The Heart of the Sands, Book 3 of The Gods Within (7 page)

Still on his hands and
knees, Morgin desperately tried to recall everything he’d learned
about the Benesh’ere. Their leader, Angerah, ruler of the Black
Council, was reputed to be quite aged, and to have been partially crippled by a
Kull saber thrust to his back years ago. His wife, named Merella, was a
little younger. For once, Morgin was
thankful for the lessons Olivia had drummed into him.

Morgin rose slowly to
his feet and spoke softly, “There are many lessons I have yet to
learn.”

The old man smiled,
though not a pleasant smile. “Somewhere along the line he’s
learned humility.”

Jerst stepped around
to stand beside the old man. “Ya. It’s a shame he
didn’t learn it long before this.”

The old man stared at
Morgin for several heartbeats, then said, “I can override Harriok,
remove the debt collar. The council will back me on that.”

The woman frowned,
clearly not liking that idea.

Jerst considered that
for a moment, then he shook his head and said, “No, Blesset would
just kill him.”

Jerst had said that as
if simply disappointed Morgin would be killed, not as if disappointed Blesset
would kill him before Jerst would have the chance to do so himself.

The old man said, “You’re
still going to have to kill him.”

Jerst sighed tiredly
and said, “I know, no way around it.” Again, that
disappointment.

He looked at Morgin
and said, “You can go.”

Morgin started to
turn, but Merella said, “Wait.
I’m not done with him yet.”

“Fine,”
Jerst said, walking past Morgin to the pavilion’s entrance. “We’re
only hours from marching out onto the sands, and I have too much to do. Send
him back to Branaugh when you’re done with him.”

Morgin kept his eyes
on the old man and woman in front of him, didn’t turn to follow
Jerst as he left the tent. The tent brightened again as Jerst threw back the
tent flap, then darkened as he dropped it.

The woman said, “Come closer.”

The room was about four paces wide, so Morgin took two
steps and stopped in the center. He glanced at Toke briefly, and Merella’s
eyes narrowed, as if looking the old man’s way had been oddly
significant.

Morgin bowed, as he’d been taught to do so
before any clan leader, though he did so without any flourish. He had the
feeling such embellishments were not the Benesh’ere way.

“I am Merella, and this is Angerah”
the woman said, confirming Morgin’s deductions.

Morgin said, “I know who you are, if only by
reputation.”

Toke said, “I told you he’s not
stupid. Foolish, yes, stupid, no.”

Morgin glanced Toke’s way, and followed the
old man with his eyes as he crossed the room to stand next to Angerah.

Merella turned to Toke, though oddly she didn’t
look directly at him. “I see that you were right,”
she said to the old fellow.

Toke laughed and said, “And yet he still sees
nothing.”

Merella nodded and considered Toke’s words
carefully for several heartbeats. Then she looked at Morgin, clearly appraising
him. “But he must pass the final test.”

Morgin’s curiosity would not allow him to be
silent. “What test is that?”

Toke grinned. “The test that is Jerst.”

Merella said, “You may go. Report back to
Branaugh.”

