Spoils of War - Chapter 11
Here is today's update of this one...
It was a fine spring day, and Inzilanî had been awake since dawn, peeking through the curtains that hung protectively between her and the rest of the world. She was waiting for the healer to bring the basket of food to the talan that would allow her to break her fast and begin the day properly, as he had for the past two weeks. Sure enough, a stirring came from the rope ladder that could be only one person. He was, after all, one of only two people she'd seen since she'd awakened here, in this aerie in the trees.
"Bronamar? I go down today?" Inzilanî asked the moment the healer's head peeked through her curtains, as she had done every morning lately. "Please?"
"No. You need more words." Bronamar, who, for some reason, had become her teacher - and a demanding one at that - settled into the chair across the table from her, putting his basket on the table between them. From it, he pulled a small loaf of bread out and held it up. "What is this?"
"Bread."
"And this?"
"Cheese."
"And this?"
"Bronamar! I need make… no… do work." She crossed her arms over her chest in frustration, taking care not to jostle the bandages at her wrists too much. The wounds where she had cut herself still hurt badly enough that she needed his tea during the day to chase the pain away. "I no need words to work."
"Eat, and talk," he offered. "I have something for you today." He gestured toward the table, and the slightly larger basket he had brought this day.
"What you have?" Inzilanî perked a little, sitting down obediently, wishing she dared pulled the basket close and peek in. Her days had become a very tiring trial, with Bronamar not only teaching her the words of the nimîr, but how to sing some simple nimîr songs and listen to birdsong as well as. He would let her tidy her talan after lessons, and set the table for the meals they shared as well as collect the dishes and wash them in a small bowl that was also provided for her to wash herself, but little else. During the long evening hours when he was gone, with only the nimir woman who never had much to say staying with her, she would have nothing to do but sit and think, which always made her sad. If he said he had something for her today, it might make the days to come pass more quickly.
"First eat, then talk, then…" He said a word she didn't understand.
She frowned. "Not know that word."
He chuckled. "Do not worry. You will learn. Now…" He used a dagger he wore at his belt to cut thick slabs of cheese from the half wheel and lay one each on the half-loaves that he'd already torn open. "Tell me your dreams."
"Same dreams," Inzilanî grumbled, taking a bite so her mouth was full. She had learned at last that the nimîr didn't speak with their mouths full of food, and she was trying to learn their ways. It had made it possible for her to not answer him sometimes, especially when he asked about things that hurt. And for the last few days, Bronamar had been asking about her dreams and making her talk about them, although she had managed with a shrug to keep from saying much on the topic so far. He had stopped giving her the bitter juice that made her sleep heavily and without dreams at night, and her dreams were slowly started turning dark again. She swallowed most of the bite. "Not good talk for eat."
"Tell me. This is a good time to talk."
She sighed and put her bread and cheese down on the table. If he wanted to know, then maybe she should tell him. Maybe then he'd stop asking. "I with uruk, he…" She didn't have a word for what the uruk had done with her, and she used her hands to vividly and violently illustrate it. Bronamar's brows rose high on his head, but he didn't give her the word she wanted. "What word…" She illustrated the action again and tipped her head.
Bronamar shook his head. "It is not a good word, Inzilanî. It is a bad thing."
She nodded. Yes, it had been a very bad thing. "Every day he…" She did the sign again. "I cry and cry, no help. Big hurt." Even thinking about that up in the talan, far from anything dark, made her tremble. "I cry after, and he…" Again, she had no word for what came after he used her, so she closed her fist and thrust it gently into her stomach, careful to miss where that bandage sat. "Or…" She kicked out her foot. "I dream that."
He was quiet long enough that she was just beginning to hope she'd satisfied his curiosity, when: "Nothing more in the dream?"
Oh, she really didn't want to talk about that at all. She sighed and once more hoped that if she gave him what he wanted just this one time, he wouldn't press her anymore. "I… dream bad time. Make big hurt to uruk." Yes, the urkan had screamed loudly while she'd used small cuts to slowly rip away that worst part of him. "Many blood… much blood," she corrected herself.
