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

by J. L. Doty

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 midd
le 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 ta
lkative 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.

  Yim showed him how to collect horse and cattle dung for the fires. She gave him a large canvas sack, instructed him to carefully separate those leavings fully dried from those still fresh, showed him where to pile the dry dung, and where to spread out the fresh stuff to dry further in the sun. It wasn’t pleasant work, but it gave him a chance to explore the entire camp and get a feel for the place.