SiWren of the Patriarchs | Page 5

all
of the slaves under Habrunt's fair-minded authority held him in regard
of great fear and respect, and because the mark of Habrunt was so
universally the mark of excellence throughout the House and it's
surrounds, he received much praise from Master Rababull for all that
he did.
Such widely-held acclaim for Slavemaster Habrunt, the chief agent of

Master Rababull, was in no small part maintained by his sage words of
advice, characteristically brief, unerring, and straight to the point, and
by the certain knowledge in every servant's mind that if one failed at
the fore to heed mere words from Slavemaster Habrunt, one must
harken at the last to the whip of Master Rababull.
For Master Rababull always kept a large, blood-encrusted bull whip
ready to hand for his most grievous personal judgements, when the real
punishments must be meted out.
The two girls, Nelatha and Si'Wren, being naturally shy and industrious,
counted themselves privileged to work together in the shelter of the
spice tent. The tent of animal skins was located well off to one side in
the large front courtyard of the House of Rababull, which was
surrounded on all sides by a high stone wall.
The Master's holdings consisted of but a very small portion of the
Emperor's kingdom, yet they were large tracts of land nevertheless.
They were located on a broad fertile valley plain covered by dense
scattered forest and jungle. Across this plain, the Tigris and Euphrates
rivers flowed and converged together into one. This dry land, this lush
fertile plain, would one day be known to all mankind as a large body of
salt water, named the Persian Gulf.
The wide tent was open at both ends and shielded by thin gauze veils to
keep out flying insects, and preserve the salves and other herbal
preparations. Infestation by insects could cause the finest ointment to
give forth a stinking savor, and invoke the certain displeasure of the
Master. The tent was also equipped with extra flaps so that it could be
closed up at night or during the day when it became too misty.
L'acoci, an old slave woman of the House, spoke once of seeing the
colors of a virgin's garments, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and
violet, as a banded scimitar slash in the heavens, a colored arch, a
wound in a darkened noonday sky misty enough that it wetted her
upturned face and garments, and obscured her vision most strangely.
None had ever heard of such foolishness, and all, even Si'Wren, had

laughed her to scorn. Colors in the sky? L'acoci was deluded. No one
had ever heard of such a preposterous thing, and the very suggestion
was flatly impossible.
A heavy dew came out of the ground every night and often in the day,
and caused all life to flourish. But as Si'Wren well knew from
unfortunate firsthand experience, such enshrouding mists could cause
rare herbs and spices, if they were left exposed, to quickly turn stale,
causing Master Rababull much displeasure.
To guard against such calamity, the tent was equipped to afford proper
shelter from the clammy, clinging mists, which could arise on a
moment's notice and transform the torches in men's hands into pale
blobs of moon glow, like spirits at large upon the land.
Within the sheltering confines of the tent, Si'Wren counted herself a
cherished and defended slave, safe within the walls of her Master's
House, where strange men could not ogle or frighten her. For savage,
rogue men walking in the lusts of their wicked hearts went out at all
times of day or night, seeking human prey, upon whom they might
work their unspeakable evils, men who loudly proclaimed their honor
before others, and yet were so wicked in their ways that no woman or
child dared venture alone beyond the protection of some trusted strong
man or tribe.
Sometimes a local sorcerer was rumored to have kidnaped an
unsuspecting victim for occult and sacrificial purposes. Such men were
oft upon the land by night, when swords slept in their owners' grasps,
and brave men retired upon their racks behind the stoutest walls and
doors they could manage. There was no law except the law of the pack.
The only real law was right of might and sword and the dictates of
powerful warlords and landowners, even unto the changeable whim of
the Emperor himself. Against such, mere empty words were but as the
ring of brass or a sounding cymbal, dumb bells all, and the clink of the
condemned slave's heavy chains. Too often, the ring of a sword was the
only proper answer.
The world was a place of much beauty, but even greater evil.

Si'Wren prayed oft in her bed at night, that she might one day be given
in marriage to