‘What will you do now?’ she asked.
He grinned, then winced as pain flared through his broken nose. ‘I shall enter a monastery and devote my life to good works.’
‘It was a serious question.’
‘And you are a serious woman, beauty. Too serious. Do you laugh much? Do you dance? Do you make assignations with young men?’
‘What I do is none of your affair! And stop calling me beauty. I don’t like it.’
‘Yes, you do. But it makes you uncomfortable.’
‘Do you still plan to kill my father?’
‘No.’
‘Am I expected to believe that?’
‘You are free to believe or disbelieve, beauty. How old are you?’
‘I will be eighteen next summer.’
‘Are you a virgin?’
‘You’ll never know!’ she told him. Taking up the bowl, she walked back to the kitchen where Belash was still eating. Most of the ham had gone, and half of the cheese. ‘Is this your first meal in a month?’ she snapped.
The Nadir looked up, his dark eyes expressionless. ‘Fetch me water,’ he ordered.
‘Fetch it yourself, bowel-brain!’ His face darkened and he rose from his seat. Miriel’s dagger swept up. ‘One wrong move, you Nadir dog-eater, and the breakfast you’ve just eaten will be all over the floor.’ Belash grinned and walked to the water jug, filling a clay goblet. ‘What is so amusing?’ she demanded.
‘You kol-isha,’ answered Belash, drawing his own knife and cutting the last slice of ham from the bone. He shook his head and chuckled.
‘What about us?’ persisted Miriel.
‘Where are your babies?’ countered Belash. ‘Where is your man? Why are you garbed for war? Knives and swords – such foolishness.’
‘You think a woman cannot use these weapons?’
‘Of course they can. You should see my Shia – knife, sword, handaxe. But it is not natural. War is for men, for honour and glory.’
‘And death,’ she pointed out.
‘Of course death. That is why women must be protected. Many babies must be born to replace the dead warriors.’
‘It might be better just to stop the wars.’
‘Pah! It is always useless to talk to women. They have no understanding.’
Miriel took a deep breath, but refrained from further argument. Leaving the Nadir to his endless breakfast she walked to her room and began to pack.
8
Hewla eased her frame up from the wicker chair and winced as pain flared in her arthritic hip. The fire was dying down and she slowly bent to lift a log on to the glowing coals. There was a time when her fires needed no fuel, when she had not been forced to walk the forest gathering twigs and sticks.
‘Curse you, Zhu Chao,’ she whispered. But the words only made her the more angry, for once such a curse would have been accompanied by the beating of demon wings and the harsh raucous cries of the Vanshii as they flew to their victim.
How could you have been so stupid? she asked herself.
I was lonely.
Yes, but now you are still lonely, and the grimoires are gone.
She shivered and added another thick stick to the fire, which hungrily devoured it. It was small consolation that the Books of Spellfire would be virtually useless to Zhu Chao. For the spells contained in them had given Hewla life, long after her skin should have turned to dust, had held at bay the mortal pain of her inflamed joints. The six books of Moray Sen. Priceless. She remembered the day she had shown them to him, opening the secret compartment behind the firestone. She had believed in him then, the young Chiatze. Loved him. She shuddered. Old fool.
He had taken the grimoires she had schemed for, killed for, sold her soul for.
Now the Void beckoned.
Waylander will kill him, she thought with grim relish.
The room was becoming warmer and Hewla was at last feeling some comfort from the heat. But then an icy blast of freezing air touched her back. The old woman turned. The far wall was shimmering and a cold, cold wind was blowing through it, scattering scrolls and papers. A clay goblet on the table trembled and fell, rolling to the floor, shattering. The wind grew stronger. Hewla’s shawl flew back, falling across the fire, and the old woman stumbled against the power of the demon wind.