tray,
stood behind him and began cutting away the bandage. Her hands were not gentle.
“Who are
you?” he asked.
“My name
is Yim,” she said, “And yes, it is nearly healed. I
think you can do without a bandage now.”
Morgin looked over his
shoulder at her face. “How is Harriok?” he asked.
Her eyes darkened. “Lord
Harriok,” she corrected him, “is very ill. You were
lucky. You were not touched by the sixth claw.” She frowned for a
moment and looked at the wound on the back of his shoulder carefully. “There
is a sixth mark here.” She probed at it, but it was numb to her
touch. “But it’s long since healed, an old scar. No,
you were not touched by that claw.”
Morgin had been
touched by the sixth claw; of that he was almost certain. The sixth wound had
been open and fresh the morning after Shebasha’s attack. But all he
said now was, “Will he live?”
She shook her head. “We
don’t know. He should be dead by now.”
She lifted a cup of
steaming liquid off the tray and handed it to him. “Drink this,
and you look strong enough for food. Let me see what I can find.” She
picked up her tray. “And Lord Harriok’s father,
Jerst, will want to question you.” The girl turned and walked away
before Morgin could protest.
Jerst! Morgin
struggled to remember where he’d heard that name before. How many
times had he seen Benesh’ere in this life? His memories were all
confused with those of Morddon in the far past. But then he had it: Jerst was
warmaster of the Benesh’ere, and Morgin had insulted him and his
hot-blooded daughter Blesset shortly before the battle at Csairne Glen, and
Jerst had sworn that when next they met, he’d kill Morgin.
Morgin began fumbling
at the knot connecting the rope to the debt-ring about his neck, but as he did
so a shadow blocked the ever-bright sunlight. Blesset stood over him with her
hands on her hips. “Go ahead,” she said calmly. “Untie
the knot. Free yourself. And you’ll also free me to kill you here
and now.”
Morgin knew he could
not match the fighting prowess of a Benesh’ere warrior, male or
female. And for some reason the debt-ring stopped her from killing him, so he
carefully lowered his hands from the knot.
“At least
you’re not stupid,” she said. “It is
fortuitous the sands have chosen to put you in our hands. My only sorrow is
that you owe my brother a debt, so I cannot kill you until it’s
repaid. But that time will come, Elhiyne. Either he’ll heal, and
grant me permission to kill you, or he’ll die, and his wife will
inherit your debt and she’ll gladly allow it. Yes, that time will
come.”
Chapter 4: The Jest of a Name
The oasis was a large
strip of fertile land somewhere near the western edge of the Munjarro. Sand
still covered almost everything, but the oasis contained a large lagoon with
open water, and a great many shrubs and trees with broad-bladed leaves that
cast shadows everywhere. Hundreds of the white-faced giants moved about, with
quite a number of tents both large and small pitched among the trees.
Harriok had told
Morgin that out on the sands the tribe broke up into smaller clans and family
units. But each year, with the coming of spring, they all converged on Aelldie
and waited there until the last had arrived.
Word had spread that
Morgin was to be mistreated by everyone. Whitefaces passing by spat on him, or
kicked sand at him. As the morning
progressed the mistreatment ratcheted up a notch; they not only spat on him,
but occasionally gave him a healthy kick, though the punishment never grew to
the point of serious harm. By nightfall his body felt as if it had become one giant bruise.
As the sun set the
camp filled with the smells of cooking, and while the Benesh’ere
ate, Morgin sat alone and the torment abated. Then, for a while, many of them
congregated around several of the fires where they talked in low tones, until
one by one they retreated to their tents and the camp grew quiet. Yim brought
stood behind him and began cutting away the bandage. Her hands were not gentle.
“Who are
you?” he asked.
“My name
is Yim,” she said, “And yes, it is nearly healed. I
think you can do without a bandage now.”
Morgin looked over his
shoulder at her face. “How is Harriok?” he asked.
Her eyes darkened. “Lord
Harriok,” she corrected him, “is very ill. You were
lucky. You were not touched by the sixth claw.” She frowned for a
moment and looked at the wound on the back of his shoulder carefully. “There
is a sixth mark here.” She probed at it, but it was numb to her
touch. “But it’s long since healed, an old scar. No,
you were not touched by that claw.”
Morgin had been
touched by the sixth claw; of that he was almost certain. The sixth wound had
been open and fresh the morning after Shebasha’s attack. But all he
said now was, “Will he live?”
She shook her head. “We
don’t know. He should be dead by now.”
She lifted a cup of
steaming liquid off the tray and handed it to him. “Drink this,
and you look strong enough for food. Let me see what I can find.” She
picked up her tray. “And Lord Harriok’s father,
Jerst, will want to question you.” The girl turned and walked away
before Morgin could protest.
Jerst! Morgin
struggled to remember where he’d heard that name before. How many
times had he seen Benesh’ere in this life? His memories were all
confused with those of Morddon in the far past. But then he had it: Jerst was
warmaster of the Benesh’ere, and Morgin had insulted him and his
hot-blooded daughter Blesset shortly before the battle at Csairne Glen, and
Jerst had sworn that when next they met, he’d kill Morgin.
Morgin began fumbling
at the knot connecting the rope to the debt-ring about his neck, but as he did
so a shadow blocked the ever-bright sunlight. Blesset stood over him with her
hands on her hips. “Go ahead,” she said calmly. “Untie
the knot. Free yourself. And you’ll also free me to kill you here
and now.”
Morgin knew he could
not match the fighting prowess of a Benesh’ere warrior, male or
female. And for some reason the debt-ring stopped her from killing him, so he
carefully lowered his hands from the knot.
“At least
you’re not stupid,” she said. “It is
fortuitous the sands have chosen to put you in our hands. My only sorrow is
that you owe my brother a debt, so I cannot kill you until it’s
repaid. But that time will come, Elhiyne. Either he’ll heal, and
grant me permission to kill you, or he’ll die, and his wife will
inherit your debt and she’ll gladly allow it. Yes, that time will
come.”
Chapter 4: The Jest of a Name
The oasis was a large
strip of fertile land somewhere near the western edge of the Munjarro. Sand
still covered almost everything, but the oasis contained a large lagoon with
open water, and a great many shrubs and trees with broad-bladed leaves that
cast shadows everywhere. Hundreds of the white-faced giants moved about, with
quite a number of tents both large and small pitched among the trees.
Harriok had told
Morgin that out on the sands the tribe broke up into smaller clans and family
units. But each year, with the coming of spring, they all converged on Aelldie
and waited there until the last had arrived.
Word had spread that
Morgin was to be mistreated by everyone. Whitefaces passing by spat on him, or
kicked sand at him. As the morning
progressed the mistreatment ratcheted up a notch; they not only spat on him,
but occasionally gave him a healthy kick, though the punishment never grew to
the point of serious harm. By nightfall his body felt as if it had become one giant bruise.
As the sun set the
camp filled with the smells of cooking, and while the Benesh’ere
ate, Morgin sat alone and the torment abated. Then, for a while, many of them
congregated around several of the fires where they talked in low tones, until
one by one they retreated to their tents and the camp grew quiet. Yim brought
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