The Heart of the Sands, Book 3 of The Gods Within (6 page)

Toke stood up abruptly
and looked down at Morgin. “The
namegiver
finds it easier to just let fools lie to themselves.
Look at your name, boy. Look at your name.” Then he turned, and
continuing his one-sided conversation with the demon, he walked away.

Morgin jumped to his
feet and shouted, “But wait. What does it mean? Tell me my true
name.”

Toke ignored him and continued
walking. Standing there, Morgin watched him leave and cursed the old fellow. He
again leaned out to the limit of his leash to look at the symbol the demon had
scratched. “AethonLaw,” he whispered softly to no
one.

Why wouldn’t
the old man help him understand his true name?

Morgin couldn’t
reach the spot with his hands, but laying down and extending his legs, he
obliterated the demon’s scratchings with his feet.

Chapter 5: Brothers of the
Sands

“Yee seems older than I was first
a-thinking,” Braunye said as Rhianne ground the dried ginberry
leaves in the mortar and pestle.

Rhianne looked up from her work. Braunye’s
cheeks had filled out a little. While neither of them ate any grand fare,
Rhianne had been able to provide them with a steady, if monotonous, diet. Rhianne
had also quickly realized that if she allowed the villagers to gain even an
inkling of her true power, word would spread quickly and someone would come to
investigate. So she needed to appear to be no more than a witch of moderate
power and middle age. Out in the open countryside among small villages, such
hedge witches were not uncommon and of considerable value as simple healers.

Appearing to be of moderate power was not difficult. The
incident in which she’d defended herself against the bully in the
tavern that first night had been almost completely forgotten, and even a hedge
witch could come up with something under such circumstances. But since then she’d
been careful to avoid putting on any kind of show. She used Olivia as her
example of what not to do: no flamboyant gestures, no shimmers of power, no
speeches or grand discourses. If she needed to cast a spell she would have the
room cleared, give credit to herbal remedies and such, and claim only a limited
capability with magic, even when she did call upon her not inconsiderable
powers for healing.

Appearing older, but most importantly different, proved
more difficult. She began right away by always wearing a hooded cloak and
keeping her face well hidden. And little-by-little she’d concocted
a careful spell-casting, a glamour to give her the appearance of added years. She
knew she was considered pretty, so the glamour also dulled her features enough
that she appeared simple and plain, neither ugly nor pretty. She now wore plain
homespun clothing, with a coarse and almost abrasive weave. But most important
of all, the glamour hid the bright-green of her eyes, an unusual trait that
might have easily given her away. What Braunye saw was a simple, middle-aged
hedge witch with plain brown eyes. And anyone who recalled her youthful
appearance that first night; well, the common room had been dark and smoky, and
many of the patrons had been drunk like the bully.

To answer Braunye’s question, Rhianne said, “Perhaps
you’re just looking more closely, now that you know I’m
not going to eat you.”

Braunye giggled at that.

They’d moved out of the inn and into an
abandoned three-room hut at the edge of town. It needed a bit of repair, so to
keep the healer happy and willing to stay, the innkeeper and several men had
spent a day fixing the front door and sealing up the walls to keep the weather
out. Rhianne now had a certain amount of autonomy she’d never
before experienced. If only the sword would leave her alone, she might be
content. If only Morgin were still alive, she might have found happiness.

If only this. If only that. She couldn’t feed
her and Braunye with
ifs
. She missed the luxury
of not having to worry about the next meal. She missed putting on a beautiful
gown, tying up her hair in something elaborate, putting on makeup and looking
pretty. She thought of that night in the stables before the sword had gone
berserk. Morgin had been handsome and she’d been pretty, and she’d
kissed him brazenly. She’d thought to excite him, and while she
certainly had succeeded, the kiss had sent an electric thrill through her body.
Her thoughts had turned most unladylike at that moment, and she regretted now
that she hadn’t acted upon that impulse back then. She would never
again know the taste of his lips, but at that thought her heart swelled and
tears moistened her eyes.