Morgin stepped out of Angerah’s tent,
wondering what that had been about. If nothing more, that little encounter told
him he would never understand these strange whitefaces.

~~~

You shouldn’t avoid
me, you know.

DaNoel grimaced at the sound of Valso’s voice
in his head. To enter another’s mind from such a distance required
unprecedented power, and it frightened DaNoel that Valso did so with such
casual indifference, though he would not let the Decouix see his fear. Luckily,
he was alone in his room in the southwest tower, or someone might have seen him
flinch. He put down the boot he’d been about to pull on, leaned
back in his chair and closed his eyes to concentrate on the Decouix.
I’m not ignoring you
, he thought.
Our business is done. We have no further need of each other.

We don’t? And here I
thought we had become such good friends.

Friends—never. We
share a mutual dislike of the whoreson, nothing more.

But we also share a mutual desire
to see him ruined in the most devastating manner.

He is ruined, disgraced, dead.

Really?

You told me he baked his brains out
in that oven of sand. Everyone knows he’s dead, along with that
slut wife of his.

In his mind’s eye DaNoel pictured Valso considering
his words carefully.
All I told you was that it is
likely he died out on the Munjarro. Don’t you find it interesting that
no one actually witnessed his demise or saw his body? He merely disappeared. Convenient,
is it not? And just when everyone thinks him long dead and gone, he has the
most amazing ability to prove them wrong. He’s done it time and
again. Might he do so once more?

What are you saying, that he’s
alive?

Valso laughed. How he managed to do so in his thoughts,
DaNoel could not fathom.
You do fear your brother, don’t
you?

He’s not my brother. He’s
the son of some whore. And it seems to me you fear him more than I.

Valso’s anger flared so strongly it seemed to
burn a hole in DaNoel’s soul. DaNoel cried out as every muscle in
his body spasmed, and he understood then that the Decouix could feed him
limitless torment through their connection. Valso held him like that for an
eternity of a heartbeat, then released him. DaNoel whimpered with relief,
tasted blood on his tongue and sat in his chair gasping for air as the pain
receded.

Elhiyne, you should exercise more
caution in your insults.

With that, the Decouix disappeared from his thoughts,
leaving him alone with the knowledge that Valso owned a piece of him. He sat
there for a moment, his eyes still closed, breathing heavily, wondering how he
might escape this trap. Only when the pain was truly gone did he open his eyes.

NickoLot stood over him; her fists on her hips, her elbows
flared out, staring at him angrily, knowingly. She demanded, “What
is it you’ve allowed into our home?”

Even in the full blossom of womanhood, she was a tiny
thing. And he thought then that he could crush her, that he could strike her
down and be rid of her and her accusations. With that thought he stood, raised
his hand to do so, and in response, she merely drew power. But it was not the
amateurish summons of some child; she called forth far more power than DaNoel
thought possible, power on a level with that of Olivia or AnnaRail, far more
power than DaNoel might call upon. He stayed his hand, knowing that any blow he
attempted would fail, that she could harm him with such power far more than he
could harm her, and he’d better not give her an excuse to do so.

“Brother,” she said, her eyes
pinched and narrow. “What have you done? There is a corruption
about you, but I don’t know what it is.”

He leaned forward, careful to make it clear he was not
attempting to strike her, and he spit the words in her face. “Exactly!
You know nothing, your suspicions are unfounded, and you have no proof. You’re
just a little girl playing at being a woman. And if you’re going
to make accusations, make sure you can prove them.”

He pointed to the door. “Now get out. This is
my room and you have no right to trespass on my privacy.”

Chapter 6: Close to the Steel

Branaugh gave Yim
orders to put Morgin to work. She turned him over to an old woman named Satcha,
the cook for Jerst’s extended household, and she in turn led him
to a great pile of cooking pots, and set him about cleaning them. It was hard
work in the hot sun, but far better than being staked to the ground at the end
of a leash, and they gave him one of those straw hats that protected him from
the sun. And while most of the whitefaces treated him with indifference—some
with thinly veiled scorn—at least they no longer abused him,
though that was strictly due to Branaugh’s favor. Furthermore, he
had the feeling that if Harriok died, she might find it difficult to continue
to protect him.

Morgin busied himself
sharpening some of Satcha’s knives. He saw Yim returning from the
lagoon with several girls her age. Some wore the debt-ring about their necks,
though most did not. They’d bathed in the lagoon, and their hair
was wet and black and glistening in the sun. As they walked and talked and
laughed like young girls do, they worked at drying their hair. It occurred to
Morgin that he hadn’t washed since Valso had thrown him in the
dungeons in Decouix. He called after her, “Yim.”

The group of girls
paused and silently stared at him. Yim looked his way coldly. “Yes?”

“Will I
be allowed to bathe?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Of
course.” Then, to the laughter of her friends, she added, “In
fact, we would all appreciate it if you did. But don’t wait until
late in the day. You’d be well advised to be dry before the chill
of night sets in.”

Morgin looked at
Satcha and shrugged the same question at her.

She cocked her head
toward the lagoon. “Finish that last knife. Then go.”

Morgin did so, then
wandered down to the lagoon.

There must be some
sort of underground source to feed the lagoon. It wasn’t large
enough to be called a lake, but it was certainly no pond. There were a number
of Benesh’ere scattered about its shore, most concerned with some
business other than bathing. But there were a few in the water, some standing
on the shore drying themselves, and while there were a number of trees and
bushes lining the shore, the whitefaces paid little heed to hiding their bodies
from one another.

It appeared to be
common practice to first douse oneself with a bucket of water before entering
the lagoon. Morgin grabbed one of the leather buckets, found a short stretch of
beach where he could bathe without company, then stripped off his clothes. He
poured a bucket of water over his head, then rubbed his skin down with sand
until he’d washed away the grime and dirt. He filled the bucket
