Dust of Dreams

knife hand.
    ‘His blood,’ he whispered, ‘has poisoned me.’
    ‘When we turn on our own,’ she said, struggling to put her thoughts into words, ‘it is as water in a skin finds a hole. There is so much . . . weight—’
    ‘Pressure.’
    ‘Yes, that is the word. We turn on our own, to ease the pressure. All eyes are on her, not us. All desire—’ she stopped then, stifling a gasp.
    But he’d caught it—he’d caught it all. ‘Are men the reason then? Is that what you’re saying?’
    She felt a flush of anger, like knuckles rapping up her spine. ‘Answer me this, Bakal’—and she met his wide eyes unflinchingly—‘how many times was your touch truly tender? Upon your wife? Tell me, how often did you laugh with your friends when you saw a woman emerge from her home with blood crusting her lip, a welt beneath an eye? “Oh, the wild wolf rutted last night!” And then you grin and you laugh—do you think we do not hear? Do you think we do not see? Hobble her! Take her, all of you! And, for as long as she lifts to you,
you leave us alone!
’
    Heads had turned at her venomous tone—even if they could not quite make out her words, as she had delivered them low, like the hiss of a dog-snake as it wraps tight the crushed body in its embrace. She saw a few mocking smiles, saw the muted swirls of unheard jests.
‘Bound tight in murder, those two, and already they spit at each other!’ ‘No wonder their mates leapt into each other’s arms!’
    Bakal managed to hold her glare a moment longer, as if he could hold back her furious, bitter words, and then he looked ahead once more. A rough sigh escaped him. ‘I remember his nonsense—or so I thought it at the time. His tales of the Imass—he said the greatest proof of strength a male warrior could display was found in not once touching his mate with anything but tenderness.’
    ‘And you sneered.’
    ‘I saw women sneer at that, too.’
    ‘And if we hadn’t, Bakal? If you’d seen us with something else in our eyes?’
    He grimaced and then nodded. ‘A night or two of the wild wolf—’
    ‘To beat out such treasonous ideas, yes. You did not understand—none of you did. If you hadn’t killed him, he would have changed us all.’
    ‘And women such as Sekara the Vile?’
    She curled her lip. ‘What of them?’
    He grunted. ‘Of course. Greed and power are her only lovers—in that, she is no different from us men.’
    ‘What do you want with Hetan?’
    ‘Nothing. Never mind.’
    ‘You no longer trust me. Perhaps you never did. It was only the pool of blood we’re both standing in.’
    ‘You follow me. You stand just beyond the firelight every night.’
    I am alone. Can’t you see that?
‘Why did you murder him? I will tell you. It’s because you saw him as a threat, and he was surely that, wasn’t he?’
    ‘I—I did not—’ He halted, shook his head. ‘I want to steal her away. I want it to end.’
    ‘It’s too late. Hetan is dead inside. Long dead. You took away her husband. You took away her children. And then you—we—took away her body. A flower cut from its root quickly dies.’
    ‘Estaral.’
    He was holding on to a secret, she realized.
    Bakal glanced at her. ‘
Cafal.
’
    She felt her throat tighten—was it panic? Or the promise of vengeance? Retribution? Even if it meant her own death?
Oh, I see now. We’re still falling.
    ‘He is close,’ Bakal went on under his breath. ‘He wants her back. He wants me to steal her away. Estaral, I need your help—’
    She searched his face. ‘You would do this for him? Do you hate him that much, Bakal?’
    She might as well have struck him in the face.
    ‘He—he is a shaman, a healer—’
    ‘No Barghast shaman has
ever
healed one of the hobbled.’
    ‘None has tried!’
    ‘Perhaps it is as you say, Bakal. I see that you do not want to wound Cafal. You would do this to give to him what he seeks.’
    He nodded once, as if unable to speak.
    ‘I will take her from the children,’ Estaral said. ‘I will lead her to the west end of the camp. But, Bakal, there will be pickets—we are at the eve of battle—’
    ‘I know. Leave the warriors to me.’
    She didn’t know why she was doing this. Nor did she understand the man walking at her side. But what difference did knowing make? Just as easy to live in ignorance, scraped clean of expectation, emptied of beliefs and faith, even hopes.
Hetan is hobbled. No different in the end from every other woman suffering the