She put thoughts of Morgin away, for that was the past,
and this was her present, and she didn’t yet want to think about
the future. Heal someone today to put tomorrow’s meal on the table.
That’s what her life had become.

~~~

As the camp came to
life that morning, Morgin sat
quietly and wondered about Toke and the
namegiver
and their little joke. The Benesh’ere
rekindled the cooking fires. Morgin heard pots clanging together, an argument
somewhere, then the air filled with smells that made his stomach growl.

Shortly after dawn the Yim brought him a bowl of boiled wheat. It
was bland and tasteless, but hot enough to take away the chill of the night so he ate with fervor. When finished he wiped
his mouth with a grimy piece of his sleeve, then sat in the sand savoring a
full belly, letting the sun’s rays warm him further.

Near one of the few
large tents at the center of the camp Morgin noticed a lot of whitefaces coming
and going; apparently some sort of gathering taking place. Then a small group
of people broke away and walked purposefully his way. He sat up straight and
tried to be ready for anything.

A young Benesh’ere
woman led the group. She wore an ankle length, hooded robe, not the sand
colored breeches and knee-high boots most common among the whitefaces. Yim and
two warriors followed her, so Morgin thought it best to stand respectfully as
they approached, though his leash forced him to remain in a rather undignified
crouch.

The young woman and
Yim stopped well out of his reach while the two warriors flanked her
protectively. She looked Morgin up and down curiously, without the scorn and
hatred he detected in the others, just interest. He bowed carefully. “My
lady, how may I serve you?”

Her eyes narrowed as
she studied him. She was neither pretty nor ugly, but she carried herself with
an air of rank and authority, and in her own way she was attractive. But stress
showed in the creases about her eyes. “Bring him,”
she said, and then, as an afterthought, she added, “And don’t
bind him. And treat him well.”

She spun about, and
with Yim scurrying behind her, marched back to the tent. The two warriors
untied Morgin’s leash, and he could finally stand erect. But the
warriors each gripped him by an elbow and wrist, and hustled him along at a
quick pace; and while he wasn’t bound, their grips hovered on the
edge of pain as a constant reminder he was not free to go his own way.

They led him to a long
and wide tent visibly indicative of high rank within the tribe. They hustled
him inside, and there Morgin found the young woman facing Blesset; the anger
radiating from them both chilled the atmosphere of the room.

“You
cannot do this,” Blesset said, though the steel in her eyes belied
the calmness of her voice. “I won’t allow it.”

“This is
not your household,” the young woman replied coldly. “And
since my husband has asked for him, it is not up to you to allow or disallow
anything here.”

Blesset leaned close
to the young woman. “My father—his father—will
have something to say about this.”

The young woman stood
her ground. “Nor is it up to Jerst.”

Blesset turned her
back on the young woman scornfully and walked out of the tent. The young woman
took a deep breath and let it out with a long sigh, then she turned to the two
guards holding Morgin and snapped, “The two of you: out. Leave him
and get out.” To Yim she said, “And you too.”

Yim jumped like a
startled rabbit and shot out through the tent flap. The two guards released
Morgin and exited hastily behind her.

The young woman waited
until she and Morgin were alone, then demanded in a soft whisper, “Did
you give my husband Harriok water?”

Morgin shrugged. “He
was dying. I had to.”

She closed her eyes,
as if his answer saddened her. “My husband is conscious now, and
he recalls the cat’s attack, and the location, and we found you
several leagues from there. And he was in no shape to walk. Did you carry him?”

Morgin shrugged. “I
dragged him.” He explained how he’d constructed a
litter from the remains of their tent and dragged the unconscious Harriok
behind him.

She opened her eyes. “My
name is Branaugh,” she said, then she stepped aside, pulled back a
curtain and indicated that Morgin should step through. “My husband
has asked for you.”

Morgin stepped
carefully into the next room and the smell of sickness immediately assaulted
his nose. Harriok lay on the floor in a pile of pillows, wrapped tightly in
blankets. Morgin crossed the room and sat down beside him, noticed his skin had
the sheen of a man deathly ill. For the moment his eyes were closed, his
breathing ragged and unsteady.

Branaugh sat down
opposite Morgin. “He’s not sleeping, not at this
moment.”

She reached out,
touched his cheek tenderly. “The Elhiyne is here, as you
requested.”

Harriok swallowed with
considerable effort, then opened his eyes and looked at Morgin. He smiled,
