Frostfell_ The Wizards - Mark Sehestedt [47]
They walked on, the horses plodding behind them. Amira was beginning to fear that Gyaidun had decided against sharing any more with her when he finally spoke up again.
"They named me athkaraye-'elf-friend' in your tongue, maybe-and I gained many blessings, both of spirit and body, with the honor, but I will never truly be Vil Adanrath. They are an ancient folk, not of this world. But… Lendri and I, we swore our lives to one another. Life for life. Death to death. Blood brothers. Rathla."
"Blood brothers? Because you cut hands? Mingle your blood?"
"Brothers of the same womb are called milk brothers," said Gyaidun, "because they share the same mother's milk. It is a sacred bond, but only so far. The gods choose your family. Rathla choose each other. The pact is sworn before the gods as we mingle our blood. He who breaks the covenant of milk is cast out from the clan." Gyaidun took his free hand and traced the scars along his cheeks. "The scars of an exile, barred from the pack. But he who breaks the covenant of blood is lower than a dog. His own clan and family will hunt him down and scatter his body to the four winds."
"You broke the… the covenant of milk? That's why you and Lendri were exiled?"
"Do all ladies of your land ask so many questions?"
"No."
Amira looked at him. His eyes still scanned their surroundings. There had been no malice in his voice. The ways of these easterners were strange to her, and after so long being among them-years fighting in the war and days that turned into tendays searching for her son in these lands-she had learned much, but she'd never been comfortable with their ways. Until now. Though the big man's face was still a mask of serene seriousness, she saw it for just that: a mask. Something in his tone said that he was at ease with her. One desperate parent with another, willing to kill and die for a child. One warrior to another. For the first time since she'd been taken in by this big man and his rathla and thrust in the midst of their strange ways, she felt oddly… at ease.
"I've never been quite… at home among my people," said Amira. "Questioning my parents, my family, my 'betters' among the aristocracy, my arcane masters. I…" She stopped, searching for the proper words. None came.
"Kweshta," said Gyaidun.
"What?"
"Kweshta. It is a word of the Vil Adanrath. There is no good word in the Common tongue. It means a special one. One who does not quite… 'fit in.' But in a good way. A special one. Dear. Unique. You stand out among your people, part of them still, but set apart." Gyaidun shrugged, and Amira thought she saw the hint of a blush in his cheeks. "Kweshta."
Amira felt her own cheeks growing hot. "You didn't answer my question."
"Question?"
"Why were you and Lendri…?"
"Exiled?"
"Yes."
"Enough talk for now," said Gyaidun, and his countenance had gone hard and implacable. His eyes continued to search their surroundings.
"I did not mean to pry," said Amira. "I-"
"Enough," said Gyaidun. "All you do is pry. No more. Time to walk." He quickened his pace, dragging the plodding horses behind him and putting distance between him and Amira.
Amira could have easily kept up with him. The stubborn side of her nature-the dominant side of her nature-would have and almost did. But this once she let it go.
* * * * *
They walked through most of the morning. Though the Mother's Bed loomed large on the horizon, dozens of small gullies, dry washes, and little valleys broke the land between them and the hill. It was near midday before they came to the first