Deep in her heart, Si'Wren had always held as deep a love, reverence,
and respect for Sorpiala as if she were an elder sister, although they
were unrelated by blood. An orphan, Si'Wren had no known siblings. As
for the other slaves in the House, many were known to be the children
of Master Rababull, for he was a man who had many wives, and the
slave-offspring which he had sired might at least claim many
half-brothers or half-sisters among their kin. Not being freeborn, this
was anyhow counted an honor among those slaves who could boast of it,
for it gave them many incidental advantages they might not otherwise
enjoy in their low estate.
But Si'Wren had none to call blood kin. Not a soul.
Si'Wren had also been afraid of Sorpiala more recently, purely aside
from the warnings of others, because of the queerest look Si'Wren
thought she saw in Sorpiala's eyes now and again. It was an alarming
expression, like a deep, searing mask of thinly-veiled hatred, the way
that a surface layer of whitest ash masked the red glow of a fire
living in a long-burning bed of coals while betraying no visible flame
or spark on the surface.
Such confused goings-on both frightened and perplexed Si'Wren, and she
was naturally at a loss how to respond, and so did nothing.
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