though his eyes were distant. He tried to lift his hand, managed to raise it
only the span of a finger above his chest. Morgin reached out and took it while
Harriok struggled to speak. “I dreamt about you. I wanted water so
badly, and you gave it to me.”

Morgin smiled. “But
you gave me water too.”

Harriok smiled, tried
to laugh, managed only to cough. “Yes . . . I did. That
makes us brothers of the sand.” He coughed again, then shivered. “I’m
so cold,” he said, and his body shook with spasms.

Branaugh eased herself
into the bed beside him and wrapped her arms around him to lend him heat. On
impulse, Morgin climbed into the bed on the other side of Harriok, and wrapped
his arms about them both. Quietly, Branaugh mouthed the words,
Thank you.

It was some time
before Harriok’s spasms ended, and by then he’d
drifted off into a restless sleep. Morgin pulled himself out of the blankets,
then helped Branaugh do likewise. “Thank you,” she
said.

She was about to say
more when they heard a man call out, “Branaugh, we beg entrance to
your tent.”

Morgin followed her as
she stepped into the outer chamber of the pavilion. “You are
welcome, Jerst.”

Jerst stepped through
the tent flap, followed by Blesset, Yim and the two warriors. Blesset pointed
at Morgin and said, “Seize him.”

Morgin didn’t
resist as the two warriors crossed the room with the lightning speed of the
Benesh’ere, and once again locked his arms painfully behind his
back. Yim gave him a smug, scornful smile.

Jerst looked at
Morgin, and Morgin was surprised that he didn’t see the
undisguised hate he saw in Blesset’s eyes, though there remained
plenty of anger to make up for it.

Branaugh kept her
voice calm. “This is my household, and you’ll not
give me orders here.”

Jerst said, “I
would never attempt to.”

Blesset tried to step
around him, but he gripped her arm tightly and forced her to remain behind him.

Branaugh said. “This
debtor is my responsibility, and you’ll not touch him without my permission,
or that of my husband.”

Jerst looked at
Blesset pointedly, angrily, then released his grip on her arm; she didn’t
move. He turned to Branaugh and said, “He insulted us. All of us.”

Branaugh nodded. “Aye,
and he gave my husband water.”

With those words an
odd thing happened: a subtle change fell over the entire room. The two warriors
spontaneously relaxed their grips, though they didn’t let go
completely, but any hint of pain disappeared. The scorn disappeared from Yim’s
face.

Jerst didn’t
react at all, while Blesset frowned and seemed a little less certain of
herself. She said to Branaugh, “This is not yet finished, woman.”
And with that she turned and calmly walked out of the tent.

Morgin thought it interesting
that Branaugh hadn’t told them how he’d dragged
Harriok through the sand for some unknown number of days. He decided to follow her lead and keep that to
himself.

Jerst watched Blesset
leave, stood there staring at the tent flap as it flopped back into place, then
turned slowly to the two warriors holding Morgin. “Bring him,”
he snapped, then spun about and followed Blesset out of the tent.

Apparently, not even
Branaugh would attempt to countermand the warmaster. Morgin knew it would be
futile to resist as the two warriors locked his arms painfully behind his back.
Clearly, with Jerst snapping orders at them, neither of them cared that Morgin
had given Harriok water as they hustled him out of the tent and into the light
of day. His feet barely touched the sand as they propelled him in Jerst’s
wake, his shoulders protesting the harsh treatment.

Jerst led them to a
pavilion even larger than Harriok’s, halted in front of it and
called out, “It’s me, Jerst, and I bring the Elhiyne.”

The voice that
answered him crackled with age, “Come in, old friend.”

Jerst lifted the tent
flap and held it for the two warriors. They threw Morgin through the opening
and he landed on his face on a thick carpet. He heard Jerst order the two
warriors to, “Wait out here.” Moments later the
interior of the tent darkened as the flap blocked the morning light.

The crackly old voice
said, “He doesn’t look like much.”

Morgin moved slowly
and got to his hands and knees, not sure how much abuse he’d have
to take.

“No,”
Jerst said, “but we both learned long ago not to judge a man by
his skin. And maybe some fools shouldn’t be judged by their
hot-tempered words.”

Morgin looked up at
the possessor of the crackly old voice, an ancient Benesh’ere
seated on a heavy, wooden chair, smaller than a throne, but still very
throne-like. His hair had gone completely
white, framing a face almost as wrinkled as Olivia’s. An
older woman stood on his right,
hovering over him protectively. Beside him
lay a crutch and a long walking stick. And Toke stood in the shadows far
to one side, as if in hiding, though certainly no one could miss him.

The ancient, old man said,
“A valuable lesson that. I wonder if it’s one he’s
yet learned.”