Chapter 962
Grace added: "They will part. Let us through. We have walked their markers. They know we carry memory."
The wives exchanged quiet glances, fear and expectancy trembling beside trust.
That night, everyone slept near the glyph-well, drawn close by its faint glow and slow pulse. Jude and Grace lay close; he held her hand until dawn.
Morning found them ready with bundles and supplies. Each wife took a flute or drum or small whistle to sing on the walk. Each wore a ribbon tied through hair. Even the children watched from behind sari-draped shoulders, wide-eyed.
They stepped through the orchard’s west–border, where mist had grown thick over night. At first the watchers receded. Then parted. Path cleared before them.
Beyond the boundary the world changed, air cooler, stone beneath boots harder, sky clearest yet. They moved as one, walking in a circle around each other, voice–pulse steady behind them. Occasional footsteps from watchers followed for brief moments, then stopped.
After half an hour they reached what Layla had marked: a flat high plain at the mountain’s foot. There, moss tables stretched with scattered stone pillars, all broken and weathered, some twisted into spirals so steep it was hard to imagine how they’d stood.
They gathered among the pillars, each wife choosing one that spoke to her, perhaps carved by human hands, perhaps watcher- or island-formed. They approached together. Each placed their palm to stone; when they did, it shone white hot, then faded. A collective pulse traveled through the ground. A watcher rose nearby, kneeling at the pillar’s base. Its eyes glowed.
Jude whispered: "They honor us."