Sartor by Sherwood Smith Page A

her
ear, stinging smartly. “Sit still,” said a voice in flat-accented
Sartoran.
    Lilah yelped behind the gag.
    “I suppose,” the man said, “you are hungry
and thirsty. We will stop at sundown. Until then, you’ll live.” His
voice was slightly husky, almost more whisper than voice.
    It was creepy because there wasn’t any expression at
all in it, except for the sarcasm in the last two words. Was this man, maybe,
one of those ones who were killed and sent back alive again, their souls taken
by the authors of Norsunder? Just the idea of it made her quake inside.
    The dreary ride made the day seem the longest she had ever endured.
It was broken only by alterations between a slow canter and a walk, the walks
getting steadily longer as the hidden sun made its slow way across the sky
behind those thick clouds.
    Lilah veered between desperate boredom and fearful
anticipation of what would happen when the day did end. They stopped on the
banks of a tributary to the Ilder River. The man dismounted, pulled Lilah off,
plunked her down onto a flat rock near the water, and said, “Sit. Don’t
move.”
    She sat, fingering uselessly at the tight-bound gag, too
tired and achy and light-headed to do anything else. The man took care of the
horse, leading it to drink a few paces away. He finished by putting down onto
the dusty ground a small sackful of stuff that smelled of grass and oats.
    While the animal lipped and snuffled its way through its
dinner, the man dug out another sack from his saddlebags, and pulled out one of
the hard-crusted breads that looked a lot like what the warriors at home in
Sarendan ate, when they couldn’t get anything else. Supposedly the inside
stayed soft—though that depended on how old the bread was.
    He tore the bread in half, cut crumbly cheese, and tossed
her share onto her lap. To that he added a few grapes that he’d obviously
picked while riding through Shendoral.
    The sight of the grapes reminded her of Shendoral. A cramp
of anguish tightened her insides, but she was glad to have them.
    With a sudden yank he pulled off the gag, ripping out a few
strands of her hair with it. “Eat up,” he said, working the gag’s
knot loose, and then trailing the cotton in the rushing river to wash it clean.
    Lilah looked at that water, her tongue feeling worse than
the dust around her feet. She carefully folded her food into her dusty lap, and
moved to the riverside to drink.
    The water was so cold it made her teeth ache, but it tasted
good. She drank until she gasped for air, then sat with her back to a stone and
tackled her food.
    He was already done with his share. As she chewed the bread
(yes, it was just as dry and tough as she’d feared), he washed his hands
and his knife, sheathed that, and then sat down, staring at her.
    “Landis is your family, that much I know. What’s
your given name?” he asked.
    Lilah squeaked in her home tongue, “You mean Atan’s?”
And almost choked on a bit of cheese.
    “What?” he repeated in Sartoran, eyes narrowed.
    Of course her first instinct was to exclaim that he had the
wrong person, that she wasn’t Yustnesveas Landis! She was Lilah Selenna
of Sarendan!
    But she hesitated, and stared down at the crumbs in her lap
as her fingers toyed with her last grape. And here began the inward battle.
    She could tell him who she was, of course. And then what? He’d
probably kill her on the spot and ride all the way back—
    And get Atan, and condemn all of Sartor forever.
    Conviction locked her muscles, and her blood chilled in her
veins. She sat there mentally struggling. Not even the night before her brother’s
trial had been this terrible, for that time it was not her own life in
jeopardy, but her brother’s.
    Either she spoke up now, probably ending up dead, and
definitely endangering Atan. And everyone else who depended on her breaking the
waiting spells.
    Or... what? Go on, pretend she was Atan? And then what? Probably
get killed! But if it didn’t happen