L'acoci was kept busy at the simmering stew pot for the
sake of the other slaves. They were due to come in from the fields just
as dusk dimmed into night, and the old crone did not appear to take
especial notice of Si'Wren's physical distress.
But when Si'Wren finally began to moan in pain, at long last L'acoci
deigned to hear her cries as the old hag came over to her and took her
firmly by the shoulders, whispering urgently to her to be silent and
lie still.
She could not. The rejection by Master Rababull, the slaying of
Nelatha, the humiliation, and the beating all seemed increasingly
overwhelming to her. Such torment and emotional anguish as she had
never known filled her being, so real and so indomitable. She could not
will it away. She could not face up to it. She could not escape it nor
answer it.
Then, suddenly, Habrunt was there, momentarily putting aside his many
responsibilities, kneeling beside her with a clay cup of herb tea in
his large hand as his other hand gently supported her head.
He spoke to her soft words of comfort, and somehow the unwavering look
in his eyes and the warmth of the beverage offered by his very own hand
filled her with such a sense of reassurance that it seemed to suffuse
her very soul with an awareness that without Habrunt, she should surely
have known damnation.
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