Eventually they came to the shores of a vast lake. It seemed incongruous, out here on the plains, but Tirielle could not deny her eyes. She leapt from the wagon in delight and ran to its muddy shores, throwing herself to her knees and taking handfuls of clear water to splash her face. The coolness after so long in the heat was wonderful.
Quintal smiled at the sight. It was a pleasure to see Tirielle’s face free of worry after so long. He wished he had not had to burden her so.
“We shall rest. We’ll stock our provisions with fresh water and fish,” said Quintal to the assembled party. “And we are all long overdue a bath.”
The mood was lightened instantly. The Sard removed their glimmering armour and strode into the water. Dow was setting in the distance, its glow lighting the surface of the lake with red fire. Trees were murmuring gently as a soft breeze rose. It was, thought Quintal with pleasure, about time they had some respite from their travels.
They splashed in the water, and laughed with rare joy.
Only Tirielle could not leave her cares behind. For a fleeting moment, the lake made Tirielle sad. Encased bodies of water always made her sad. In her history books she remembered reading the fable of the Moranders, who thought the lakes were prisons, and that the seas were salty with all the tears shed for their imprisoned parts. The Moranders, a peninsular tribe, had dug huge canals and tried to coax the lakes back to the seas, but like a caged bird forgets how to fly free from an opened cage, the lakes refused to leave…
Her joy at finding the lake was tainted by the thought. She tried to smile as they made camp and dried out, but, she thought wryly, troubles live in the mind. They are not so easily left behind. She smiled wider, and after a while, took another bath. Perhaps she could wash her cares away. They would drift into the water. The lake seemed large enough to bear it.