Treasures of Fantasy - Margaret Weis [64]
The priestess dropped the bloody knife in the grass and began to spread apart the lips of the fresh wound. The other priestess poured the squid ink laced with the crystals into the fresh wound and then began to grind them deep into his flesh.
The pain was excruciating. Skylan cried out in wrenching agony and fought to get away. He didn’t move. His body persisted in just sitting there, watching.
Her work with the crystals finished, the priestess wound a bandage tightly over the wound. Skylan watched the blood mingled with dark ink seep through the ban dage.
“Do not take off the wrapping for several days,” said the priestess with the crystals.
Rising to her feet, she moved on to young Farinn, who had been observing Skylan with a look of horror on his face. When the priestess lifted Farinn’s arm, he flinched. He did nothing else. He sat on the ground and watched them put the tip of the knife against his flesh.
Skylan was outraged. The sight of them hurting Farinn pierced him worse than the blade of the knife. Skylan had grown to like the quiet young man, who sometimes sang to himself very softly when he thought no one heard him. In his mind, Skylan was leaping to his feet and attacking the priestess, twisting her wrist to make her drop the blade, breaking her arm if he had to. He sat and watched them slice open Farinn’s arm, watched the blood flow, watched the young man shiver in pain, and, to his shame, he did nothing.
Skylan was suddenly reminded of the terrible time back in his homeland when the ogre shaman had cast a magic spell on him, freezing his limbs, preventing him from fighting.
“Bad magic,” Wulfe had warned him.
Skylan shuddered and even that seemed to take an immense amount of effort.
When the priestesses finished their work, they emptied their bowls and packed up their silver knives and their squid ink and crystal vials.
“We will go back to the carriages and wait for you there,” one said. “What do we do with the woman?”
They were talking about Aylaen, who had been watching the proceedings with a bewildered expression on her face.
“She stays here,” said Zahakis. “To begin her training.”
Raegar scowled. “I will speak to the Priest-General about this. He will not be pleased.”
Zahakis shrugged. The priestesses who had been holding Aylaen released her. She hurried to join the warriors. The men sat on the ground, staring listlessly at nothing. Aylaen eyed them helplessly, not knowing what was wrong, uncertain what to do. The priestesses departed.
Raegar remained, waiting impatiently for the return of the warrior-priests he had sent off in pursuit of Wulfe.
“You and your soldiers can leave now,” Raegar told Zahakis with a dismissive gesture. “Your swords are no longer needed. The Torgun are not a threat.”
“I have orders from the Legate to escort you and your people off the premises,” said Zahakis.
Raegar scowled and drew in a seething breath, but he made no argument. Skylan wondered what Raegar meant about them no longer being a threat. For himself, he planned to be a threat to Raegar so long as the traitor drew breath.
“You’re never going to find the kid in the dark,” Zahakis added caustically. “Call off the chase.”
“I will not have that fiend running around loose,” said Raegar. “You and your men can leave, go to your beds. As I told you, you are not needed.”
Zahakis shook his head and remained where he was, keeping his soldiers on the alert.
Skylan’s wound throbbed and burned and stung. The ban dage was too tight. He decided to take it off and he was surprised and gratified to see his hand obey his brain’s command. He was fumbling at the strip of the cloth, trying to find the end to start unwinding it, when he heard a shrill screeching.