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Galen stood at the rail, staring impassively back at the shore. ‘Soldiers,’ he said in a low tone. ‘A whole squad. See how quickly they came to the fire, lads?’ He nudged with his foot the boy who had complained. ‘Now you know why you stayed cold.’ He threw down a bundle of towels onto the deck beside them. ‘Now strip. Dry yourselves.’
Several of the boys looked hesitant at the thought of disrobing in public. Galen chuckled. ‘There is no modesty at sea. Dry yourselves or you’ll sicken. Don’t worry – I’ll let you keep the towels until your clothes have dried.’
Their sodden garments were taken and hung on a line near to the captives. The sun was beginning to climb in a sky that was largely unencumbered by clouds and, with the added help of the sea breeze, it would not be long until they could dress once again.
The ship hit deeper water, and Brann began to notice the feeling of the slow rise and fall as it rode the swell. A shout from the stern prompted several men to busy themselves with unfurling the sail on the single mast. Once the fresh wind caught in the canvas, causing it to flap and crack for a few moments before it swelled forwards, the drummer banged twice and a square-headed man with close-cropped grey hair bellowed, ‘Ship oars!’
With a rumble surprising in its brevity, the long oars were dragged on board and fastened into position. The rowers stretched muscles, settled more comfortably on their benches and caught their breath after the burst of hard exercise. The short intense nature of their effort had not allowed them to gain a second wind and, in the manner of men who knew not when their services would be called upon next, they seized without hesitation the chance to recuperate.
Brann sat on the deck and huddled against the other captives in the broad aisle that ran between the rowers. He hugged his knees to his chest, staring down at the planks of the deck. The wood was worn smooth, but was solid and tight-fitting; even that small detail suggested a quality ship, expertly crafted and carefully maintained. The easy confidence and efficiency of the men aboard, and the quality and condition of their weapons and clothing, added to the impression that he was among anything but a rag-tag group of outlaws and bandits. These were professionals, skilled and experienced – and Brann was unsure whether that was a good or a bad thing.
On one hand, he felt that his safety, while not admittedly at an all-time high, was more assured with such men in terms of avoiding either a shipwreck or harm at their hands than if they had been drunken unscrupulous oafs. And cleanliness and hygiene would lessen the chances of disease.
Alternatively, chances of escape would be virtually non-existent among captors such as these. They knew what they were doing and, in the case of Boar and most probably many of the others, had done it many times before. Whatever they were, they were good at it. Whatever their intentions for him – and, with a start, he realised that he had not even thought that far ahead – he was sure they would achieve them.
He was, to his surprise, not sure that he even wanted to return to his village, to the scene of the brutal deaths of everyone close to him. What was there for him to go back to, other than pain and grief? But where else did he have to go? His mind spun furiously. Shaking his head violently, he ran his fingers through his hair in anguish and confusion.
A pair of black boots stopped in front of him, breaking both his gaze and his whirling thoughts. A voice, cultured but anything but soft, said, ‘Welcome aboard. I assume none of you is a sailor. You have a morning to become accustomed to the motion of the ship, and to put your clothes back on. Then you will eat. Whether you feel like it or not.’
Brann looked up. ‘Why are we here? Where are we going?’
The tall man’s dark eyes locked with his and Brann’s stomach lurched with nerves at the intensity of the gaze, the first strong emotion he had felt since his capture. The man’s expression flickered, surprise momentarily evident. Brann cursed himself. A man like that would not be accustomed to being interrupted. So much for keeping a low profile.
‘You will find out soon enough. We have almost a full cargo now, and we are heading for port after just one more stop.’ He turned to go, then paused. ‘Rest assured, you will have more to concern you now than a ball game for apprentices.’
He brushed spray-soaked hair away from an L-shaped scar on his cheek, and returned to the rear of the ship.
The morning dragged by in a daze. At first, the movement of the ship caught Brann’s fascination. He’d known it would rise and fall, but he had never envisaged the rocking, both from side to side and front to back – or any combination of all of them. In the absence of any notable activity (with the wind filling the sail, the rowers were still taking the opportunity to doze and, of the crew, only the helmsman and a lookout remained in view) all he had to fill his attention were the noises – which comprised the creaking and groaning of wood and rope, the occasional sharp crack as the sail flapped, sporadic snores from the rowers and a soft whimpering from one of the boys beside him – and the sensation of movement. He tried to play games to relieve the boredom, predicting the combination of movements that would come next, or whether the boat would roll to the left before it rose. But it did not take long before he lost interest in that, also.
