Twilight had begun to cover the land by the time Sabit finished her tale. The old man pondered, eyes closed, with lips pursed with thought.
Sabit said, “By daylight, I am strong enough to face Kehnan and his armies. Wakefulness and action can drive the agony from my heart, elder. But even I must sleep from time to time. When I slumber, I am helpless before all the ways I have failed. All those whose deaths are upon my head.”
“You never dream of those whose lives you have saved? The people who have loved you, and whom you loved in return?” he asked.
“No, elder,” Sabit replied. “No one ever loved me. The only loves I have ever held dear either betrayed me or died because of my foolishness.”
“I may be able to help cure this affliction, if you are willing,” said the old man. “You must swear to believe what I tell you, and listen to your own heart, even when it tells you things you do not feel you deserve.”
Sabit looked deep into the old man’s dark eyes. Finally, her words came haltingly to her lips. “I swear.”
The old man smiled. Rummaging among his tools, he brought out edge of sharp stone set into a wooden handle—the stone black as midnight and sharp as lover’s insult. “Take what remains of the shaft of your spear and slice it into slivers, as thin as you can. Gather every sliver in that bowl. Leave not a splinter of wood upon that iron point.
Sabit got to work. Cutting the green knotty wood was like slicing into her heart. This hunk of wood was the only proof she had that her fantastical story was true. How would she fight without a spear?
The sun had set and twilight had nearly given way to full darkness by the time Sabit finished whittling the remains of her spear shaft down to curling slivers. Her hands ached and her fingers bled.
The old man took the bowl, long curls of wood heaped tall upon in. He added powders and herbs, sang songs and chanted hymns. Dumping the mass of wood-curls into his kettle, a puff of steam rose from the water. The coppery tang of blood filled the air.
The old man chanted throughout the night. Sabit kept the fire fed while the old man stirred and sang. Slowly, the scent wafting from the kettle shifted to that of damp earth after a rainstorm, then to that of the delicate red flowers of the plant-prince that had no name.
By the time the eastern sky grew light, the kettle had boiled low. A thick, brown liquid remained. Ladling it into a bowl, the old man presented it to Sabit. The bowl was warm and comforting in her hands. As the first rays of dawn broke over the horizon, anointing the goddess’s shrine, Sabit drank down the mixture, its flavor both bitter and sweeter than she thought possible.
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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/.