It was today. She’d thought she could avoid knowing the date; patrol was good for losing track of dates and times, and her memory was shoddy at the best of times. She scanned the ground below and ahead of them, seeing nothing but dense conifer forest, a few broad-leaved trees at the base of the mountain flaming with autumn. If she didn’t think about it—

 

Memory was the foul smell of a battlefield, making her gag. Anat, reacting to her distress, winged higher. Her muscles worked, the membrane of her wings made a snapping sound against the wind.

 

It was today.

 

The Battle of Three Rivers. Three centuries ago today.

 

There were moments when being effectively immortal seemed like an unimaginable cruelty. This was one of them.

From my latest project, tentatively titled Spindle, Shroud, Thorn