One of the boys retched, his body jerking forward and jangling the chains. Brann was relieved that at least he did not feel any sickness from the motion of the ship. Two of the boys spoke to their miserable and pained companion, trying, without success, to comfort him. It appeared from the conversation that the boy had nothing left in his stomach to vomit, having been brought over the course of a night and a day to the coast by captors who had lost all of their rations – and one of their number – in a fierce skirmish along the way. The boys had been left with Barak while the men left again to search for provisions, intending to meet up with the ship further up the coast. When Galen and Boar had arrived with Brann, Barak had left to find a vantage point to watch for the ship.
Brann watched the trio dispassionately, still feeling a detached onlooker. He was well aware that he was in the same situation as the other five, but still felt different from them in ways he could not rationalise, as if none of it was really happening to him, as if he were watching a performance by one of the groups of travelling players who would periodically visit his village.
‘Get a grip on yourself,’ he muttered angrily to himself, slapping his thigh as if to waken himself from a dream. You won’t find a way out of this unless you accept it is real, he thought.
The boy had stopped retching, and his comforters had fallen silent again. Now that the distraction of another in need was over, the captives were left to face their own misery once more, their hunched shoulders and hanging heads speaking more eloquently of their emotion than any words. And with the little tableau finished for Brann, he cast around the ship for anything else that could hold his interest.
A few warriors had returned to the fresh air of the open deck and were tending to their weapons, cleaning and oiling them to protect against the effects of the salt water and anything else that may have attached itself to them in their use over the past day. Those weapons that were not worn about their persons – and these seemed few, Brann thought wryly, considering the host of swords, knives and axes that festooned the men – such as spears, crossbows and bows, were carefully wrapped in lightly oiled cloths. Brann noticed, however, that even these wrapped weapons were never far from the warriors’ reach. Most of the men seemed to be from the same tall, powerful race as Galen, their pale skin beaten and scoured by the gods knew what sort of violent weather, by rain and wind or sun, by howling sandstorms or driving hail and lashing salty spray, until it matched the faded leather of their boots in consistency and colour. The remainder, few as they were, were from a variety of other origins, but they all had at least one thing in common: they were not men who would be caught unready.
The monotony was broken by the return of the boys’ clothes, but only briefly. Brann turned his attention to the rowers, sprawled against each other and whatever part of the ship was available as they took advantage of the chance to rest.
Brann had heard of ships that used rowing slaves, and had imagined such men to be huge muscle-bound hulks, selected for their stature and with their bulk increased by endless days of heavy toil. Instead, these men were of all sizes, but with a uniform leanness rather than being over-laden with bulging muscles. True, they looked strong enough – the ease with which they had handled the large unwieldy oars had been testament to that– but it seemed more of an adaptable strength that could cope equally well with short bursts of power or long stretches of steady rowing.
It seems obvious when you thing about it logically, he mused. I just never had reason to think about it before.
The ringing of a moving chain as one of the oarsmen shifted position drew his attention to their feet. The rowers sat in threes, and each man had a manacle on his left ankle with a short chain reaching from it to a ring at the other end. Under each bench, another chain ran, passing through each of these rings. This chain was anchored to the side of the boat at one end but, where it reached the aisle, it was linked by another ring to a long chain that ran the length of the ship.
The wild-haired boy beside Brann noticed his interest in the chains. ‘Clever, is it not, chief?’ he said, his voice as cold and flat as the sea around them. It was a statement of fact, not admiration. ‘Simple, but clever.’ The boy regarded him with a cold dispassion and Brann looked into the palest of blue eyes. They did not bore into him as the dark stare of the man with the L-shaped scar had done: instead, the intensity in this gaze was behind the eyes, a cold fire that burned within, never raging nor dying. There was something about him that suggested an older perspective on life. Perhaps it was his physical calm amidst the dejection of the other boys.
‘What do you mean?’ Brann asked. His voice was as low as his spirits and the aggression in the boy’s gaze indicated a temperament that he had always found irritating, but he welcomed any conversation that broke the tedium.
The lad nodded with economy of movement towards the rowing benches. ‘The chains. It is an old enough system, but it works, so why change it?’
‘What system? Surely they just get chained up and they row. That’s it.’
