain and the particular staleness of a room that didn't get enough foot traffic to cycle its air. Shelves lined the walls with the kind of inventory that told you everything about who lived here: rope, fuel canisters, dried food in vacuum wrap, waterproof tarps, insect netting, a bin of work gloves sorted by size with most of the large ones missing.

The woman behind the counter was maybe sixty and had the hands of someone who'd been opening crates her whole life, thick knuckles and short nails and a scar across the back of her left hand that looked like it came from a box cutter that had slipped a long time ago. She was reading something on a tablet propped against the register and didn't look up until Tabelle set her pack on the floor.

"Hi," Tabelle said. "I'm looking for Korin Tower."

The woman looked at her over the tablet. Looked at the pack on the floor, the weighted clothing visible under her jacket, the dust on her boots from the landing. Then back to her face.

"You and about one a year," the woman said. She had the voice of someone who didn't waste words on volume. "It's north. Straight north from here, about forty kilometers into the highland shelf, and then up."

"Up," Tabelle repeated.

"Up." The woman set the tablet down. "The tower's at the top of a mesa that doesn't show on satellite. You'll know it when you see it because it goes up further than makes sense and it looks like someone built a column out of the wrong century and forgot to stop. You can't fly to it. Well, you can fly to the mesa, but the tower itself does something to ki when you get close. People who've tried to fly up the outside say it's like hitting a current that pushes you back down. Not hard, just steady. Easier to climb."

Tabelle's hand found the edge of the counter and her fingers settled along the wood the way they always did when she was listening to someone who knew a road she didn't.

"How tall?"

"Nobody's measured it and come back with a number I'd trust." The woman reached under the counter and produced a paper map, actual paper, creased and soft at the folds. She spread it flat between them and tapped a spot where the topographic lines compressed into a tight brown knot. "This is where the mesa starts. The trail goes up from the western side. Locals call it the Path of Whittling."

"I found that name in a book," Tabelle said, leaning in to look at the map, tracing the contour lines with her finger. "What does it mean?"

"Means exactly what it sounds like. The path is narrow and it gets narrower and the higher you go the less room there is for anything that isn't you and the climb. People who've done it say they started dropping things along the way because carrying them stopped being worth the weight. Gear, extra food, pride." The corner of her mouth moved. "It whittles."

"Has anyone from here climbed it?"

"My husband went up about thirty years ago. Got maybe two-thirds before his knees quit." She said it the same way she'd said everything else, plain, like a weather report on a day that was already over. "Came back lighter and disappointed and never tried again. Most people who go up come back down with less than they brought and no beans to show for it."

Through the shop's front window Tabelle could see the highland shelf rising behind the settlement, a long dark line of rock and pine against the too-big sky. Somewhere past that, north, was a mesa and a tower and a cat sage who grew a plant that could save someone's life, and between here and there was forty kilometers of terrain that whittled.

"I'll take some extra water rations," Tabelle said, turning back to the counter. "And whatever dried food travels lightest. And do you have grip tape? The kind you wrap around tool handles?"

The woman was already pulling things off shelves behind her. Efficient hands, no wasted motion. The kind of person who'd filled this order before, or close enough to it, and didn't need to ask what size.

"There's a spring about six kilometers up the western trail," the woman said while she worked. "Good water. Cold. Fill up there because there's nothing after it until the top, if there's anything at the top at all."

"You don't think there is?"

"I think my husband's knees gave out at two-thirds and he's tougher than most people I've met." She set the supplies on the counter in a neat row, water pouches and vacuum-wrapped bars and a roll of black grip tape. "But you've got weighted clothing on under that jacket and you flew here, and people who can fly don't usually bother with a place like this unless they're looking for something specific. So you probably already know more about what's up there than I do."

Tabelle paid and packed the supplies and the woman went back to her tablet and that was the whole conversation. No warnings dressed up as wisdom, no long look at the door, no parting words about being careful. Just a woman who ran a shop at the edge of the highlands and had seen enough people head north to know that telling them not to wasn't part of the service.

Outside, the air hit her face and it was colder than it had been twenty minutes ago. The sun was past its highest point and the shadows from the ridgeline had started to stretch east across the gravel lot. Tabelle shouldered her pack and adjusted the straps where the weighted clothing bunched underneath them and pulled her braid over her shoulder and retied the end where it had started to come loose during the flight.

Forty kilometers north. Then up.

The boots on the porch railing were still drying and the two trucks in the lot were still parked and the water tower cast a long thin shadow that reached almost to the tree line. Tabelle looked north, where the highlands rose and the trees thinned and the sky was so big it made the ground look like an afterthought, and started walking.

