Read 4: Witches' Blood for Free Online

Waves of heat rolled out over him. He shoved the tray of uncooked loaves inside and closed the oven door. Outside, predawn light had yet to soften the night sky. It would be hours before the majority of the ushvun’im woke.
    John sat down at the table across from Samsango.
    “It’s the Fai’daum, you know,” Samsango told him. He slowly measured out two more handfuls of ground taye into the mixing bowl. John cracked three weasel eggs into the bowl and began mixing as Samsango looked on. Slowly the red yolks of the weasel eggs colored the dough dull pink. John turned out the dough. Samsango scooped up the soft mass and began to expertly knead it.
      “Their leader is in the thrall of the demoness, Ji Shir’korud,” Samsango informed John.
    John nodded. He recognized the name and remembered the large yellow dog he’d seen addressing the Fai’daum on the night he had been taken in by the Bousim. It felt like ages ago.
      “The demoness teaches all the girls witchcraft and heresy. Then the poor, pretty things end up being burned. Such a waste.”
    John gazed at Samsango. A cold unease gnawed at him. The old ushvun went on working the bread dough as if the brutal murder of these girls was of no more consequence than wasted food. Samsango glanced up and gave John a gentle, warm smile.
    “Up all day in the infirmary and now working all night with me in the kitchen,” Samsango remarked. “You must be exhausted, Jahn.”
    “I’m fine,” John said. He knew Samsango to be a caring man, who had gone out of his way to help John settle in the monastery when he’d first arrived. Samsango took pains to see to the health of even the most ill-tempered goats and weasels. Yet, he could also easily conclude that a girl accused of witchcraft must be burned. He didn’t seem able to even imagine any other course of action.
    Intellectually, John knew that it was just a matter of culture. Samsango had no way of perceiving any morality apart from Payshmura holy law. Within the Basawar culture, Samsango was perfectly consistent. He was kind and just. It was only from John’s point of view that a contradiction emerged.
    John wondered briefly if this was how vegetarians felt watching their companions eat meat. Or how pacifists felt watching popular war films.
    He didn’t want this sensation of revulsion. He liked Samsango. That was why he had come down to the kitchens in the first place. But he couldn’t think of anything to say, any way to stop feeling alienated by the other man. He suddenly thought of Kyle, recalling the way his old roommate had, at times, just stood there staring at him. He, too, must have been shocked by the society around him. John wondered which of his own actions had sent waves of secret revulsion through Kyle.
    “You look like you’re about to fall asleep where you’re sitting,” Samsango said. The dull red glow of the kitchen fires softened the deep wrinkles of the old man’s face. Samsango’s expression was gentle, fatherly. John couldn’t help but smile at him.
    “I suppose I am. I’m probably slowing you down tonight,” John said.
    “No.” Samsango patted a ball of dough down onto the cooking sheet. “This is the last. After it’s baked, I’ll be done. Though I have a little more room on the sheet…perhaps I should make a treat for our brothers who will be marching down the mountain.”
    He collected scraps of dough and worked them quickly into fat little buns. Once he was done, he laid a thin cloth over them and pushed the cooking sheet aside to allow the rolls to rise. Taye flour still caked his hands. He wiped them on a spare dishcloth, then looked up at John again.
    John wanted to say something more, but he couldn’t stop thinking of the girl who would be burned. Did she have friends or family? Was there anyone who would want to help her? Could they help her? What would he would do if Laurie were ever discovered and condemned? The heat of the bread oven seemed suddenly more