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419 pages, Paperback
First published August 26, 2003
And in a single, elegant movement of thought, so graceful it astonished Rowan herself, the steerswoman created in her mind both the largest map she had ever conceived and the smallest, simultaneously.
The largest was of the world itself, whose shape and size she knew from the secret and intimate interplay of mathematics, but which she now seemed to see whole, all open sweep beyond all horizons, curving to meet itself at the other side, complete, entire--and huge, so huge.
The smallest map was, to scale, that part of the world known by humankind.
The smallest map was crowded; the greatest, nearly empty.
And there, just outside the smaller map, the steerswoman with casual precision marked her own position, as if with a bright, silver needle; and she saw and felt the greater map rock, turn, orient, descend (or ascend, she could not tell which), approaching, adjusting, and finally matching, point for point those distant cliffs, those nearer hills, this shoreline, this rock-strewn beach, the spray-splashed boulder on which Rowan stood, wet to the knees, arms thrown wide, head tilted back, breathing salt-tang air, and laughing for wonder.
See, one by one, none of them's smart as a Steerswoman; but if you put them all together, then the really stupid ideas sort of fall out the bottom, and the ideas that make sense sort of clump in the middle where everyone can look at ’em. So, the wrong thing would have to look like the right thing to most of the people doing the looking, and it can’t, because it’s the wrong thing. So, they wouldn’t. Run you out of town. Unless more things happened to make the wrong thing look right. To most of the people. Or if the people with the stupid ideas made a lot of noise and kept putting the stupid ideas back at the top, ’cause it takes a while for them to fall out the bottom— it doesn’t happen straight off,
She was sorry, and frightened at herself. She was used to danger, and she thought she’d seen it
The world is as it is, Rowan, and there are three ways to exist gladly in it: You can be ignorant, knowing nothing of its nature; you can be stupid, and know of it but never truly understand; . . . or you can be brave.