 

[Tabelle]

The tower didn't look like something that had been built. It rose from the center of the mesa in a single pale column, smooth-sided and slightly tapered, and it went up and up and up past the point where perspective should have started shrinking it and just kept going, into the low cloud cover and through it and presumably beyond it, though she couldn't see where it ended because there was no end visible from down here. The stone was white or close to white, with a faint warmth to the color that might have been the afternoon light or might have been the stone itself, and there were no windows and no doors that she could see from the western approach, just a narrow archway at the base where the trail met the wall and a staircase began inside. Tabelle stood at the archway and looked up and the top wasn't there and the scale of the thing settled into her stomach the way bad weather settled into a valley, slow and heavy and not going anywhere.

She'd felt the ki dampening about two kilometers out from the mesa. Not a wall, not a barrier. More like walking into water that got deeper with every step, a slow heaviness settling into the place in her chest where ki lived and pooled and responded when she called it. By the time she reached the mesa's base her flight had stopped being reliable, sputtering in her legs like an engine running on fumes, and she'd come down the last hundred meters on foot across loose rock and thin grass, breathing harder than the distance justified.

At the tower's base the dampening was a constant low pressure, not painful but present, like wearing a vest she couldn't take off. Her ki was still there. She could feel it the way you feel a muscle that's been worked past its usual range, present but sluggish, answering slowly when she reached for it. She tried to lift off and her legs did the thing they always did and nothing happened, or almost nothing, a flicker of lift that died before her boots left the ground. She reached for Ki Sense out of habit and it came back muffled, like trying to hear a conversation through a wall. Whatever the tower was doing to ki, it was doing it thoroughly.

The staircase inside the archway spiraled upward and was lit by nothing she could identify, a pale ambient glow that came from the stone itself or from the air between the stones, she couldn't tell. The steps were cut for someone taller than her, each one a little higher than felt natural, and after the first fifty she understood that the climb was going to be a different kind of hard than she'd prepared for.

Freight running built a specific body. Her legs were strong from years of walking rough terrain under heavy loads and her core was solid from hauling and bracing and catching things that slid off the backs of trucks. Her arms were good for pulling a cable taut or lifting a crate to chest height or throwing her whole body weight forward into Deadweight. What they were not especially good for was lifting her own body weight straight up, over and over, step after step, with forty-some pounds of weighted clothing sewn into the lining of her jacket and pants and another fifteen in the pack on her back.

By the time she lost count of the steps her forearms had started to burn. Not the arms themselves, really, but the muscles along the outside of them, the ones that fired every time she grabbed the narrow rail set into the inner wall and pulled herself up another too-tall step. She'd wrapped the grip tape around her palms before she started and it was doing its job, keeping her hands from slipping on the smooth stone, but underneath the tape her fingers were aching in the joints from the cold, a deep stiff cold that the stone seemed to breathe out the way pavement breathed out heat in summer.

The staircase had no landings and no windows and no markers or numbers or any indication of how far she'd come or how far she had to go. Just the spiral, tightening slightly as it rose, the steps staying the same height but the walls narrowing by a degree she could feel in her shoulders every time she swung her pack around a turn. The pale light didn't change. The air got thinner and colder and she could feel that in her lungs now, each breath a little shallower than the one before, each exhale leaving a little less behind.

Her pack caught on the wall at a turn where the spiral tightened and the jolt pulled her off balance and she grabbed the rail with both hands and hung there for a second, feet on the step, weight on her arms, breathing. Her shoulders were angry about the weighted clothing. The straps of the pack sat on top of the extra weight sewn into her jacket and the two layers pressed into the muscle between her neck and shoulder in a way that was going to be a real problem in another hour.

She adjusted the straps and kept climbing.

The light from the archway below had disappeared a long time ago. Ahead was the same pale glow and the same spiraling steps and the same narrowing walls, and behind was the same thing in reverse, and the only evidence that she was making progress was the air getting thinner and her body getting louder about the fact that this was not what it had trained for.

Her thighs and calves were holding up the way they always did, built for this kind of repetition even if the direction was wrong, and her core was doing its job the way it always did, steady and unconscious, the deep stability her parents had built into her before she ever knew it was a skill. But her forearms burned and her fingers ached and her shoulders were carrying two kinds of weight that weren't designed to stack, and the rail under her taped hand was so cold now that she could feel it through the adhesive.

Somewhere above her, above the clouds and above whatever came after the clouds, there was a cat sage and a garden and a bean that could put a broken person back together, and between her and all of it was this staircase that just kept going.

Tabelle pulled herself up another step and the forearm burn flared bright from wrist to elbow and she kept going because the alternative was going back down and she'd come too far for the steps to have been for nothing.