again and dumped his clothing into it, and the water in the bucket immediately
discolored to a dirty brown. He refilled the bucket three times before the
water in it didn’t cloud up with dirt. Then he spread his clothing
out to dry, and walked into the water.

It was quite warm near
the surface, but the bank sloped away quickly, and deeper down the water had a
decided chill. He sucked in a chest full of air, pulled his head beneath the
surface, then shoved off the bottom toward the center of the lagoon, held his
breath as long as he could before arcing upward and breaking the surface.

Treading water, he
turned slowly full circle. He’d only made it about halfway toward
the center of the lagoon, and was thinking about crossing it completely, when
he noticed all activity along the shore had come to a stop. The whitefaces had
paused at whatever they’d been doing to look at him, and each
stood frozen like a statue as if time had come to an abrupt halt. Then the
moment ended, and slowly they turned away from him to return to whatever they’d
been doing.

He swam back to the shore,
stood self-consciously in the shallows and again rubbed himself down with sand.

“How did
you do that?” a young voice called out.

Morgin looked up, saw
a young boy standing on the shore holding some sort of bundle in his arms. The
boy couldn’t have been more than eight or nine years old. “Do
what?” Morgin asked.

“Walk out
to the middle of the lagoon,” the boy said. “I
thought the water was too deep to walk out that far.”

“It is
too deep to walk,” Morgin said. “I swam.”

The boy frowned. “What’s
swam?”

“I used
my hands and feet to keep my head above water.”

The boy’s
eyes widened. “I did that once, but only for a few heartbeats.”

It was quite possible
that none of the whitefaces knew how to swim. They spent the majority of their
lives out on the sands, and probably never considered the possibility.

“One
question at a time,” Morgin said. “Who are you?”

The boy grinned
openly, and other than Branaugh it was the first kind look Morgin had seen on a
Benesh’ere face. “I’m LillianToc,”
he said. “Jerst’s youngest son. Yim sent me with some
clothes for you. She said you should wash those rags you’re
wearing, then get back to help with dinner. What’s swam?”

Morgin climbed out of
the water. “Well it’s kind of difficult to explain,”
he said as LillianToc handed him a towel. While he rubbed his skin briskly with
the towel he tried to describe the technique of moving through water, but the
young boy didn’t understand.

The clothing
LillianToc had brought was the standard sand colored breeches and knee-length
robe worn by most Benesh’ere. Morgin tucked the breeches into his
boots, thought he might look the part of a small Benesh’ere if he’d
had one of the intricately braided belts they wore. Instead he cinched the robe
around his waist with his own belt. The pants felt a little big in the hips.

“Yim gave
you some of her own clothes,” LillianToc told him, “since
none of the men’s would fit you.”

Morgin gathered up his
old clothing. The knee-length robe Harriok had given him out on the sands was a
total loss after being shredded by the cat’s claws, then cut away
to get at the wound. The breeches, though, with a needle and a bit of thread,
were at least salvageable. He decided to give them one more wash, and while he
did so LillianToc quizzed him incessantly about the clans. He answered the boy’s
questions to the best of his knowledge, though, while doing so, he noticed out
of the corner of his eye three teenage boys walking their way along the shore. They
approached with a swagger that spelled trouble.

“Hello,
LillianToc,” their apparent leader said as they stopped nearby. “I
take it this is the Elhiyne.”

“Hello
Tallik,” LillianToc said.

Morgin stood, wringing
water out of his breeches.

“When I
speak to you, Elhiyne,” Tallik said, “Look at me.”

Morgin turned toward
him, watched Tallik’s eyes sizing him up. Tallik was taller than
Morgin, though he still had some growing to do so the difference in size was
not as great as it might have been, and Morgin’s shoulders were
broader.

Morgin kept his voice
calm, tried to swallow his pride and avoid a fight. “I’m
sorry. I didn’t know you were speaking to me.”

“I’ve
heard about your insults, Elhiyne,” Tallik said, and he stepped in
close to emphasize the difference in their heights.

“Tallik!”
LillianToc pleaded. “You’re supposed to leave him
alone.”

“I’ll
leave him alone when he’s learned some manners,”
Tallik said as he gave Morgin a shove.

The shove pushed
Morgin back a step, and he realized then that Tallik would have his fight
regardless of what he did. He tried to relax, to be aware of every movement the
larger boy made, to be ready for any shift in his weight no matter how subtle.

While Tallik had the
advantage of size, he appeared to be about sixteen and had probably never
needed to actually fight for his life, so his reflexes were the kind developed
in practice, not combat. Morgin had quite a few years on the boy, many of them
spent fighting for his life, and a certain ruthlessness that came with the
territory. For him there was no pulling a punch, no bravado, no need for saber
rattling before battle. In fact, he fed Tallik’s overconfidence by
trying to appear a bit helpless at that moment. He lowered his eyes and
appeared afraid, while inside he tensed for action. But Tallik needed to impress
his friends, so he broadcast the first punch a little, confident his size and
Benesh’ere reflexes would protect him, and wanting the onlookers
to have every opportunity to observe the blow properly.

Morgin side-stepped
the punch slightly, deflected it only a touch with his right hand, let it brush
past his cheek as he spun and fired a kick into Tallik’s solar
plexus. It connected solidly, even more so than Morgin had intended, and Tallik
fell back, crumbled to the ground with a loud grunt and a great outlet of
breath.

The contest was over. Tallik
lay curled up on the sand, clutching at his stomach and gasping for air, his
friends standing over him with no inclination to take up the fight. Morgin didn’t
feel any great triumph at winning such a match, nor did he feel any guilt at
his own ruthlessness. Tallik would walk away from this with nothing more than a
few bruises and a bit of hurt pride. Hopefully he’d learn a lesson
about playing the bully, though, if he focused too much on the damage to his
pride, he might learn the wrong lesson, and that would be a shame.

Morgin gathered up his
belongings and, with LillianToc following closely, headed back to Harriok’s
tent.

“What’s
swam?” LillianToc asked as they walked.

“I don’t
think I can explain it,” Morgin said. “Maybe someday
I’ll just teach you how.”

