The Year of the Ransom

12 May 2937 B.C.

Tamberly woke at sunrise. The riverside was wet beneath him. Reeds rustled in a low wind, water purled and clucked. Smells of growth filled his nostrils.

His entire body hurt. Hunger clawed at him. But his head was clear, healed of the kyradex confusion and the torments that had followed. He could think again, be a man again. He climbed stiffly to his feet and stood for a span inhaling coolness.

The sky reached pale blue, empty save for a flight of crows that cawed past and disappeared. Castelar had not returned. Maybe he’d allow extra time. Seeing himself from above had perturbed him. Maybe he wouldn’t return. He could meet death, off in the future, or could decide he didn’t give a damn about the false friar.

No telling. What I can do is try to nail down that he never does find me. I can try to stay free.

Tamberly began walking. He was weak, but if he husbanded his energy, following the river, he should reach the sea. Chances were there’d be a settlement at the estuary. Humans had long since crossed over from Asia to America. They’d be primitive, but likely hospitable. With the skills he possessed, he could become important among them.

After that—Already he had an idea.