Land of the Burning Sands Read Online Free PDF Page B

“Besides, it would need to turn west of north to return to its desert. Though perhaps it intends to.” Then he hesitated, turning to study Gereint. “
You’ve
read Anweierchen?”
    The question shook Gereint out of the memory of fire. He shrugged, said shortly, “My old master had a good library,” and set the saddlebags down in a row, then began to collect wood for a fire. The wood was drier here, at least. The swift-moving little river might yield something better than dried beef. He looked through Amnachudran’s pack for hooks and line, with a careful eye on his new master in case the man resented his rummaging.
    But Amnachudran did not seem to care. He watched Gereint for a moment and then said, “There aren’t any hooks. We didn’t think there would be much opportunity to use them.”
    Gereint nodded, picked up Amnachudran’s knife, selected a bit of wood, and began to make a hook. He turned over the question before he asked it, but guessed Amnachudran wanted to talk about simple things, nothing to do with griffins or fire. So he asked, “We?”
    The man’s face tightened in grief, but he answered readily. “A friend. The man who owned the house that’s now in the desert. He was older than I, but neither of us thought… It was his heart, I think. The desert was worse than we’d… We had reached Brerich’s house, but I wasn’t in the same room when he was stricken. If I had been, perhaps…”
    That was not simple, after all. And it recalled the desert far too vividly. But Amnachudran seemed to wish to speak of his friend. So perhaps it was as well Gereint had asked, after all. He set the hook aside, found a length of cord, and delicately unraveled it to make a finer thread. He rolled the thread between his fingers as he worked, coaxing it toward strength and lightness, feeling it become supple under his touch. “I’m sorry about your friend,” he said sincerely. “But how did you… If you don’t mind, how did you find me?”
    “Ah. That was luck. And poor little Fearn. You had one of your waterskins open, did you know? I think she smelled the water.” Amnachudran, apparently not having much confidence in Gereint’s efforts, dipped water out of the river, put the pot over the fire, and began to cut up dried beef. But he didn’t order Gereint to stop making fishing line. Picking up where he’d left off, he added in a quiet voice, “But she couldn’t carry both you and the bags. Even with me carrying two of the bags, she didn’t quite…” His voice trailed off.
    Gereint carefully tied the line he’d made to the hook. Tested his knot. Glanced up. “You could have left me there.” He touched the brand on his face. “It would only have been the death of a murderer or rapist.”
    Amnachudran shrugged. “You were face down. I didn’t see the brand at once. By the time I did see it, I knew you might live. Once I knew that, I couldn’t leave you.” He didn’t ask,
Are you glad or sorry I saved your life?
But his eyes posed that question.
    Gereint stared back at him for a moment in silence. He said at last, “That desert is not the place I would choose to leave my bones.” Gathering up his line and hook, he went down to the river.
    By full dark, the soup was boiling and two small fish were grilling over coals.
    “I didn’t think you’d catch any,” Amnachudran admitted, turning one of the fish with a pair of twigs.
    “I was lucky.”
    “That was a good hook. Nor would I have thought you could make decent line out of that cord.”
    “It’s a knack.” Gereint turned the other fish.
    “You’re a maker.”
    And Amnachudran was far too perceptive, and far too difficult to lie to. It hadn’t been a question. Gereint said merely, not looking up, “It makes me a valuable slave, yes.”
    There was a pause. Then Amnachudran began uncomfortably, “How many…? That is, how many men…?”
    This time, Gereint did glance up. “How many masters have I had? Is that what you would ask?