Habrunt's eyes, shot through with grief and an inconsolable look of
self-condemnation and awfulness of purpose, looked upon Nelatha's slain
body momentarily. He was no longer Habrunt the kind Slavemaster, to
whom one might look when trouble raised it's ugly head, but had become
an unwilling angel of death instead.
Habrunt finally turned to Si'Wren, who knelt still before him, utterly
speechless and motionless. Looking dazed, she gazed long upon the
bloody corpse of once-cheerful Nelatha, divided in half at the neck,
like the broken jade goddess.
Master Rababull, who was still watching, had said let her never speak
again, but live. What could that possibly mean? thought Si'Wren.
Habrunt reached down and almost lovingly slid his trembling,
work-roughened fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck with his
left hand. As Habrunt tilted Si'Wren's head back her face was lifted up
and her tear-streaked cheeks were revealed beneath eyes looking
ever-trustingly up into his, in absolute surrender to his will,
signifying that she had not the slightest thought of resisting her fate.
But Habrunt could not do what was commanded of him, and hesitated.
There were any number of alternatives, all contrary to Master
Rababull's wishes and hence instantly fatal, but he had a sword.
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