It was not, objectively speaking, a dangerous bridge. I could see that. It was well made with thick rope and solid planking, anchored to stone posts on both sides that looked like they had been there for a century and intended to be there for several more. It spanned a gorge that was, if I was being honest about it, notcatastrophicallydeep. The river at the bottom was a thinblue thread, sparkling in the morning light, pleasant from up here.
Up herebeing the operative problem.
“ I don’t like this.”
Guruk came to stand beside me. “I can see that, my little human, but we must cross here.”
I sucked in a breath. “Yup, right. Got it.”
I did not move.
Berry, from Guruk’s shoulder, looked at me, then at the bridge, and then back at me. A wave of comfort hit me as they reached down to place a tiny paw on my head.
“Thank you,” I whispered, trying my hardest not to freak out.
“Sammy,” Guruk started cautiously as if speaking with a cornered animal. “Have you crossed many bridges?”
“Tons,” I said with false confidence. “All the time. I'm a big bridge person.”
He hummed, his voice dripping with doubt.
“Yup,” I inhaled and exhaled, inhaled and exhaled. “I love bridges. Heights are the best.”
“Of course.” He held my elbow.
“Let's go,” I said, shaking off his hand and walking forward before my nervous system could file an objection.
I madeit four steps onto the bridge before my hand found the rope railing with a grip that was, in retrospect, not the grip of someone who loved bridges.
Not that high. Absolutely not that high. I kept my feet moving. A river wind would definitely not come up from below and shake the whole structure, so that it would do a thing that bridges should not do, which was move, anywhere close to the ground.
I looked straight ahead. Bile rose in my throat, but I refused to let it free. The far side of the bridge to safe, beautiful ground was perhaps forty steps away. Maybe thirty. That was nothing. Nothing at all.
The bridge swayed, oh so gently, in a gust.
“Totally not going to plunge to my death,” I said aloud.
“Tell me about the market,” Guruk said, from directly behind me.
I blinked. “What?”
“The market. The ember bread.” His voice was even, conversational, as though we were walking through the village square. “You said you would consider restructuring the journey to get more of it. What would that look like?”
I took a step. “I…,” my stomach plunged to my toes, but I kept my focus on Guruk’s question, “the detour would probably add two days minimum.”
“And would it be worth two days?”
Another step. The planking was solid under my feet. “The herb paste alone might justify one day. The bread itself, maybe one and a half.”
“So the full two is debatable.”
“The full two is a stretch,” I conceded, taking three more steps without thinking about them. “But if there were other things in the market I hadn’t gotten to yet,” I thought on it more, “I didn't finish the northern stalls.”
“What would you have looked for in the northern stalls?”
“Information, mostly. Different travelers come from the north. The sightings could,” I stopped. Not because of the bridge. Because Guruk’s hand had come to rest between my shoulder blades, warm and steady, and I had just realized I was halfway across.
I stared ahead. Twenty steps to the far side.