 

[Tabelle]

The rest had helped and then it had stopped helping and now she was climbing again and the difference between rested and not rested was getting smaller with every flight of stairs.

Her thighs had joined the list. They'd been reliable for so long that she'd stopped thinking about them, the way you stop thinking about the axle on a hauler that's never given you trouble, and then somewhere in the last hundred steps the burn had arrived and it wasn't the good kind, not the training kind that meant muscle was working. It was the kind that meant muscle was running out of whatever it ran on and was sending up signals that the resupply wasn't coming. Her calves were a half-step behind, tight and hot, and the thing that bothered her most was her core, because her core had always been the part of her that worked without being asked and now she could feel it, actually feel it engaging and releasing with every step, which meant it was working hard enough to announce itself, which meant it was closer to its limit than it had ever been on flat ground.

The grip tape on her right hand had started to peel at the heel of her palm where sweat and cold had gotten under the adhesive. She pressed it back down and it held for maybe twenty steps before the corner curled again and she stopped pressing it because stopping to fix it cost more energy than climbing with a bad grip. Her fingers had gone past aching into something quieter and worse, a numbness that started at the tips and crept down toward the second knuckle, and twice in the last few minutes she'd reached for the rail and not been sure she was holding it until she looked.

She was above the clouds. The staircase told her, or the window did, a narrow vertical slot in the outer wall no wider than her hand that let in a stripe of white light and a gust of air so cold it made her eyes water. Through it she could see the cloud layer below her, flat and grey and solid-looking, like a second ground. Above it the sky was a blue she didn't have a word for, deep and close and empty.

That was high. That was very, very high, and the shopkeeper's husband had quit at two-thirds, and Tabelle had no way to know where two-thirds was but the clouds were below her now and she was still climbing and that felt like it might be past it.

Her shoulders made the decision for her.

The weighted clothing sat in the lining of her jacket and pants, sewn into channels along the ribs and thighs, distributed the way her father had taught her to distribute cargo in a hauler, balanced, centered, designed to ride without shifting. On flat ground it was invisible. On a staircase that went straight up into the sky it was fifty-some pounds that turned every step into a negotiation between her legs and gravity, and for the last twenty minutes her shoulders had been losing that negotiation. The pack straps pressed the jacket's weight into the muscle above her collarbones and the pain had moved from sharp to dull to a deep hot ache that radiated down into her arms, and her arms were the things keeping her on the stairs, and they were getting worse, and the weighted clothing was the reason they were getting worse, and that was a problem she could actually do something about.

She stopped on a step and leaned against the inner wall and breathed. The stone was cold against her back and she could feel her heartbeat in her neck and in her wrists and in the arches of her feet.

You bought these to get stronger, she thought, and her hand went to the collar of her jacket where the first row of weights pressed against her skin. You spent five hundred zeni on each set because it was the smart play, the practical play, training while you traveled, getting stronger with every step you took. That was the whole point of them.

The whole point of them was flat ground and long roads and time. Not a vertical staircase in thin air with no ki to lean on and no end in sight.

The zipper came down and she found the seam where the weight channels started and pulled. The stitching resisted for a second and then gave, and the first strip of weighted fabric came out in her hand, heavy and warm from her body heat, and the relief in her left shoulder was so immediate and so complete that her breath caught.

The rest came out strip by strip, jacket first, then the pants, sitting on the step to get at the thigh channels, and each one she removed made the next breath a little deeper and the ache in her shoulders a little less like it was going to end her. The strips went into a neat pile on the step because she couldn't bring herself to just drop them, and then she sat there next to the pile and looked at it, this tidy column of weighted fabric that represented a thousand zeni and the most practical decision she'd made in her entire preparation, sitting on a step in a tower she wasn't sure had a top.

The pack went next. Water pouches and the remaining food bars went into her jacket pockets and the inner pocket at the back of her waistband, and the empty pack went on top of the weighted strips with its straps cinched down around the pile so nothing would slide off the step if there was wind she didn't know about.

When she stood up the world was different. Not lighter, because she was still exhausted and her thighs still burned and her fingers were still numb, but the weight on her shoulders was gone and the weight on her legs was gone and the next step, the first step she took after, was so much easier that she almost laughed.

Path of Whittling, she thought. Okay. Yeah. That's what that means.

The pile on the step got smaller behind her as the staircase curved and then it was out of sight and she was climbing with nothing but the clothes on her back and the food in her pockets and the grip tape peeling slowly off her hands, and the tower went up and she went with it.

 

[Tabelle]

The staircase widened without warning.

