learning to abide by his oath to Ilarra and made the mistake of speaking publicly. “Your friends are alive and well. I take offense that you think we would harm them without reason. Given your unwillingness to even attempt to be pleasant, I believe I have made a mistake in trying to find any hint of civilization in you. You are no better than the other wildlings we find from time to time. Rest and we will see if your temperament improves.”
Yiral got up from her chair and went out the door of the small hut, letting in a burst of bitterly cold air before she shut it again. Raeln heard a lock close on the outside of the door, letting him know exactly what his options were, given the tiny windows of the hut. Unless he went through the door, he was going nowhere. He would need to regain much of his strength before he could bash through it. Doing so would be far from subtle and likely draw the attention of every Turessian in the area.
Raeln got to his feet slowly, keeping a hand at his side to be sure to know if it started bleeding again. Limping around the cramped quarters, he found basic amenities, such as a chamber pot, a bowl of water, and an old brush. There was nothing that would serve as a decent weapon or allow him to break out of the hut’s thick clay walls. The walls themselves appeared soft enough that he doubted he could crack them, no matter how hard he hit them, yet firm enough that he would likely wear down his claws long before digging through. That left him staring at the door again.
Sitting back down on the cot, Raeln put his head in his hands and wondered if he was to blame for the enslavement of his friends. Whether he was responsible or not, he had to find a way to free them, or he would never forgive himself.
As he thought on how to get his friends out of danger, he began coughing in the chill air of the hut, covering his mouth in the process. When he pulled his hand away, it was covered with blood. Escaping was not going to be easy. He would need to go along with the efforts of the Turessians to heal him, no matter the risk. Doing anything else would likely wind up with him dead before he got within sight of the others.
*
A little after the next dawn, Raeln woke from his meditation as the lock on the door snapped open. He blinked away the drowsiness that came with the light sleep he had put himself into, managing to compose himself and present the look of one who had been awake all along by the time the door swung open, revealing Yiral. He could see others, but Yiral closed the door quickly as she stepped inside and lowered her hood. Raeln had not noticed during her last visit that more tattoos ran across the shaved portions of her scalp and back over her ears. If it had some meaning, he had no idea what.
“I had wished…” she began, before looking down at the floor, where Raeln had discarded his shirt before resting. “I apologize. I always forget southern barbarians do not expect their clanmates to walk in at any time. Do you wish to cover your body? I do not know what your people’s modesty requires.”
Raeln made no effort to budge. If anything, he found himself straightening up to make sure that she had to see him clearly. “I’m fine. What did you want?”
Frowning, Yiral made a point of not looking at him. It was not the nervousness of someone who was offended morally, but Raeln thought she seemed uncomfortable with the very idea of him having his shirt off. Thinking back on what he had seen and heard about Turessians shunning “prideful” displays of themselves, he guessed she found the act of removing his shirt to be distasteful. All the more reason to leave it off.
“I have spoken to the other preservers,” she explained, looking anywhere but at him. “They reminded me that there have been a few other foreigners who claimed education, likely out of a hope of avoiding slavery entirely. You have admitted that you are no spellcaster, so we do not need to concern
Yiral got up from her chair and went out the door of the small hut, letting in a burst of bitterly cold air before she shut it again. Raeln heard a lock close on the outside of the door, letting him know exactly what his options were, given the tiny windows of the hut. Unless he went through the door, he was going nowhere. He would need to regain much of his strength before he could bash through it. Doing so would be far from subtle and likely draw the attention of every Turessian in the area.
Raeln got to his feet slowly, keeping a hand at his side to be sure to know if it started bleeding again. Limping around the cramped quarters, he found basic amenities, such as a chamber pot, a bowl of water, and an old brush. There was nothing that would serve as a decent weapon or allow him to break out of the hut’s thick clay walls. The walls themselves appeared soft enough that he doubted he could crack them, no matter how hard he hit them, yet firm enough that he would likely wear down his claws long before digging through. That left him staring at the door again.
Sitting back down on the cot, Raeln put his head in his hands and wondered if he was to blame for the enslavement of his friends. Whether he was responsible or not, he had to find a way to free them, or he would never forgive himself.
As he thought on how to get his friends out of danger, he began coughing in the chill air of the hut, covering his mouth in the process. When he pulled his hand away, it was covered with blood. Escaping was not going to be easy. He would need to go along with the efforts of the Turessians to heal him, no matter the risk. Doing anything else would likely wind up with him dead before he got within sight of the others.
*
A little after the next dawn, Raeln woke from his meditation as the lock on the door snapped open. He blinked away the drowsiness that came with the light sleep he had put himself into, managing to compose himself and present the look of one who had been awake all along by the time the door swung open, revealing Yiral. He could see others, but Yiral closed the door quickly as she stepped inside and lowered her hood. Raeln had not noticed during her last visit that more tattoos ran across the shaved portions of her scalp and back over her ears. If it had some meaning, he had no idea what.
“I had wished…” she began, before looking down at the floor, where Raeln had discarded his shirt before resting. “I apologize. I always forget southern barbarians do not expect their clanmates to walk in at any time. Do you wish to cover your body? I do not know what your people’s modesty requires.”
Raeln made no effort to budge. If anything, he found himself straightening up to make sure that she had to see him clearly. “I’m fine. What did you want?”
Frowning, Yiral made a point of not looking at him. It was not the nervousness of someone who was offended morally, but Raeln thought she seemed uncomfortable with the very idea of him having his shirt off. Thinking back on what he had seen and heard about Turessians shunning “prideful” displays of themselves, he guessed she found the act of removing his shirt to be distasteful. All the more reason to leave it off.
“I have spoken to the other preservers,” she explained, looking anywhere but at him. “They reminded me that there have been a few other foreigners who claimed education, likely out of a hope of avoiding slavery entirely. You have admitted that you are no spellcaster, so we do not need to concern
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