The Heart of the Sands, Book 3 of The Gods Within

by J. L. Doty

  Toke smiled mischievously. “It likes to play jokes, especially on demanding old women who summon it with so much arrogance.”

  Morgin recognized the reference to Olivia. “What kind of jokes?”

  Toke’s smile broadened until it split his face, and his eyes glinted with mischief. “It likes to mislead.”

  Morgin shook his head angrily. “It tells lies then? But I thought it couldn’t lie about a name.”

  Toke nodded his agreement and turned to the demon. “Did you hear that, friend? He thinks the only way to deceive is to lie outright.” Toke listened for a moment, as if the demon spoke to him, then he threw his head back and laughed uproariously. “Yes. But we’re all stupid that way.”

  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.”

&n
bsp; 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.”

  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 wou
ld 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.”