One step was the same narrow spiral she'd been climbing for hours and the next opened into a landing, a real one, a flat stone platform maybe eight feet across where the inner wall pulled back and the outer wall did the same and there was room to stand without her shoulders brushing either side. The air was still thin and cold but there was more of it here, or it felt like more, and Tabelle stopped climbing and stood in the middle of the landing and breathed and her legs shook once, hard, from heel to hip, the kind of shake that comes when a muscle that's been clenching for a long time is suddenly allowed to stop.

She sat down. Her back found the wall and her knees buckled on the way and she slid until she was sitting on the stone with her legs out in front of her and her hands in her lap, and the landing was so cold against her thighs that she could feel it through her pants.

There was a mark on the wall across from her.

Not graffiti, not exactly. A line of characters cut into the stone at about chest height, small and careful, made by something harder than a fingernail and steadier than a shaking hand. The script wasn't one she recognized. Not the angular lettering she'd seen on Saiyan trade goods in the Quartz City import shops, not the flowing vertical lines of Namekian that showed up sometimes in library books about offworld languages. Something else. Older-looking, or at least more worn, the edges of the cuts softened by time or by the same slow breathing of the stone she'd been feeling in the cold all day.

Underneath the script, in plain English, someone had scratched a single word: Enough.

Tabelle looked at it for a while. She didn't know if it meant "I've had enough" or "this is enough" or "I am enough" or something else entirely, and the person who'd carved it wasn't here to ask, and that was the kind of question that didn't have an answer you could chase down. She let it sit the way she let most things sit when they didn't resolve on the first pass, just held it and turned it over and figured she'd understand it later or she wouldn't.

Her braid had come almost entirely undone. She reached back and found the tie hanging from the last few inches and pulled it free and ran her fingers through her hair, separating the strands where sweat and friction had matted them together, and rebraided it from the base of her skull down. Her hands knew the pattern without her thinking about it, three strands crossing and recrossing, and while they worked her eyes stayed on the mark across the landing and her mind went somewhere else.

Her father had hands like hers. Same calluses, same short nails, same scar tissue across the knuckles from years of catching things that were heavier than they looked. He used to count crates by tapping them with two fingers, index and middle, a quick double-tap on the side of each one as he walked the length of the truck bed, and the sound was so specific that she could hear it now if she closed her eyes, that hollow knock of knuckle on wood repeating down the line. He'd taught her to carry things before he'd taught her almost anything else. How to lift with her legs. How to distribute weight so the load rode your hips instead of your shoulders. How to brace when the truck took a bad corner and everything shifted at once, feet wide, center low, let the weight come to you instead of chasing it.

The weighted strips sitting on a step somewhere below her had been packed the way he'd taught her to pack a hauler, balanced and centered and riding the frame instead of fighting it. She didn't follow that thought any further because following it too carefully was going to take her somewhere she didn't want to go right now, sitting on a cold stone landing with her legs shaking and the top of the tower still not visible. Instead she finished the braid and tied it off and pulled it over her shoulder and ate one of the food bars from her pocket. It tasted like compressed grain and not much else and she ate the whole thing anyway and drank half a water pouch and the water was so cold it made her teeth ache.

What would Gehn think of this tower, she thought, and the thought came out of nowhere the way thoughts did when your body was tired enough that your brain stopped organizing things and just let them arrive. He'd probably have an opinion about the ki dampening. Probably a technical one involving words she'd have to ask him to explain twice. She wondered if a Saiyan's legs burned the same way on stairs like these or if the gravity they grew up in meant this was nothing, and she wondered if that question was the kind of thing she was allowed to ask him when he came back or if it would sound strange coming from a girl he'd talked to exactly once through an old scouter.

She'd ask him. She'd probably ask him the thigh thing too, when he came back, and he'd either answer or he'd do that voice she could already hear in her memory, the careful one with the warmth underneath, and she was looking forward to finding out which.

The food bar settled in her stomach and the water was doing something useful in her chest and her legs had stopped shaking, mostly, a small tremor in her right quad that she could feel when she pressed her hand flat against it but couldn't see.

The mark on the wall said Enough and Tabelle didn't know what it meant but she knew it wasn't meant for her, because whoever had carved it had been here long before she was and had their own reasons and their own climb, and what it said to them wasn't her business. She stood up and her knees complained and her calves were tight and her forearms were still a dull low burn from wrist to elbow and none of that was new and none of it was going to stop her.

The landing ended and the staircase narrowed again and the spiral resumed and Tabelle went back into it with a finished braid and half a water pouch and the word Enough in her head next to the words Path of Whittling and she didn't try to make them fit together because they'd either fit on their own eventually or they wouldn't.