"In the trees?" he prompted gently. She nodded and sniffed. He sat for a moment, thinking. "Orch makes you hurt, so you make the orch hurt. Yes?" Again she nodded. "When you hurt orch, you are happy?"
She nodded. "Urkan happy make hurts. I happy make uruk hurt. I urkan." It was the simple truth, and it still hurt to say it.
Bronamar shook his head. "No. You are not an orch. Tell me, when you see the orch come, you are happy?"
"No!" Inzilanî stared at him with wide eyes. "I…" She shivered and put up her hands defensively, cowering.
"Yes. You are afraid." Bronamar copied her posture and expression. "Afraid."
"Afraid." Inzilanî repeated the word. It was an important word, one she needed to learn quickly.
"You are afraid, and then you are…" Bronamar's brows lowered, he bared his teeth and roared like a bear or warg at her. "Yes?"
She remembered the red curtain that had fallen, the one that made everything that came next so very unreal. "Yes."
"Anger," he supplied the word. He roared at her again, and repeated, "You are angry."
"Angry," she repeated, filing another very important word away.
"Anger is good," he said next.
Inzilanî sat back, shaking her head vehemently. "No! Angry not good! I…" She raised her fist as if it had the dagger in it and brought it down, and then again, and again. "I angry not think. Cut. Make hurt like uruk."
"Yes," he said, catching her hand and pulling it back to the table. "Exactly. Anger makes you not think. Anger makes you make hurt like an orch. It is not you that makes the hurt, the anger makes the hurt."
She stared at him, barely believing her ears. "I… make bad hurt. Bad thing."
"You were angry. Anger makes the bad hurt - the bad thing."
"I urkan."
"No." Bronamar laid his hand on her forearm above her bandage. "You are not an orch."
"I better dead."
"No." He shook his head at her. "No."
Their discussions about the dreams were always going to end that way, evidently, whether she spoke of them or not. She'd failed again. Inzilanî picked up her bread and cheese and took another big bite, putting an end to the talk.
oOoOo
"Tell me about Borongil," Bronamar said calmly. He had brought work with him that day - several large bunches of dried herbs - and was sitting at the table, patiently stripping leaves and crushing them into little pots.
Inzilanî carefully put her needle into the fabric that had been his gift to her a few weeks back, although he claimed that it had come from Malheril, and she looked over at him. She composed her thoughts while rubbing at the light bandages over the healing scars on her wrist that tended to itch more often than not anymore. "Borongil take… took me away from urik camp. He… watch… watched me."
"Is that all?"
She narrowed her eyes. When Bronamar asked very simple questions, it was a time to pay attention. "He give… gave… me a dagger before war… no… fight. He bring… brought… me to…" She didn't have a word for the underground halls. She gestured as best she could.
"Halls," he supplied, tossing a bare twig aside into the stack of discards. "More?"
"He sing to me…"
"Sang," he corrected sharply.
"He sang to me," she repeated with a sigh. "The songs help with the dreams, make them go away."
"You are friends with Borongil." He leaned his elbows on the table and watched her closely.
"No." She shook her head and tried to think of a way to explain… "I… What the word for me when with uruk?"
Bronamar blinked. "Slave. You were the slave of the orch."
"I was the slave of Borongil, before…" She pointed sadly to her wrists. "He not let me work much, but I was his slave."
"Inzilanî!" The healer's eyes were wide. "No! You are no slave here."
She nodded. "Yes. He not want… he didn't want me for…" She made the crude sign for what the urkan had done to her. "…so I try… tried… to work. Clean. Make table ready for eat… eating." Her face fell. "I not… I was not good slave. Malheril call other slaves come clean, make me stop. My work not good enough."
"You are not Borongil's slave!"
