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A book that apparently knew all about me.
I slid off the boulder and stood up, reaching for her. "Let's go back to the
hyort. You need to rest."
Her head snapped up. "I'm tired of resting!"
"Come on, Del." I closed a hand on her wrist, tugged gently. "A few more days,
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that's all."
She stood. "Will you spar with me tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow? Well, maybe the day after."
"Tomorrow."
"You're not ready for that."
"Neither were you. I did it anyway."
Nothing would be gained by arguing with her. I didn't say yes, didn't say no.
Just pulled her to me, slid an arm around her shoulders, and guided her back
toward the hyorts.
"Most men," Del said abruptly, "detest weakness, sickness in woman. They
ignore it, trying to convince themselves she's fine. Or tell the woman there
is nothing wrong, so they don't need to trouble themselves with thinking about
it. With the responsibility."
I glanced at her, wondering where the complaint came from.
"Most men want nothing at all to do with a sick woman. Some of them even
leave.
Forever."
I grunted. "As I said, I just spent two days looking for you. Even knowing you
were sick.
Hoolies, the last time I saw you there was a chance you might not even live.
Did I leave then?"
Inwardly I winced. Well, yes, I had left; but that hadn't been my fault.
"You are not what you were," Del said after a moment. "Not as you were when we
first met in that cantina."
I had a vivid memory of that cantina, and that meeting. "Well, no."
"You were a Southron pig."
"So you've told me. Many times."
"Tiger " She stopped walking. Stared up into my face as I turned to her. "You
are not what you were."
I had the feeling that wasn't what she meant to say. But nothing more crowded
her lips, even as I waited. Finally I cradled her head in my hands, bent
close, said, "Neither are you,"
and kissed her gently on the forehead.
For a moment she leaned into me, clearly exhausted. I considered scooping her
up and carrying her to the hyort, but that would play havoc with Del's
dignity. She already felt uncomfortable enough about being tired and sick,
judging by her comments; I knew better than to abet that belief. I prodded her
onward with a hand placed in the center of her spine, and walked with her to
the hyort.
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There a warrior waited, standing quietly before the doorflap. He looked at me.
"Oziri will see you."
It was the first mention I'd heard of the man we'd met a couple of weeks
before. I
exchanged a baffled glance with Del, who seemed to know no more than I did,
then saw her brief nod of acceptance. She ducked into the hyort and dropped
the doorflap.
I accompanied the warrior to another hyort some distance away, the entrance
lighted by stave torches. There I was left, with no word spoken to the hyort's
inhabitant. I paused a moment, aware of the call of nightbirds, the flickering
of campfires, the low'pitched murmuring of conversations throughout the
village. It was incredibly peaceful here. I turned my face up to the stars.
The night skies were ablaze.
A hand pulled the doorflap aside. "Come in," Oziri said. "You have hidden long
enough."
The Vashni ignored my startled demand for an explanation. He gestured me to a
place on a woven rug covered by skins, fur side up, and took his own seat
across from me. A small fire burned between us, dying from flames to coals.
Herbs had been strewn across it; pungency stung my eyes. I squinted at him
through the thin wisp of smoke. At the best of times, Vashni stank of grease,
but all I could smell now was burning herbs.
Seated, I looked at Oziri. No one had mentioned him, and I hadn't asked, but
here he was, and here I was. He wasn't chieftain or bodyguard, but obviously
he was something more than warrior. A quick glance around the interior of the
hyort showed me herbs hanging upside down, dried gourds, painted sticks, small
clay pots stoppered with wax, a parade of tiny pottery bowls arranged in front
of Oziri's crossed legs. I began to get a sick feeling in the pit of my belly.
Vashni were unrelated to the Salset, the desert nomads I'd grown up among, but
the accoutrements, despite differences, were eerily similar.
I looked at Oziri suspiciously. "You're a shukar."
Oziri smiled.
I drew in a breath, hoping I was wrong. "Among the Salset, the shukar doesn't
hunt."
"Among the Vashni, he does. We are not a lazy people. Priests work also."
I wanted to wave away the thread of smoke drifting toward me but knew it would
be rude.
And I'd been trained from birth to respect, even fear, shukars. It had been
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