Ehomba took umbrage as much at his companion’s tone as his words. “I did not say that I was any of those things.”
Despite the heat, Simna was enjoying himself. “But you still insist you are no sorcerer.”
The herdsman drew himself up. “I am Naumkib. So I am neither a ‘hopeless simpleton’ nor a ‘babe in the brush.’”
“Okay, okay.” Simna chuckled softly. “Peace on you, bruther. You know, I wouldn’t taunt you so much if you didn’t take everything I said so literally.”
The herdsman’s gaze rose to fix on the high peaks of the Curridgian Range. They were markedly closer now. On the other side, he knew, lay Ehl-Larimar and the opportunity, at last, to fulfill his obligation. Those snowy crests held the promise of home.
Home, he thought. How much had Daki and Nelecha grown? Would they remember him as their father, or only as a distant, shimmering figure from their past? Many months had passed since he had made his farewells and set off northward up the coast. He fingered the cord from which had hung the carved figurine of old Fhastal, smiling to himself at the memory of her cackling laugh and coarse but encouraging comments.
He could turn for home even now, he mused. Forget this folly of abducted visionesses and possessed warlocks, of suspicious aristocrats and moribund noblemen. Put aside what, after all, were only words exchanged on a beach in a moment of compassion, and return to his beloved village and family.
Break a promise given to a dying man.
Lengthening his stride, Ehomba inhaled deeply. Other men might do such a thing, but he could not conceive of it. To do so would be to deny himself, to abjure what made him Naumkib. Even if his companions decided today, or tomorrow, or before the gates of this Hymneth’s house, to turn about and return to their own homes, he knew that he would go on. Because he had to. Because it was all bound up inside him with what he was. Because he had given his word.