Read 4: Witches' Blood for Free Online Page A

intense.
    He didn’t think he could imagine anything more painful, or terrible, than burning.
    “I can see that you’re troubled, Jahn,” Samsango commented. “Would it help to tell me why?”
    John didn’t respond immediately; keeping his inner thoughts secret had become too much of a habit for him. But this was something he did want to share with Samsango, he realized.
    “Did you know that before the first siege at Ganaa there were no witches?”
    Samsango’s bushy gray eyebrows shot up. “You have been listening to Ushman Hann’yu too much. He’s from the south. They don’t know anything there except what they read in books.”
    “But it’s true. I looked it up.”
    Samsango cocked his head, seeming to contemplate something just past John.
    “Long ago they might not have been called witches,” Samsango said at last, “but there have always been people who are tempted to misuse Parfir’s blessings. They are not always bad people, but when they do wrong, they must be punished.”
    “But to burn a girl to death—”
    Samsango held up a silencing hand. “I understand your turmoil, Jahn. If I’m honest, I will tell you that I share your sorrow for the poor child.” He sighed heavily. “But remember, if the prior hears you repeating the things that Ushman Hann’yu tells you, you won’t just be whipped. You might endanger Ushman Hann’yu as well. And you could lose that braid you fought so hard to earn or be barred from the presence of the ushiri’im!”
    Samsango looked truly distressed by the thought of this. He placed a callused, flour-caked hand over John’s fingers. His touch felt surprisingly warm.
      “For the sake of the ushiri’im, if not yourself, you should keep your peace. They need your strength.”
    “The ushiri’im just need a body to bear their wounds. It doesn’t matter if it’s mine or not,” John responded.
    “You do them a great service,” Samsango pronounced. He glanced at the raw scar that wound around John’s wrist as he did so. The injury was recent and had been Fikiri’s.
    When the boy had been brought into the infirmary, his fingers had been gashed down to the bone. He had fixed John with a look that was half-shock and half-accusation, but he had said nothing. John had taken as much of Fikiri’s wound as he could without losing his own fingers. Now both their palms and wrists were crossed with the same tender, red scars like some blood-brother pact gone terribly wrong.
    “Modesty is good.” Samsango’s voice cut through John’s wandering thoughts. “But you should take pride in your station, you know. Not many of the ushvun’im can serve the ushiri’im so well as you do. It’s a great contribution.”
    John gave a lackluster nod. If it wasn’t him, then it would have been someone else. But Samsango wouldn’t see it that way.
    “And to live up in the holy chambers.” Samsango closed his eyes as if he were savoring a delicious sweet. “To be so near the holiest of the holy. I envy you a little.”
    “Only a little?” John teased.
    Samsango opened his eyes. “Not so much that I’d want to be wrapped in bandages every day of my life.”
    “It’s not the bandages that are so bad,” John replied. “It’s what’s under them.”
    “Indeed.”
    The warm air hung thick with the smell of taye flour and faint dry spices. The moist scent of the loaves baking in the ovens began to spread through the kitchen. John took in a deep breath, knowing that the scent should have conjured images of his mother or grandmother, but neither of them had ever baked bread. His only association with the aroma was here in Rathal’pesha. When he returned to Nayeshi, he thought, the smell would remind him of sitting here in the flickering light of the cooking fires, watching Samsango.
    “I imagine you’re excited about the Harvest Fair,” Samsango said.
      Most of the men in the monastery were anticipating the annual fair with obvious excitement. Even Dayyid had