"I know." She gave a small, sad smile. "Borongil give… gave me away after I try… tried to die." She pointed to her lightly bandaged wrist again. "Is good. I… I was much troubles for him. I think…" She blushed and then felt all her strength flee from her. "I think I am your slave now. When you want…" She made the crude sign again, wishing he would just tell her the word for the act. "…you will tell me. I not… I will not fight. Maybe you not… will not hurt me, and I… will not cry and cry. I try… will try… to be good slave."
She picked up her needle and returned to her practice sewing, something she had resisted when with Malheril in the dark Hall, but something she was slowly learning to enjoy now. Her needle shook almost as badly as her insides did, however, at the though that Bronamar might begin to ask for that from her now. Not having had to do that had been a great relief during her time with the nimîr so far; but as her owner now, Bronamar had the right to command her to submit to him without hesitation or question. Then again, she had felt his touch often enough back when he had changed the bandages on her many hurts, and she knew he could be gentle. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad with him.
But after a while, she wondered why her new owner hadn't asked her any more questions. She also didn't understand the reason he refused to look at her again, or why he seemed to be tearing his herbs apart in anger. Had she done something wrong again?
oOoOo
"Tell me about your home," Bronamar demanded in his firm, teacher's voice. "Tell me about the place where you were before you were a slave."
Inzilanî gazed about her. It was a warm, late summer day, and he had recently begun taking her on short walks beneath the trees after the midday meal. "It is very different from this," she said quietly, waving her hand at the trees and the grass. "Not so many… We had not so many trees there, no grass. Mostly…" Her vocabulary failed, and she stopped their progress to bend and pinch a little soil between her fingers. "Like dirt, but here we find only by streams…"
"Ah. Sand." Bronamar reclaimed her hand to his elbow and they resumed their slow walk. "Was it warmer than this?"
"Oh yes! For us, this is almost a cold day." She smiled at the memory. "On this kind of day, maybe the spirits give us rain, but only a little."
"Were there streams? Rivers?"
She frowned. "What are rivers?"
"Like streams, only bigger and deeper."
"Not many streams, and one river only. River… the river came from the high mountains far away, belong… belonged to the spirits and ancestors. Next to the river, all is green, with many trees." Again she smiled in memory. "My ammê brought me once to the… how you say special day, with many music and dancing?"
Bronamar's eyes smiled at her. "A festival?"
"We came once to the festival at the river. Many people come from far villages, like we did. When at the fire, after sacrifice to spirits… to the spirits… my sisters and I danced, my attô had… a drum… you know drum?" She retrieved her hand and pretended to play as her attô had, and Bronamar smiled and nodded. Then, as she stopped her playing, her face cleared of all emotion. "When dancing was over, my attô take… took… me to the man who took me away, and made me a slave."
Bronamar reclaimed her hand and pressed it into the bend in his elbow, and his hold on her was a little tighter. "How many sisters and brothers do you have?"
"I not… I don't know now. Three turns of seasons are gone now since I was there, and the… You have name for Lord of the urik?"
"We call him and all who served him The Enemy," Bronamar said slowly. "Not you, though. You were a slave, not an enemy."
Inzilanî shrugged. "Many of my people served this Enemy, I know this. Maybe my brothers were warriors when Enemy say 'go fight.' Two brothers, big… bigger than me. Two sisters, bigger than me too. I never… I will never know what happen to them, if ammê and attô still live. I never see… I will never see them again."
"Why?" The healer stopped her and turned to her, his eyes wide. "Do you not want to go home?"
"I have no home," she answered sadly, "except this place. I am your slave, and I stay with you."
"You are not my slave, Inzilanî." His sigh betrayed him. This was an old argument now, one that distressed them both.
"My home is here," she repeated softly, without restating the obvious. She didn't like distressing him, even if he refused to believe what was clearly the truth.
"So." Bronamar patted her hand and began walking slowly again, obviously determined to change the subject. "You say you dance?"
Inzilanî shook her head and laughed bitterly. "The Umbari captain told me, when I his… when I was his slave, that I dance like a… how you say animal that say 'mooo' and make milk?" She pulled her hand away again and put both of them at her temples, with her little fingers crooked like horns.
