And then Vaintè had killed the girl. He felt no remorse about that because she had been stupid and deserved to join the rest of the sammad. Only when Vaintè had seized him, the blood of murder still fresh on her jaw, only then had the hunter’s strength failed. He had only hunted once, had not been accepted as a hunter, that was what he told himself later, trying to explain away his failure to accept death from those sharp and terrible teeth. In all truth he had been just as frightened then as he had been when his spear drew the marag from the water. He had spoken out of dreadful fear, scarcely aware of what he was doing, and had spoken well enough to save his life.
Kerrick still knew that he would die some day, when the murgu had had enough of him. But that day was in the future and now, for the first time, he permitted himself a tiny bit of hope. Each day he could understand more and speak better. And he still had not been out of this room since the moment they had been brought here. Some day he would be let out of it, unless they intended him to spend his remaining days locked away, and on that day he would run. The murgu waddled, they did not walk, and he was sure he could run faster than they could—if they could run at all. This was his secret hope and because of it he did what he was asked and hoped that his rebelliousness had been forgotten.
Each day began the same way. Stallan would open the door and stamp in. Kerrick would carefully control his loathing of the violent creature. Even though he no longer fought back the hunter would still hurl him to the floor and kneel painfully on his back as it put the living shackles on his ankles and wrists. Stallan would then rub a string-blade over his head to remove the stubble of hair, usually cutting his skin at the same time. Enge would arrive later with the fruit and the gellid meat that he had finally forced himself to eat. Meat meant strength. Kerrick never spoke to Stallan, unless the creature struck him and demanded an answer, which was very rare. Kerrick knew better than to expect any compassion from this ugly, hoarse-voiced creature.
But Enge was a different matter altogether. With a boy’s sharp eyes he watched closely and saw that Enge reacted differently from the other murgu. For one thing she had expressed pain and sorrow when the girl had been killed. Stallan had enjoyed it greatly and had applauded the action. Once in a great while Enge would arrive with Stallan. Kerrick’s speaking improved and when he was sure he could say exactly what he wanted, he began to watch patiently each day as the door opened. When Stallan entered alone he forgot the matter completely until the following morning.
This went on until the morning when Enge entered as well. Kerrick said nothing, but he stiffened his body so that Stallan was more brutal than usual in handling him. As his arms were pulled out before him and the cool shackle was being slapped into place he spoke.
“Why do you hurt me and bind me? I cannot hurt you.”
Stallan’s only answer was a gesture of disgust and a blow across the head. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw that Enge was listening.
“It is hard to talk when I am bound,” he said.
“Stallan,” Enge said, “what the creature says is true.”
“It attacked you, have you forgotten that?”
“No, but that was when we first brought it in. And you will remember it bit me only when it thought I was hurting the female.” She turned to Kerrick. “Will you try to injure me again?”
“Never. You are my teacher. I know if I speak well you will reward me with food and not hurt me.”
“I marvel that an ustuzou can talk—but it is still a wild creature and must be secured.” Stallan was adamant. “Vaintè put it in my charge and I will obey my orders.”