The Heart of the Sands, Book 3 of The Gods Within by J. L. Doty Page B

Now
end it.”
    Still holding his tied
wrists out, Val said, “I do hope you can mend the situation with
Jerst.”
    Morgin watched the two
warriors lead Val off toward the center of camp. Rhianne had died because of
him, and it appeared that Val would soon die because of him as well.
    Morgin lay down on the
sand and pulled his blanket tightly about his shoulders. He’d
learned that nights on the desert took on a decided chill, though this night it was the chill in his heart that kept him
awake.
    ~~~
    Brandon stood on the parapets of Elhiyne and watched
Olivia and her retinue approach the castle. Morgin dead! Rhianne dead! Olivia
had sent riders ahead with the news, which by now had spread throughout the
valley.
    Standing beside him, NickoLot said, “I don’t
believe he’s dead. He can’t be dead.”
    Brandon turned and looked at her carefully. In her late
teens, of marriageable age, she was still a tiny thing, stood barely chest high
to Brandon; and rail thin, she was light as a feather. But she’d
gone to wierding after Valso and his Kulls had occupied Elhiyne and the
Tulalane had tried to rape her. She’d taken to wearing only black,
and always obscured the features of her face in the shadows of a dark veil. It
was a lovely face, almost childish—until one looked deeply into
her eyes, and there, one might glimpse the power within her soul, a frightening
thing at best. In the last two years she had grown from a middling witch, to
one of the most powerful in the clan, rivaling even AnnaRail and Olivia in that
respect.
    Brandon asked. “What about Rhianne?”
    She didn’t move; just stood there staring out
at the train of horses and carts and carriages. “No, nor her. They
can’t be dead.”
    “But grandmother wrote that, even with
AnnaRail’s help, she can find no trace of their souls in mortal
life.”
    She didn’t answer him, but stood there
silently staring out over the distant fields.
    “Nicki, answer me, please.”
    She turned to look at him, and beneath the veil he caught
a glimpse of her eyes and had to look away. “I don’t
care what grandmother thinks. I don’t believe they’re
dead.” She turned away from him and began walking.
    “Nicki, wait. Please.”
    She stopped and turned to face him.
    As much as Morgin and Rhianne’s deaths hurt
them all, he feared Nicki would harm herself further by living in denial. “I’m
sorry, but they are dead. You have to accept it.”
    She stared at him for the longest moment, didn’t
acknowledge his words in any way. Then she turned and walked away.
    ~~~
    Morgin opened his
eyes slowly, but lay there without moving, for something arcane had awakened
him. The sun had yet to rise, but a hint of light in the sky told him dawn waited just over the horizon. He sensed
netherlife hovering close at hand. He closed his eyes again, listened to the
stillness about him, heard the sound of someone shifting his weight nearby.
    Morgin rolled over
quickly, fearing one of the whitefaces had decided to give him a kick. He rose
into a crouch, ready to defend himself, found one of them sitting with his legs
crossed a few paces away, staring silently at him.
    Like most Benesh’ere
men and women, the fellow wore loose-fitting, sand-colored breeches made of a
coarse cloth and tucked into knee-high or calf-length boots. He also wore a
knee-length robe made of the same material, gathered at the waist with a belt
of intricately woven cord and strips of leather, a hood thrown over his head,
formed into that triangular tent-like affair by the broad brimmed hat made of
woven straw.
    The fellow threw the
hood back, then removed the hat and laid it to one side in the sand; now Morgin
could see that he was quite old. His hair had long since turned a white to
match that of his skin, and while the top of his head was bald and shiny, a
thick mane of it still grew out of the sides and back of his head to cascade
down over his shoulders. His face remained expressionless, his eyes