Ashwin stood on the riverbank, water lapping at his feet as he looked out over the horizon at the setting sun. The burning sky had turned the river an unearthly shade of reddish-gold, like blood on liquid metal flowing between stretches of reedy rocks and wet sand.

“That’s the reason it’s called Shona, you know,” Ruban said, walking up to stand beside the Aeriel. “The river, I mean. It’s the Kanbarian word for gold. They speak an odd mix of Vandran and Kanbarian here in Ibanta. It’s almost like a hybrid state. A bit of both, all of neither.”

“Do you speak it?” Ashwin asked, not taking his eyes off the sun almost submerged into the scarlet skyline. He looked like he was drinking it in, the timorous rays of the dying sun.

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“Kanbarian? Not a bit, no,” Ruban laughed. “I’m afraid my education has been rather parochial in scope.”

Ashwin’s lips quirked into a smile. “I used to speak it, as a child. Quite fluently, if I do say so myself.”

“And what? Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten it.”

The Aeriel chuckled. “I’ve not forgotten it, no. The Kanbarians have.”

“Eh? What’s that supposed to mean?”

Ashwin lifted an eyebrow. “Do you think the language you call Vandran today is the same tongue your forefathers spoke six centuries ago? If I were to speak it, that language would sound more alien to you than the speech of either Kanbar or Zaini.”

Ruban thought about that for a few seconds. “Huh,” he said at length, summing up succinctly his feelings on the subject of intercultural philology. “I’ve got news about the dead guy.”

“So have I,” said Ashwin, offering him a chocolate-chip cookie.