I turn and look west. The imposing Vo Mountain Range’s peaks and forest are rendered a watercolor black and violet by the twilight, and a balmy wind has whipped up from the river, Vothe’s silver-tipped, black hair tousled by it.

“You’re unlikely to change my opinion,” Vothe says. He leans against the rail, sounding a trace apologetic.

As I listen to their debate, I realize that Vothe and Min Lo must have a long history of friendship, despite their political differences.

I also know that Min Lo courts women like Vothe courts men. Out in the open. With complete acceptance here. I’ve seen her with her partner, the lovely, willowy soldier Ru Sol, on more than one occasion, once on the terrace, caught up in a passionate kiss, Min Lo’s rune-marked hand threaded through Ru Sol’s cascading black tresses. I watched them for a split second, mesmerized, feeling almost dizzy from the cultural shift. As that familiar shock sliced through me over how much better things are here in that regard, my awareness grew of how arbitrary religious rules can be. And of how much of a nightmare religious rules can become.

But there’s more than one way of manufacturing nightmares for each other.

The disturbing thought rises in me as our rune skiff soars over the river’s western bank and the line of Vu Trin stationed there, and then over the sapphire-glowing runic border. Every rune on the skiff briefly rays out blue light as we are waved through a military checkpoint and pass through the translucent dome encasing Noilaan.

I’m gripped by a sudden feeling of vulnerability to be traveling beyond Noilaan’s sheltering dome for the first time in months.

West.

Bracing myself, I glance down at the darkness of the refugee encampment that’s sprouted up on the border’s western side, the tents donated by Noi’khin sympathetic to the plight of those fleeing east, the refugees newly barred from entering. More people and tents every day.

More people than there are tents.

“There’s a Red Grippe outbreak down there,” Min Lo says to Vothe, her tone low with challenge as we fly toward the mountains. “They need care. Not to be housed in thin tents without enough healers to tend them all. I’m organizing physician and apothecary apprentices. We’re petitioning to be allowed through the border to help them.”

Vothe stays silent, his onyx brow knotted as he takes in the tents far below, the vast encampment lit only by sporadic torchlight.

“Two people were claimed by the Grippe this past week,” Min Lo continues gravely. “A mother and her eight-year-old son.”

As Vothe meets Min Lo’s gaze, I can see the intense conflict igniting in his dark eyes.