“I have come for wisdom,” Sabit said, her voice a quiet rasp. Looking up, she saw a man standing over her. His broad face and plump belly made him seem nearly as wide as he was tall. He wore only a loincloth, but much of his body was covered by his flowing beard and long hair, the deep grey streaked with pure white, like bolts of lightning arcing through storm clouds. The man’s face was open and smiling, with a depth to his dark eyes like deep pools.
The man extended a hand the color of a placid beach. Sabit took it in her own rough, brown hand. Standing up on her aching legs, Sabit looked down at the man. Even though he stood two steps higher on the shrine, his head barely reached her shoulders. Smiling, he said, “I do not offer wisdom. I offer a choice.”
Sabit bowed her head, “Show me your choice, elder.”
He drew her deeper into the shrine. A sharp-scented incense filled the space, enticing and acrid in equal measure. The walls were hung with carved wooden panels. The wooden faces were simple, but numerous. Collections of eyes and mouths, complimented by the occasional nose, looked down upon Sabit’s steps. In the dawn light, Sabit thought some of them reminded her of Verdandi, considering her wise words, Meriama pronouncing her sentence of banishment, Qaansoole scowling her disappointment. But even these faces were outnumbered by the sharp, traitorous eyes of Regida and everywhere, the haughty look of victory on Kehnan’s face, glaring down at her from all angles.
There was nowhere for her eyes to rest, free of Kehnan’s sneering visage—some sporting the scar she had given him with the back end of her spear, some of the faces showing him young and handsome as he was when Sabit took him as her lover. All of them jeered at her failure, her weakness, her stupidity. Swirling around her, the faces seemed to grow—bigger than the room, bigger than the shrine, bigger than the sky itself. Massive, twisted mouths threatened to engulf Sabit.
The old man’s hand caught her elbow. His touch steadied Sabit. She was on her own feet again. Her mind in her own head. Her heart in her own chest. The carvings on the wall were just wood.
“You carry the scars of many demons in your heart, flower of battle,” said the old man.
“My scars are mine to bear, elder. They will not break me. At least, they have not broken me yet. Let us see this choice you have for me.”
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Wayfarings of Sabit: Dawn is copyright (c) 2018 by Michael S. Miller. All rights reserved. New chapters post every Thursday (and the occasional Monday). You can support this and other stories on Patreon: https://patreon.com/michaelsmiller Find more sword and sorcery fiction at http://ipressgames.com/fiction/.