"Your Umbari captain was blind, you are no cow." The statement was almost angry.
"Umbari captain was very good teacher of slaves… many peoples know… knew… of him. He made me do things many, many times so I not look like… cow." Again, the memories weren't good ones, and her voice grew soft. "He use…" She made a whipping gesture. "…many times… said that I cannot learn good."
"Maybe you can dance at one of our festivals," Bronamar said with a deliberately lighter voice.
Inzilanî shook her head again. "I don't want to make shame for you. I no… I am no good with the dance." She took a deep breath and then released it, working hard in the way her new owner had taught her to banish the bad feelings that came with the darker memories. "Besides, I not have… I don't have things I need. Cannot dance without…" She moved her thumbs and forefingers together, remembering the tiny finger cymbals. She then swayed her hips and shook a foot at him, pointing at both. "Also need many, many small bells, here and here. And no one play… plays the drum good. I think nimîr dance very different from dance of my people."
"I want to see you dance."
She glanced up at his face, surprised at the firmness of the statement of his desire. "Then I will dance for you… in the talan tonight," she promised and bowed to him. She was his slave, and he had proven a kind and caring master; all he had to do was express a wish, and she would be more than happy to fulfill it. She would keep the sounds of the finger cymbals and the bells in her mind, and remember the way her attô would make the drum talk, and she would dance for him. If he was like the men of her people, he would want bed comfort after, of course - that was the purpose of the dance, after all: to lead men to celebrate life in the one way that made new life. She shuddered at the thought of having to do that again, but reminded herself sternly that she was his slave, bound to do whatever he asked of her.
Most important, however, was that, for the first time, she had received a direct command from her master, made in the proper manner. And with that, her world had righted itself just a little bit.
Vocabulary
ammê - (A) mother
attô - (A) father
nimir - (A) elf
nimîr - (A) elves
orch - (S) orc
urik - (A) orcs (obj. case)
urkan - (A) orc (nom. case)
uruk - (A) orc (obj. case)
yrch - (S) orcs
It was a fine spring day, and Inzilanî had been awake since dawn, peeking through the curtains that hung protectively between her and the rest of the world. She was waiting for the healer to bring the basket of food to the talan that would allow her to break her fast and begin the day properly, as he had for the past two weeks. Sure enough, a stirring came from the rope ladder that could be only one person. He was, after all, one of only two people she'd seen since she'd awakened here, in this aerie in the trees.
"Bronamar? I go down today?" Inzilanî asked the moment the healer's head peeked through her curtains, as she had done every morning lately. "Please?"
"No. You need more words." Bronamar, who, for some reason, had become her teacher - and a demanding one at that - settled into the chair across the table from her, putting his basket on the table between them. From it, he pulled a small loaf of bread out and held it up. "What is this?"
"Bread."
"And this?"
"Cheese."
"And this?"
"Bronamar! I need make… no… do work." She crossed her arms over her chest in frustration, taking care not to jostle the bandages at her wrists too much. The wounds where she had cut herself still hurt badly enough that she needed his tea during the day to chase the pain away. "I no need words to work."
"Eat, and talk," he offered. "I have something for you today." He gestured toward the table, and the slightly larger basket he had brought this day.
"What you have?" Inzilanî perked a little, sitting down obediently, wishing she dared pulled the basket close and peek in. Her days had become a very tiring trial, with Bronamar not only teaching her the words of the nimîr, but how to sing some simple nimîr songs and listen to birdsong as well as. He would let her tidy her talan after lessons, and set the table for the meals they shared as well as collect the dishes and wash them in a small bowl that was also provided for her to wash herself, but little else. During the long evening hours when he was gone, with only the nimir woman who never had much to say staying with her, she would have nothing to do but sit and think, which always made her sad. If he said he had something for her today, it might make the days to come pass more quickly.
"First eat, then talk, then…" He said a word she didn't understand.
She frowned. "Not know that word."
