exasperated.
"You know vague the Olvar is."
"Not from experience, no."
He smiled. "Well, you'd probably find him irritating."
"Speaking of irritating..." She sighed. "It's a long journey to the next Sanctuary. I suppose I should go convince... them that it's time to leave."
If they never met again, he wanted her to know. "I'll think of you often."
Her mouth trembled. "So will I."
"If you're ever afraid—if you ever feel he has lied to you, I want you to promise me you'll leave him." When she didn't reply, Tansen urged, "Send for me. I'll come get you."
Mirabar looked uncomfortable. She compromised by saying, "If I think it's necessary, I will."
"And I, uh..."
She waited.
He said, "I'll miss you."
Her golden eyes glimmered with tears and she pressed her lips together. He filled his heart with the sight of her, then turned away, unwilling to stay and watch her leave with her husband.
In the golden glow of the setting sun, Toren Ronall crawled half-dead onto Sanctuary grounds and called for help. When no one came, he tried, with the last strength he had left, to think of the shallah word for "help."
He couldn't. Didn't even know if it was indeed different from the common Silerian word for it.
So he just kept rasping, "Help! Someone, help!"
Maybe the Sisters weren't coming because they just didn't hear him. His swollen tongue and aching throat, he now realized, barely produced any sound.
Ronall lay face down on the rocky soil. Something sharp poked him in the belly. His swollen face, his abused ribs, his back, his legs... everything hurt abominably. His left arm was broken. His bare feet were cut, bleeding, and desperately sore.
Oh, Three have mercy, just let me die. Let me die now.
He started retching again. Dry heaves. The pain had made him black out before. He hoped it would make him black out again, because enduring it was awful .
He was swimming darkly toward oblivion when he heard a woman's warm voice: "By all the Fires!"
Ronall groaned when she touched him, her hands running over him to check for injuries. His loud gasps of pain let her know every time she found another one.
"Can you stand up?" she asked at last.
"No."
"I can't carry you," she told him.
"Get help," he muttered, eyes still closed, head throbbing.
"There is no one here but me."
"Then leave... me here," he mumbled.
"I can't do that."
He gasped a moment later when her strong hands seized him by the shoulders and started trying to haul him upright.
"Ow! Ow! Ouch! Stop!"
"Then help me," she insisted.
Ronall opened his eyes and squinted at her. His first comment was probably beside the point: "You're not a Sister."
"No," said the voluptuous shallah woman whose humble clothes didn't resemble the austere gown of a Sister. "The Sister who lives here abandoned me. She's gone east."
The woman spoke shallah , but clearly and slowly enough that Ronall understood most of it.
"She's gone... to Darshon," he guessed hazily.
"Yes. Dar Called her."
He closed his eyes again and summoned what little will he possessed. "All right. I'll try to get up."
"I'll help." She slung his arm around her shoulders and, demonstrating more physical strength than he expected in a woman, hauled him to his bloody, aching feet.
He swayed dizzily. "Give me a moment."
"How did you make it here?"
Good question. "I don't really know. I just... kept moving." Even after being reduced to crawling, or just dragging himself along.
"Take a step," she instructed. "Lean on me."
The pain was nauseating, but he was too exhausted to protest, so he did what he could to assist her as she dragged him into the stone Sanctuary, bearing most of his weight herself. She was tall for a woman, particularly for a shallah woman.
Once they were inside, she hauled him over to a simple bed and helped him lie down on it. He must have passed out after that, because when he opened his eyes again, he was mostly unclothed and she was dressing his now-clean, though
"You know vague the Olvar is."
"Not from experience, no."
He smiled. "Well, you'd probably find him irritating."
"Speaking of irritating..." She sighed. "It's a long journey to the next Sanctuary. I suppose I should go convince... them that it's time to leave."
If they never met again, he wanted her to know. "I'll think of you often."
Her mouth trembled. "So will I."
"If you're ever afraid—if you ever feel he has lied to you, I want you to promise me you'll leave him." When she didn't reply, Tansen urged, "Send for me. I'll come get you."
Mirabar looked uncomfortable. She compromised by saying, "If I think it's necessary, I will."
"And I, uh..."
She waited.
He said, "I'll miss you."
Her golden eyes glimmered with tears and she pressed her lips together. He filled his heart with the sight of her, then turned away, unwilling to stay and watch her leave with her husband.
In the golden glow of the setting sun, Toren Ronall crawled half-dead onto Sanctuary grounds and called for help. When no one came, he tried, with the last strength he had left, to think of the shallah word for "help."
He couldn't. Didn't even know if it was indeed different from the common Silerian word for it.
So he just kept rasping, "Help! Someone, help!"
Maybe the Sisters weren't coming because they just didn't hear him. His swollen tongue and aching throat, he now realized, barely produced any sound.
Ronall lay face down on the rocky soil. Something sharp poked him in the belly. His swollen face, his abused ribs, his back, his legs... everything hurt abominably. His left arm was broken. His bare feet were cut, bleeding, and desperately sore.
Oh, Three have mercy, just let me die. Let me die now.
He started retching again. Dry heaves. The pain had made him black out before. He hoped it would make him black out again, because enduring it was awful .
He was swimming darkly toward oblivion when he heard a woman's warm voice: "By all the Fires!"
Ronall groaned when she touched him, her hands running over him to check for injuries. His loud gasps of pain let her know every time she found another one.
"Can you stand up?" she asked at last.
"No."
"I can't carry you," she told him.
"Get help," he muttered, eyes still closed, head throbbing.
"There is no one here but me."
"Then leave... me here," he mumbled.
"I can't do that."
He gasped a moment later when her strong hands seized him by the shoulders and started trying to haul him upright.
"Ow! Ow! Ouch! Stop!"
"Then help me," she insisted.
Ronall opened his eyes and squinted at her. His first comment was probably beside the point: "You're not a Sister."
"No," said the voluptuous shallah woman whose humble clothes didn't resemble the austere gown of a Sister. "The Sister who lives here abandoned me. She's gone east."
The woman spoke shallah , but clearly and slowly enough that Ronall understood most of it.
"She's gone... to Darshon," he guessed hazily.
"Yes. Dar Called her."
He closed his eyes again and summoned what little will he possessed. "All right. I'll try to get up."
"I'll help." She slung his arm around her shoulders and, demonstrating more physical strength than he expected in a woman, hauled him to his bloody, aching feet.
He swayed dizzily. "Give me a moment."
"How did you make it here?"
Good question. "I don't really know. I just... kept moving." Even after being reduced to crawling, or just dragging himself along.
"Take a step," she instructed. "Lean on me."
The pain was nauseating, but he was too exhausted to protest, so he did what he could to assist her as she dragged him into the stone Sanctuary, bearing most of his weight herself. She was tall for a woman, particularly for a shallah woman.
Once they were inside, she hauled him over to a simple bed and helped him lie down on it. He must have passed out after that, because when he opened his eyes again, he was mostly unclothed and she was dressing his now-clean, though
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