His companion shook his head slightly. ‘Simple, but not quite that simple.’ He spoke in short bursts, as if uncomfortable saying any more than was strictly necessary. It was so much in keeping with his appearance that Brann almost smiled. ‘My father rowed. On a galley bigger than this. An Empire one with three banks of oars. Until he escaped and tried farming instead.’
Brann’s eyes came alight. ‘Escaped?’
The pale eyes flicked his way. ‘Don’t get excited,’ he said. ‘It took more than a decade for the chance. Six tried; he and one other made it. That’s better than normal. We face a life of slavery.’ He snorted. ‘The son follows the father’s trade.’
‘So that’s what they mean for us? Galley slaves?’
The untameable hair quivered slightly as the head shook in reply. ‘Not right now, and not for you. Look around, chief: any spaces on the benches? It will be the slave markets of the Callenican Empire for us. A little lad like you? May be lucky and get a nice position as a house slave. Someone like me…’ He indicated his large ungainly frame, and shrugged. ‘People look at an oaf like me and think of heavy labour.’
‘Not all heavy labour is on a ship,’ Brann pointed out.
The boy spoke deliberately and patiently. ‘We will most likely finish in Sagia, the capital. They will look for a quick sale and Sagia holds the biggest slave market. There are no mines or quarries there. The farms are worked by families. The city is a port, so the work revolves around shipping. The Dockers’ Guild controls the jobs onshore, so all that’s left is a bench on some ship. If I’m lucky, I’ll get a watertight one.’
Brann looked more closely at him. The boy had noticed, and deduced, much in a short time. And he had knowledge that extended the width of a continent further than the half-day’s walk that had been the limit of Brann’s world until the day before. He could prove to be a valuable ally if they were ever to spot a chance to escape. ‘You know much about these distant places. Your father?’
‘Do you always ask so many questions?’
Brann grunted. ‘Only when I don’t know so many answers.’
The youth considered this, and nodded. ‘That’s fair enough. I was put to sleep each night with stories of his time at sea. Never thought I would get to see it for myself.’ He turned away and stared over the rail at the choppy blue-grey waves.
Emotion surged in Brann, taking him by surprise and forcing him to fight it hard. Somehow, what his companion left unsaid was more touching than if he had poured out his heart. For the first time since he had returned to consciousness, Brann felt empathy for another – and realised that he did not even know the name of the person who had awakened it. Unnerved by the combined power of grief, loss and fear, and lest it would overwhelm him, he forced the feelings back down, quickly re-establishing the cold, hard barrier. If he could not confront the emotion, it was better to avoid it. And, anyway, he was a little intrigued by what the youth had started to explain beforehand. Unlikely as it seemed, he was finding that he wasn’t quite so irritated by the boy’s personality as he had thought he would be. It was intense, but there was comfort in its straightforward logic.
‘What did you mean about a system?’ Brann ventured. ‘To do with the chains,’ he prompted.
The youth nodded at the rowers. ‘They are slaves… but valuable slaves. They do what they do, well. Their bodies have adapted to it. And, if they are rowing, the warriors can be warriors. So the warriors take care of the rowers. Do you see what I mean, chief?’
Brann nodded. He felt hollow, as if nothing really mattered but, under current circumstances, he had time to fill and he was at least learning about his surroundings. Despite the logic in the boy’s dismissal of any chance of escape, that course was exactly the one he intended to follow at the first opportunity, and the more knowledge he gathered about his captors and surroundings, the more likely he was to spot, or even create, such an opportunity. ‘I understand what you say,’ he said, ‘but what has it got to do with the chains?’ The chill eyes looked at him. ‘Sorry. More questions. I know. You must be tired.’
‘If I was tired, I would sleep. But I’m not. You have a question, I have the answer, and we both have the time.
‘At times, the chains need to come off quickly. A sinking ship, or an attack with hand-to-hand fighting.’
Brann was puzzled. ‘Why then? So they can be protected from harm?’
The boy shook his head. ‘Well-treated slaves are better staying with the masters they have. The alternative is to risk worse with someone else. If the attack is by pirates, the alternative is worse. So, in such times, they fight beside the crew and, when it is over, return to the benches. At sea, this is accepted.’
Brann considered this. ‘I count sixty rowers, and about twenty-five or so crew. Once the fighting is over, could the slaves not…?’