He chuckled. "Do not worry. You will learn. Now…" He used a dagger he wore at his belt to cut thick slabs of cheese from the half wheel and lay one each on the half-loaves that he'd already torn open. "Tell me your dreams."
"Same dreams," Inzilanî grumbled, taking a bite so her mouth was full. She had learned at last that the nimîr didn't speak with their mouths full of food, and she was trying to learn their ways. It had made it possible for her to not answer him sometimes, especially when he asked about things that hurt. And for the last few days, Bronamar had been asking about her dreams and making her talk about them, although she had managed with a shrug to keep from saying much on the topic so far. He had stopped giving her the bitter juice that made her sleep heavily and without dreams at night, and her dreams were slowly started turning dark again. She swallowed most of the bite. "Not good talk for eat."
"Tell me. This is a good time to talk."
She sighed and put her bread and cheese down on the table. If he wanted to know, then maybe she should tell him. Maybe then he'd stop asking. "I with uruk, he…" She didn't have a word for what the uruk had done with her, and she used her hands to vividly and violently illustrate it. Bronamar's brows rose high on his head, but he didn't give her the word she wanted. "What word…" She illustrated the action again and tipped her head.
Bronamar shook his head. "It is not a good word, Inzilanî. It is a bad thing."
She nodded. Yes, it had been a very bad thing. "Every day he…" She did the sign again. "I cry and cry, no help. Big hurt." Even thinking about that up in the talan, far from anything dark, made her tremble. "I cry after, and he…" Again, she had no word for what came after he used her, so she closed her fist and thrust it gently into her stomach, careful to miss where that bandage sat. "Or…" She kicked out her foot. "I dream that."
He was quiet long enough that she was just beginning to hope she'd satisfied his curiosity, when: "Nothing more in the dream?"
Oh, she really didn't want to talk about that at all. She sighed and once more hoped that if she gave him what he wanted just this one time, he wouldn't press her anymore. "I… dream bad time. Make big hurt to uruk." Yes, the urkan had screamed loudly while she'd used small cuts to slowly rip away that worst part of him. "Many blood… much blood," she corrected herself.
"In the trees?" he prompted gently. She nodded and sniffed. He sat for a moment, thinking. "Orch makes you hurt, so you make the orch hurt. Yes?" Again she nodded. "When you hurt orch, you are happy?"
She nodded. "Urkan happy make hurts. I happy make uruk hurt. I urkan." It was the simple truth, and it still hurt to say it.
Bronamar shook his head. "No. You are not an orch. Tell me, when you see the orch come, you are happy?"
"No!" Inzilanî stared at him with wide eyes. "I…" She shivered and put up her hands defensively, cowering.
"Yes. You are afraid." Bronamar copied her posture and expression. "Afraid."
"Afraid." Inzilanî repeated the word. It was an important word, one she needed to learn quickly.
"You are afraid, and then you are…" Bronamar's brows lowered, he bared his teeth and roared like a bear or warg at her. "Yes?"
She remembered the red curtain that had fallen, the one that made everything that came next so very unreal. "Yes."
"Anger," he supplied the word. He roared at her again, and repeated, "You are angry."
"Angry," she repeated, filing another very important word away.
"Anger is good," he said next.
Inzilanî sat back, shaking her head vehemently. "No! Angry not good! I…" She raised her fist as if it had the dagger in it and brought it down, and then again, and again. "I angry not think. Cut. Make hurt like uruk."
"Yes," he said, catching her hand and pulling it back to the table. "Exactly. Anger makes you not think. Anger makes you make hurt like an orch. It is not you that makes the hurt, the anger makes the hurt."
She stared at him, barely believing her ears. "I… make bad hurt. Bad thing."
"You were angry. Anger makes the bad hurt - the bad thing."
"I urkan."
"No." Bronamar laid his hand on her forearm above her bandage. "You are not an orch."
"I better dead."
"No." He shook his head at her. "No."
