And it seemed to her that sometimes now Si'Wren
felt Master Rababull's eyes lingering inordinately long upon her, and
could only feign not to notice, for she was utterly at a loss to know
how to behave, even without the unconventional idea of some unguessable
danger stemming out of Sorpiala's secretly harbored and uncontrolled
upwellings of jealousy.
It was well-enough known to all, that syrupy sweet Sorpiala could
without warning become subtle and vicious at the slightest perceived
insult. For Sorpiala's lips were quick to smile, although her
almond-shaped eyes had always betrayed an hardness, and Sorpiala could
be unrelentingly vindictive about her jealousies, which were countless.
Sorpiala had been the Master's favorite for as long as Si'Wren could
remember. Cross up Sorpiala, and you could end up strapped to the
nearest alter with a stone knife hovering in a pair of hairy fists over
your chest.
There was no way of knowing how long Sorpiala had stood behind the two
of them in deathly silence, listening at their backs while Nelatha and
Si'Wren spoke foolishly, uttering what could all too easily become
their own death warrants on a moment's notice, for appearing to so
willfully and heedlessly forsake their proper duties.
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