Bazaar of Death: Three

Sabit pushed aside the diaphanous drape of silk that covered the entrance to the older woman’s stall. Swirls in the fabric, dyed blue and green, tinted the sunlight a vividly aquatic hue. The cool, refreshing air within the little tent, rich with the scent of coconut, added to the sense of an oasis in the midst of the crush of the bazaar. As the drape closed behind Sabit, even the deafening hubbub of the marketplace faded to a distant murmur, like a gentle mountain stream.

“Sit, my savior. Sit and drink tea,” said the older woman, fussing with water and leaves, pots and cups.

Sabit had no time for niceties. She had promised to secure provisions. Her companions depended on her efforts. The spear woman took nothing more seriously than the weight of her vows.

Which is why it surprised Sabit to find herself settling into a soft, embroidered cushion on the floor of the tent. Never had such a small space felt so expansive as this little tent, free of the stench and tumult and crush of the city.

The woman in red poured two cups of black tea, as strong as it was hot. Sabit saw no stove, brazier, or even candle that might have served to boil the water.

Before she could enquire, the older woman spoke.

“Your wayfarings have taken you far. Farther than you ever expected,” the woman said as Sabit sipped her tea, savoring the full flavor, bitterness prickling along the insides of her cheeks. “Once, you were certain of your place in the world. Once, you had a hope that served your life as the South Star serves the sailor on the sea. Once, your future seemed like a well-known port, where arrival is a matter of effort and time.

“Now, you travel from place to place, because nowhere is your own,” the woman continued. “Now, your heart is empty of hope, like the sky on a cloudy midnight. Now, your future seems like one more burden you must bear on your way to the grave, like a shackle on your soul.”

Sabit drained the last of her tea. She lowered the cup, scowling at the older woman. “It is no magic to speak of such things. My clothes and accent mark me as a foreigner, and do not all travelers feel adrift at some point? Bring forth your three shells that I might find the hidden pea.”

The older woman smiled coldly and took Sabit’s empty teacup. Studying the leaves clinging to the bottom, she spoke, her voice becoming deeper and softer. “You will not find what you seek in the mountains of Urom. You have sacrificed much for a man from that city—no, not just a man, a son of the royal house. Despite the blood you have shed for him, he still keeps a heavy secret from you. But his is not not the only road before you. A flame that has not burned in years will kindle once more, illuminating another path before you. You know that road, and walk it well. Where it leads has not changed. The choice is yours. Choose wisely. The death of one you hold in your heart hangs upon your decision. Which man will you follow? Who will die and who will live is up to you, Sabit.”

Sabit was so stunned by the detailed prediction, she barely noticed that she had never given the older woman her name.



Wayfarings of Sabit: Bazaar of Death is copyright (c) 2017 by Michael S. Miller. All rights reserved. New chapters post every weekday. You can support this and other stories on Patreon: or