Their discussions about the dreams were always going to end that way, evidently, whether she spoke of them or not. She'd failed again. Inzilanî picked up her bread and cheese and took another big bite, putting an end to the talk.
oOoOo
"Tell me about Borongil," Bronamar said calmly. He had brought work with him that day - several large bunches of dried herbs - and was sitting at the table, patiently stripping leaves and crushing them into little pots.
Inzilanî carefully put her needle into the fabric that had been his gift to her a few weeks back, although he claimed that it had come from Malheril, and she looked over at him. She composed her thoughts while rubbing at the light bandages over the healing scars on her wrist that tended to itch more often than not anymore. "Borongil take… took me away from urik camp. He… watch… watched me."
"Is that all?"
She narrowed her eyes. When Bronamar asked very simple questions, it was a time to pay attention. "He give… gave… me a dagger before war… no… fight. He bring… brought… me to…" She didn't have a word for the underground halls. She gestured as best she could.
"Halls," he supplied, tossing a bare twig aside into the stack of discards. "More?"
"He sing to me…"
"Sang," he corrected sharply.
"He sang to me," she repeated with a sigh. "The songs help with the dreams, make them go away."
"You are friends with Borongil." He leaned his elbows on the table and watched her closely.
"No." She shook her head and tried to think of a way to explain… "I… What the word for me when with uruk?"
Bronamar blinked. "Slave. You were the slave of the orch."
"I was the slave of Borongil, before…" She pointed sadly to her wrists. "He not let me work much, but I was his slave."
"Inzilanî!" The healer's eyes were wide. "No! You are no slave here."
She nodded. "Yes. He not want… he didn't want me for…" She made the crude sign for what the urkan had done to her. "…so I try… tried… to work. Clean. Make table ready for eat… eating." Her face fell. "I not… I was not good slave. Malheril call other slaves come clean, make me stop. My work not good enough."
"You are not Borongil's slave!"
"I know." She gave a small, sad smile. "Borongil give… gave me away after I try… tried to die." She pointed to her lightly bandaged wrist again. "Is good. I… I was much troubles for him. I think…" She blushed and then felt all her strength flee from her. "I think I am your slave now. When you want…" She made the crude sign again, wishing he would just tell her the word for the act. "…you will tell me. I not… I will not fight. Maybe you not… will not hurt me, and I… will not cry and cry. I try… will try… to be good slave."
She picked up her needle and returned to her practice sewing, something she had resisted when with Malheril in the dark Hall, but something she was slowly learning to enjoy now. Her needle shook almost as badly as her insides did, however, at the though that Bronamar might begin to ask for that from her now. Not having had to do that had been a great relief during her time with the nimîr so far; but as her owner now, Bronamar had the right to command her to submit to him without hesitation or question. Then again, she had felt his touch often enough back when he had changed the bandages on her many hurts, and she knew he could be gentle. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad with him.
But after a while, she wondered why her new owner hadn't asked her any more questions. She also didn't understand the reason he refused to look at her again, or why he seemed to be tearing his herbs apart in anger. Had she done something wrong again?
oOoOo
"Tell me about your home," Bronamar demanded in his firm, teacher's voice. "Tell me about the place where you were before you were a slave."
Inzilanî gazed about her. It was a warm, late summer day, and he had recently begun taking her on short walks beneath the trees after the midday meal. "It is very different from this," she said quietly, waving her hand at the trees and the grass. "Not so many… We had not so many trees there, no grass. Mostly…" Her vocabulary failed, and she stopped their progress to bend and pinch a little soil between her fingers. "Like dirt, but here we find only by streams…"
"Ah. Sand." Bronamar reclaimed her hand to his elbow and they resumed their slow walk. "Was it warmer than this?"
"Oh yes! For us, this is almost a cold day." She smiled at the memory. "On this kind of day, maybe the spirits give us rain, but only a little."
"Were there streams? Rivers?"
She frowned. "What are rivers?"
"Like streams, only bigger and deeper."
"Not many streams, and one river only. River… the river came from the high mountains far away, belong… belonged to the spirits and ancestors. Next to the river, all is green, with many trees." Again she smiled in memory. "My ammê brought me once to the… how you say special day, with many music and dancing?"
