In the open air, the searing pain of Sabit’s scar faded quickly. Allowing her feet to take her where they would, Sabit tried to quiet the turmoil in her mind and heart.
Her memories of last night were still like a gaping hole—a wound in her psyche, leaking blood that stained the impressions of all that came before the gap the color of death. Qaansoole had never been an ally, only another helpless innocent in need of Sabit’s protection. For all Allamu’s talk of friendship, he was merely—
The fortune teller’s tent was across the street. Sabit remembered the blue and green silk, the cool interior, and the refreshing tea. Her aimless wanderings had brought her back to the bazaar, to this particular place. Perhaps the wise woman might have some answers to the questions gnawing at Sabit from within.
Sabit had barely taken a step toward the tent when there was a broad, strong hand on her shoulder. “There you are! You left so early, Mongoose!”
—–
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: https://patreon.com/michaelsmiller or http://ipressgames.com/fiction/