‘I know, chief. Could they not overpower their masters?’ He shrugged. ‘They need each other. And you have seen these warriors: weapons are their life. If the slaves did overcome them, it would be at terrible cost. And they would always be fugitives, hunted by those who would fear other slaves encouraged to follow suit. So why risk it? Anyway, after fifteen years at the oars, a galley slave is freed. They reckon you have deserved it if you live that long. The longer you row, the closer you are to that.’
Brann’s eyes narrowed. ‘So why did your father take such a risk to escape?’
The boy stared over the sea once again. ‘A valid question, chief. His circumstances changed. His ship was taken by pirates. Several slaves were tortured and thrown overboard to show the consequence of defiance. So he reasoned his situation had worsened. Yes, he had little more than two years of his fifteen left, but pirates tend not to adhere to that arrangement. They work their slaves till they drop. They can always pick up more. A small group saw an opportunity. It was a slight chance, but desperation drove them. He made it; all but one of the others did not. But they were under a death sentence anyway.’
He flexed his shoulders and arched his back against the effects of sitting still. ‘So, the chains. Do you see the two long chains that run fore to aft – front to back? In emergencies, the crew can unfasten those chains at one end and pull them through to the other. Each set of rowers can then pull out the chain that runs under their bench, linking their individual chains. They are completely unfettered in seconds. And, you will notice that the long chains running up the aisle not only run through the rings on each bench’s chain. They pass through several metal rings that secure hasps set into the aisle. Those hasps are for hatches into compartments containing weapons for the slaves. So, when the long chains are pulled free to let loose the slaves, they also give access to the weapons. The slaves can be unchained and armed in moments.’
Brann’s face clouded as a thought struck him. ‘These men don’t seem to be pirates, yet they have taken us as slaves. Surely they are pirates.’
‘Not all who take slaves are pirates. In the Empire, and the southern lands still more dusty, slaves are a part of life. They are traded and valued just as a horse or a sword or a house would be. These men here are seafarers, chief, and northerners mostly. They will be engaged by a slave-trader to fetch him goods to sell. On another day they would be transporting passengers or goods to a market or to a buyer’s estate.’
A warrior strolled down the aisle, checking the chains had not become tangled and kicking the occasional one. Brann looked at the legs of the men nearest him. ‘So, if I understand this properly, they can remove an individual rower by unlocking his manacles, or all three on a bench by unclipping them from the main chain along the aisle. So it can work for all of them or just one at a time, or almost any number in between.’
The boy almost smiled. ‘You seem to understand. But still I see confusion in your eyes.’
Brann nodded. ‘If there is such a special relationship that the slaves can be released and even armed if need be, why chain them up at all?’
‘Trust extends only so far, chief.’ The eyes burned with pale fire into his. ‘A wise man leaves as little to chance as possible.’ He shrugged. ‘And, in any case, it is expected. They are slaves. As, now, are we.’
Brann grunted. ‘Thank you for reminding me. For someone who is of few words, you speak at great length.’
‘I speak when I can offer something of value. Otherwise, I prefer to listen. Thus I learn what may be valuable. And you know more of your situation, which is no bad thing.’ His expression never yet wavered. ‘And it passed the time.’
Brann snorted, irritated by the reminder of his predicament. ‘At the moment, passing time is like passing water. I don’t particularly want to have to do either but, if the need arises, I’ll let you know.’
He was fixed with a curious stare, the head tilted to the side. ‘I would make the most of being able to pass time, chief. At the moment, it is the only one of the two for which you control the opportunity to do it.’
His childish pomposity was brutally exposed for what it was by simple logic. ‘I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that. It was kind of you to explain it all.’
‘Kind?’ It was only one word, but his tone was such that a speech could not have better conveyed the boy’s confusion. ‘You asked questions, I answered.’
Brann felt his mouth turn into a half-smile, as if it were an awkward movement. ‘One last answer, then: your name.’
‘One last answer for now. I feel you will have more questions over time. My father named me Gerens.’
‘And mine, Brann.’
‘Right you are, chief.’ The boy clasped his hand in a formality that was as comforting as it was incongruous in their situation. ‘I feel it is good to meet you.’
A voice boomed above them, making them both jump. The fat warrior, Boar, stood over them.