~~~

“You’re restless,”
Cort said.

Tulellcoe stood at the window of their room, staring out
at the lake silently. He didn’t turn as he answered, “Aye.”

“It’s Morgin and Rhianne, isn’t
it?”

“Aye.”

She put her hands on her hips. “I’ve
had enough.”

He finally turned to face her, and she continued. “Ever
since you heard about them you’ve done nothing but stare out that
window and grunt one-word sentences at me. It’s time we did
something about it.”

“Like what?”

“Pack up our stuff and go to Durin ourselves.
See what we can find out.”

Tulellcoe stood silently considering her words, staring
into some far distance. At such moments he turned eerily lifeless, as if he’d
turned into stone and no longer needed to breathe. Then his eyes focused on her
and he said, “Ok. But first I need to prepare a charm—two
charms actually. One each for Morgin and Rhianne, keyed to our memories of
them, something that will help me understand if I cross their path.”

Cort said, “I can help with that.”

They spent the rest of the day preparing the two charms,
and Tulellcoe tied them to a leather thong that he placed about his neck. The
next morning they headed for Durin.

They spent three days in the city, carefully and
discreetly dredging up whatever rumors they could. It hadn’t been
long since Morgin’s escape, so they heard quite a few, many of
them contradictory. But one thing remained clear: Morgin must have had help to
escape the castle, and then the city. And, the rumors were consistent in that
he’d headed south, confirmed by the fact that Valso had led his
skree in that direction. So Cort and Tulellcoe decided to check out the
countryside between Durin and The Munjarro.

In the forest south of Durin Cort became a bit separated
from Tulellcoe, but they were in no hurry, so she let her horse continue at an
easy walk. In any case, the forest had thinned considerably throughout the
morning. She occasionally caught a glimpse of him up ahead, and they were
following a well-defined game trail, so Tulellcoe wouldn’t veer
off it or change directions without waiting for her to catch up.

The forest didn’t end abruptly, but over a
distance of several hundred paces it thinned even further, and she found
Tulellcoe seated on his horse waiting for her at the edge of cleared farm land.
As she approached him, Tulellcoe said, “I don’t think
he came this way.”

“Well let’s check the farms
hereabouts,” she said. “Perhaps we’ll
unearth some bit of information. After all, it’s been less than a
moon since he was killed.”

The first farm they checked turned up nothing so they
continued south. At the next they found a rather talkative farmer. Tulellcoe
nudged the fellow’s memory, carefully counting the days back to
the evening Morgin had escaped. The fellow finally said, “No, don’t
recall anything myself. But ya know, old Tobin lost a mare to thieves about
then.”

“Old Tobin?” Tulellcoe asked.

“Ya, next farm over. Due south. You can’t
miss it.”

Late that afternoon they walked their horses down a long
cart path, at the end of which they found two dilapidated structures
constructed of mud and wattle walls with thatched roofs. It wasn’t
clear which was the barn, and which the house. An older man with a bald head
and round belly stood in the path, watching them approach, a pitchfork held
tightly across his chest as if he meant to defend himself with it. “What
you want here?” he demanded in a surly tone.

Tulellcoe dismounted to face the man squarely, though Cort
noticed he kept his distance well out of reach of the pitch fork. “We
just want a little information,” he said.

Tobin had lost a mare, stolen in the night. He hadn’t
seen or heard the thief or thieves, so he couldn’t say if it had
been just one, lone man, or two, or more.

The next day they found another farm where the thieves had
struck. Again, the farmer couldn’t say if it had been just one man
or a group. Someone had stolen a tattered piece of canvas and picked through a
bin of cattle feed, exactly what a lone, desperate fugitive might do.

~~~

Satcha put Morgin to
work preparing the cooking fires and carrying water up from the lagoon. He
found such menial labor increasingly frustrating. Something more demanding
might at least prevent him from obsessing on his name. How did those two extra
marks change it? He had to find an answer to that, but to do so he’d
first have to escape from the Benesh’ere. Then it occurred to him
that if he did escape, he had no idea where to go to find such answers.