that.
She stopped in a small outpost named Cassel. Nothing but a few mud huts. She stopped there by a well and watered her yithhe .
Two Garran men stood there, watering their own yithhe . She nodded at them. One, a tall, dark man just a few years her senior observed her ooluk with interest.
“Are you Shaheak ?” asked the man. Unlike some Garrans she’d met on the road, this man was clean-shaven. He wore a tailored vest and a wool cloak that looked finer than the average Garran would have. Around his neck he wore an amulet that could be meant to show status--perhaps a chief’s son.
Asta stared blankly at him and then realized that he had seen her priest sword, mistaking her for one of the order. “I’m Te'jaste,” she said.
He shook his head. “Your ooluk ,” he nodded at the sword that hung at her side. “It is a god-sword. A Borrai weapon.”
The other man looked over at her, glancing at the sword. This man seemed to be a companion of the first, though older and more worn-looking.
She stared at him, not sure what to say. It was a priest-sword, she knew that much. Is a god-sword the same thing? Would the man know it had belonged to the priest? She hadn’t thought that anyone would recognize it. She shifted uncomfortably.
“Let me introduce myself,” said the Garran man, with unusually good manners. “I am Molot of the Greystone Clan. Where do you come from, Te'jaste?”
Her heart pounding, Asta hesitated. For a moment her mind blanked. Her thoughts raced, she mustn't falter like this! “I’m of the Shing River Clan,” she said, perhaps a little too quickly as she remembered the name. Inwardly, she cursed herself.
“The Shing River Clan?” said Molot. “It is far from here.”
“Yes,” was all that Asta could think of to say.
“May I have the privilege of looking at your ooluk ?
Now Asta hesitated even longer. She didn’t want to show him the sword. She wished she had never taken it. She wanted this conversation to end. Nonetheless, Molot’s manners were impeccable. He didn’t seem like a Garran rebel, more like a trader or the son of a rich clansman.
Reluctantly, Asta drew the blade from its scabbard. Asta heard a slight metallic ringing as she did so. In the light, she saw a series of ancient runes on the side of the blade--like nothing she had ever seen of the Garran writing system. She should have sent it on to the museum, but the blade was too fine not to be used.
She handed the blade over to the man. He studied it for a moment
“Yes,” said Molot pensively. “The blade is named Jir’cata. It is a god-sword. You have wielded it?” He stared at her closely, waiting for her answer.
“Yes,” she said. From the look he gave her, it’s like he expected the blade was haunted or something. Molot and his friend exchanged a glance.
Suddenly finding her bravery, Asta asked “You can read it?”
Molot studied the blade a moment. “Only a little,” he said. “I know only a little of the ancient language of the Borrai. Where did you get such a sword?”
Now Asta felt urgent to leave. This conversation had already gone on too long. She held out her hand for the ooluk . Molot handed it back during the uncomfortable silence.
Molot smiled then, unexpectedly. “Where are you going?”
Asta wanted to lie, not sure which way this man was going. “To Wanthe.”
“Ah,” smiled Molot. “As are we,” he said with delight. “We should travel together. You are young and the desert is a wild place--even for a girl who carries the ooluk Jir’cata.”
She stared at Molot, slipping the blade back into its scabbard. There was something about the ooluk --not just its sharpness or lightness in her hands, nor the beautiful workmanship. Holding it felt right. In her hands, it almost felt alive.
But that was nonsense.
Asta nodded at last. “Very well,” she said. Perhaps it would help to have a friend on this trip to Wanthe. Maybe Molot was influential. That could come in handy. And
She stopped in a small outpost named Cassel. Nothing but a few mud huts. She stopped there by a well and watered her yithhe .
Two Garran men stood there, watering their own yithhe . She nodded at them. One, a tall, dark man just a few years her senior observed her ooluk with interest.
“Are you Shaheak ?” asked the man. Unlike some Garrans she’d met on the road, this man was clean-shaven. He wore a tailored vest and a wool cloak that looked finer than the average Garran would have. Around his neck he wore an amulet that could be meant to show status--perhaps a chief’s son.
Asta stared blankly at him and then realized that he had seen her priest sword, mistaking her for one of the order. “I’m Te'jaste,” she said.
He shook his head. “Your ooluk ,” he nodded at the sword that hung at her side. “It is a god-sword. A Borrai weapon.”
The other man looked over at her, glancing at the sword. This man seemed to be a companion of the first, though older and more worn-looking.
She stared at him, not sure what to say. It was a priest-sword, she knew that much. Is a god-sword the same thing? Would the man know it had belonged to the priest? She hadn’t thought that anyone would recognize it. She shifted uncomfortably.
“Let me introduce myself,” said the Garran man, with unusually good manners. “I am Molot of the Greystone Clan. Where do you come from, Te'jaste?”
Her heart pounding, Asta hesitated. For a moment her mind blanked. Her thoughts raced, she mustn't falter like this! “I’m of the Shing River Clan,” she said, perhaps a little too quickly as she remembered the name. Inwardly, she cursed herself.
“The Shing River Clan?” said Molot. “It is far from here.”
“Yes,” was all that Asta could think of to say.
“May I have the privilege of looking at your ooluk ?
Now Asta hesitated even longer. She didn’t want to show him the sword. She wished she had never taken it. She wanted this conversation to end. Nonetheless, Molot’s manners were impeccable. He didn’t seem like a Garran rebel, more like a trader or the son of a rich clansman.
Reluctantly, Asta drew the blade from its scabbard. Asta heard a slight metallic ringing as she did so. In the light, she saw a series of ancient runes on the side of the blade--like nothing she had ever seen of the Garran writing system. She should have sent it on to the museum, but the blade was too fine not to be used.
She handed the blade over to the man. He studied it for a moment
“Yes,” said Molot pensively. “The blade is named Jir’cata. It is a god-sword. You have wielded it?” He stared at her closely, waiting for her answer.
“Yes,” she said. From the look he gave her, it’s like he expected the blade was haunted or something. Molot and his friend exchanged a glance.
Suddenly finding her bravery, Asta asked “You can read it?”
Molot studied the blade a moment. “Only a little,” he said. “I know only a little of the ancient language of the Borrai. Where did you get such a sword?”
Now Asta felt urgent to leave. This conversation had already gone on too long. She held out her hand for the ooluk . Molot handed it back during the uncomfortable silence.
Molot smiled then, unexpectedly. “Where are you going?”
Asta wanted to lie, not sure which way this man was going. “To Wanthe.”
“Ah,” smiled Molot. “As are we,” he said with delight. “We should travel together. You are young and the desert is a wild place--even for a girl who carries the ooluk Jir’cata.”
She stared at Molot, slipping the blade back into its scabbard. There was something about the ooluk --not just its sharpness or lightness in her hands, nor the beautiful workmanship. Holding it felt right. In her hands, it almost felt alive.
But that was nonsense.
Asta nodded at last. “Very well,” she said. Perhaps it would help to have a friend on this trip to Wanthe. Maybe Molot was influential. That could come in handy. And
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