‘Up, maggots,’ he roared, rattling the chain so violently that several of them flinched – a reaction that seemed to please the oaf. ‘Those who can walk, get to the stern. That’s the bit at the back. Your food is there. Those who can’t walk will be dragged by those who can.’ He sniggered at what obviously passed for humour in his warped mind and thumped back up the aisle, leaving them to follow in whatever manner they could manage.
The sorry little group began to rise, some slower than others as cramped legs objected to movement. As they did so, the boat lurched, causing them to fall against each other. Brann was knocked from his feet and fell painfully against the end of a bench. He banged solidly against a sleeping rower, a burly bald man with an incongruously bushy black beard, but the man’s slumber was so deep – or he cared so little about a slip of a boy falling against him – that he merely wriggled into a different position without waking.
As he did so, a hard object poked into Brann. Instinctively, the boy’s hand slid forward and found the handle of a knife, tucked discreetly into the waistband of the man’s breeches. Before he could think, he had grasped the bone handle, pulling it smoothly with him as he rose, and secreting it within his sleeve while he pretended to hold his stomach in pain. By the time he did think about what he had done, and about the unbelievable folly of doing so, it was too late to undo it.
Two of the boys were helping up the one they had earlier comforted while he had been retching, and the rest of the group had managed to stand and were waiting until all were ready to move off. Brann mingled with them as they shuffled forwards, using their tangle of chained limbs to conceal his movements as he slipped the blade into his own belt under his tunic, not so much out of a desire to keep the knife but more for reasons of keeping it better hidden until he could secretly dispose of it. His heart pounded as he came dangerously close to panic. He cursed his idiocy and tugged his tunic down, even though it was already more than adequately covering the incriminating object. With each pace, he could feel the metal digging into him and, with each dig, his stomach lurched and churned with tense fear.
He cursed himself. Why had he done something so stupid? Why? He had taken the knife automatically, his hand moving before his mind considered the idea. If it were found on him, the best he could hope for would be that his death would be quick. The rower he had taken it from had been courting that risk also but, whatever his reason for doing so, it was immaterial now – the risk had passed to Brann. Yet he could not get rid of it at the moment without being caught. He would just have to remain alert for an opportunity… and he prayed that moment would come soon.
They reached the rear of the ship. A steep stairway led up in front of them to the raised area and two closed doors faced the group, one set either side of the steps. Before them a small table bore bread, cheese and water. The boys hurriedly grabbed some of each, and forced it down. With the exception of Gerens, who wolfed it down with all of the relish but none of the manners normally reserved for a finely prepared banquet, not one of them had much of an appetite, but they had no idea when they would next eat. So they ate.
Boar clambered clumsily down from the area above. ‘Through the door,’ his voice boomed. The boy at the front of the group reached for the nearest latch.
It was hard to believe Boar could shout any louder – but he did. ‘The other door, fool! If you step into the Captain’s cabin, you’ll spend the last two seconds of your life thinking about your mistake. Now move before you die of stupidity.’
The sorry group passed through the other door, discovering another steep set of stairs – almost a ladder – leading down below deck level. They found that the chain linking them was just long enough, if they were careful, to allow them all to climb down one by one.
‘Keep moving, maggots,’ Boar said, his voice relatively quieter but no less bullying.
The boys shuffled along a short corridor dimly lit by a single lamp, passing doorless portals that let them glimpse the rooms inside and, Brann realised, would allow any occupants to exit rapidly if necessary. No light burned in the first room they passed, but Brann was just able to make out the figures of those warriors not on deck who were grabbing, like the slaves above, the chance to sleep. The next room seemed to be used as both a kitchen and storeroom and, like the first, was in darkness. Dim light did come, however, from the room that lay straight ahead, which seemed to be their destination.
Boar confirmed it. ‘Straight ahead, maggots. Keep going. Welcome to your new home.’
They stumbled towards the room, steadying themselves against the walls that were conveniently close on either side. As they neared the doorway, Brann could see two rows of faces, all belonging to boys of around his age, lined along the walls to each side of a long narrow area, staring at the newcomers. Boar shoved them roughly towards the room.
‘In you go, maggots,’ he growled gleefully. ‘We’ll get you chained up with your new friends. You couldn’t ask for better quarters – it’s clean, dry and there’s even a latrine.’ He indicated a bucket beside the door. ‘If you’re good, we might even empty it now and again.’ He sniggered, once again finding himself highly amusing, although Brann suspected that this was not the first time he had produced this particular witticism. The whole procedure bore the hallmarks of a routine that the fat oaf thoroughly enjoyed.
