The old man led Sabit to a little shelter, not far from the shrine. His home was little more than a lean-to of branches and grass piled against a massive pile of boulders. Inside, he gave her tea and bowl after bowl of boiled quinoa. Before the sun was high overhead, Sabit had quenched her thirst and fed her belly. After that, she slept.
*
Sabit upon a throne not her own. Below her, the screams of the vanquished. Hands on her her ears, her jaw set. The shrieks louder still, ringing to the depths of the underworld.
Sabit in a squat before the throne. Each throne-leg a different scene, carved of wood, ivory, bone. Sabit brought low by the Prioress of Ghabar. The pain of breaking the prince’s heart. The shame of being stripped of her captaincy. The look of accusation from her fellow warriors.
The next throne-leg. The dead prince’s circlet in her hands, tendrils of cursed vine clinging to the silver and jade. The sorrow of a young life cut too short.
The next leg. Sabit in the thrall of the godling upon the isle of wickedness. Driven by the godling’s power, His Honor’s voice. The shame of not knowing whether she would kill her friend at her god’s command. The shame of betraying her god for the love of a mortal.
The next leg, Sabit amid the burning mansion of the Magistrate of Vert. Driven like a rat into the holes beneath. Her people screaming, dying. Their deaths on her head.
The next leg. Sabit in Bahteel, sending away Allamu and Qaansoole. Her vows broken. Knowing that death would come for the one she held closest. The breaking of her heart as they left the gates.
The next leg. Sabit convicted before the Sisterhood of the Lioness. Meriama casting her to the wolves to save the hope of her people. Sabit sacrificing her good name so that a dead traitor could retain her own. The humiliation of walking past her sisters’ accusing eyes.
The next leg. The triumphant plant-prince. The verdant mockery of Ishum of Ghabar, tormenting her, its soft, icy tendrils supping from her flesh, her mind, her heart, her soul.
The next leg. The bandits of the forest, loyal to Sabit. The farmers begging aid. The ruinous battle. Innocent blood washing the river red. As red as the hatred in Kehnan’s eyes. As red as the smoke wafting from her spear-shaft in that dingy cell. Kehnan’s sneering face, “I will restore your memories, but only the most painful. They will torment your soul until your will is broken. I will bring you to heel, Sabit, like the bitch you are.”
*
“No!” Sabit’s scream rang out across the late afternoon fields. The sun hung low in the west. The old man looked up from the stalks of grain he was threshing. The old man waddled over, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder. “What can trouble the most blessed flower of battle?”
Sabit shuddered at the memories of her dream, the confidence she had shown that morning before the vanished as surely as if this trembling woman were the truth, and the strong warrior merely a dream.
— — —
Photo by Irina Kostenich from Pexels: https://www.pexels.com/photo/silhouette-of-wheats-during-dawn-in-landscape-photography-867647/
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/.