Bronamar's eyes smiled at her. "A festival?"
"We came once to the festival at the river. Many people come from far villages, like we did. When at the fire, after sacrifice to spirits… to the spirits… my sisters and I danced, my attô had… a drum… you know drum?" She retrieved her hand and pretended to play as her attô had, and Bronamar smiled and nodded. Then, as she stopped her playing, her face cleared of all emotion. "When dancing was over, my attô take… took… me to the man who took me away, and made me a slave."
Bronamar reclaimed her hand and pressed it into the bend in his elbow, and his hold on her was a little tighter. "How many sisters and brothers do you have?"
"I not… I don't know now. Three turns of seasons are gone now since I was there, and the… You have name for Lord of the urik?"
"We call him and all who served him The Enemy," Bronamar said slowly. "Not you, though. You were a slave, not an enemy."
Inzilanî shrugged. "Many of my people served this Enemy, I know this. Maybe my brothers were warriors when Enemy say 'go fight.' Two brothers, big… bigger than me. Two sisters, bigger than me too. I never… I will never know what happen to them, if ammê and attô still live. I never see… I will never see them again."
"Why?" The healer stopped her and turned to her, his eyes wide. "Do you not want to go home?"
"I have no home," she answered sadly, "except this place. I am your slave, and I stay with you."
"You are not my slave, Inzilanî." His sigh betrayed him. This was an old argument now, one that distressed them both.
"My home is here," she repeated softly, without restating the obvious. She didn't like distressing him, even if he refused to believe what was clearly the truth.
"So." Bronamar patted her hand and began walking slowly again, obviously determined to change the subject. "You say you dance?"
Inzilanî shook her head and laughed bitterly. "The Umbari captain told me, when I his… when I was his slave, that I dance like a… how you say animal that say 'mooo' and make milk?" She pulled her hand away again and put both of them at her temples, with her little fingers crooked like horns.
"Your Umbari captain was blind, you are no cow." The statement was almost angry.
"Umbari captain was very good teacher of slaves… many peoples know… knew… of him. He made me do things many, many times so I not look like… cow." Again, the memories weren't good ones, and her voice grew soft. "He use…" She made a whipping gesture. "…many times… said that I cannot learn good."
"Maybe you can dance at one of our festivals," Bronamar said with a deliberately lighter voice.
Inzilanî shook her head again. "I don't want to make shame for you. I no… I am no good with the dance." She took a deep breath and then released it, working hard in the way her new owner had taught her to banish the bad feelings that came with the darker memories. "Besides, I not have… I don't have things I need. Cannot dance without…" She moved her thumbs and forefingers together, remembering the tiny finger cymbals. She then swayed her hips and shook a foot at him, pointing at both. "Also need many, many small bells, here and here. And no one play… plays the drum good. I think nimîr dance very different from dance of my people."
"I want to see you dance."
She glanced up at his face, surprised at the firmness of the statement of his desire. "Then I will dance for you… in the talan tonight," she promised and bowed to him. She was his slave, and he had proven a kind and caring master; all he had to do was express a wish, and she would be more than happy to fulfill it. She would keep the sounds of the finger cymbals and the bells in her mind, and remember the way her attô would make the drum talk, and she would dance for him. If he was like the men of her people, he would want bed comfort after, of course - that was the purpose of the dance, after all: to lead men to celebrate life in the one way that made new life. She shuddered at the thought of having to do that again, but reminded herself sternly that she was his slave, bound to do whatever he asked of her.
Most important, however, was that, for the first time, she had received a direct command from her master, made in the proper manner. And with that, her world had righted itself just a little bit.
Vocabulary
ammê - (A) mother
attô - (A) father
nimir - (A) elf
nimîr - (A) elves
orch - (S) orc
urik - (A) orcs (obj. case)
urkan - (A) orc (nom. case)
uruk - (A) orc (obj. case)
yrch - (S) orcs