As the boys started to file into the room, an eldritch screech burst from a room to their right. They stopped in terror. Like the others, Brann’s attention had been drawn by disconsolate curiosity to the room that was to be their temporary home to such an extent that he had not noticed this other room, let alone its occupant.
The scream started again but, this time, words could be made out. ‘Bring him to me! Bring him now!’
The man with the L-shaped scar stepped from the room. ‘Hold them there, Boar,’ he said. His order was unnecessary: the captives were rooted in terror, each hoping desperately he was not the subject of the ear-splitting demand.
The voice started again. ‘The little one. The little one at the back.’
Brann’s breathing froze and his chest constricted in fear. The tall man nodded to Boar. ‘You heard Our Lady,’ he said simply.
‘Yes, Captain. Right away, Captain,’ Boar said, the whine of his deferential tone a stark contrast to his previous bullying bluster. He knelt and hurriedly released Brann’s manacle.
The Captain waved Brann forward. ‘Come,’ he said, leading the way into the room as Boar resumed ushering the remainder of the group to their original destination. Gerens cast a look in Brann’s direction, his eyebrows raised. Brann knew that the boy was as mystified as he, and shrugged in reply. His initial fear had subsided greatly, mainly due to his emotionally dulled state of mind and the belief that his situation could not, conceivably, deteriorate to any great extent. Maybe he was taking Gerens’s implacable logic to heart.
The room was more shadows than light. Two candles flickered shapes on the walls, a worrying hazard on a ship, Brann thought, where all other light was provided by oil lanterns that were sturdily constructed and designed to avoid spillages. The Captain was standing beside what appeared to be a pile of rags. Assuming this to be the source of the voice, Brann continued towards it and stopped several feet short, unsure what to do.
The words did, indeed, come from the rags. ‘Come closer, boy,’ it said. It was the voice of an old woman and now had, to his surprise, a gentle tone, almost kindly. The most astonishing thing about it was not the dramatic drop in volume, however, but how normal it sounded. He had expected a mysterious whisper or, at least, a demented growl. Certainly not something that sounded like a benevolent grandmother.
‘I don’t always screech, you know. Terrible sore on the throat, so it is.’ She laughed, softly. ‘But it surely catches people’s attention, so it does. It catches their attention. And it does me no harm to have a certain reputation. I like to keep them on their toes, so I do. Unpredictable tends to work well in my profession. Mad and mysterious, that’s me.’ She laughed again, almost a giggle this time. ‘Just you remember that, little one, when they ask you what I said. And they will ask you, so they will. So tell them I was mad and mysterious. Mysterious and mad. And terrifying. Terrifying is good, so it is.’
She coughed, a dry, dusty old sound. ‘Come closer again, boy. I will not bite. No teeth, see: makes it difficult, so it does.’ She laughed again.
Brann shuffled forward, beginning to make out her wizened face: sunken, watery eyes amid protruding cheekbones and creases upon creases. White hair hung limply, held in place by a thin gold chain that dangled an assortment of charms across her forehead; they jingled musically at the slightest movement.
His foot brushed against something, causing a slight rattling sound. The Captain had been standing, silent and still, while she spoke but, at the noise from the floor, he flinched with a sharp intake of breath.
The old lady was, however, more calm. ‘Mind the bones, boy, mind the bones,’ she said equably.
Brann looked down with a nervous jerk to see a selection of small rune-engraved bones (animal or human, he did not know – did not want to know) lying scattered on the floor. One of the candles had been placed to cast light on the area, but he had been so intent on the woman’s face as he walked forward that he had stumbled right into the macabre relics.
He drew back in horror. Stories abounded about the folly of incurring the wrath of women like this. Call them what you will – seeresses, witches, wisewomen, earthmothers, oracles – it did not do to cross them. No one knew for sure if tales of mysterious retribution held some truth or were exaggerated fancy but, by the same token, no one was willing to take the risk of testing the theory. To anger them was a bad idea, but to touch, and therefore sully, the individual tools of any of these women, whether it be bones, animal entrails, embers of a fire, sacred stones or any one of myriad other objects, dead or alive, that were their means of divining anything – from the future, the weather or the chances of crops failing or cows calving to the prospects of armies triumphing or women conceiving – was sacrilege.
And he had just stood on top of them.
