The White City
Lamla led Korkungal to the priests’ wash-house and ordered the old priest there to his feet. As the old man patiently arranged his bowls and ewers of oil, Korkungal hesitated and then turned to Lamla.
‘I will not be served by this slave, High Priest,’ he said with sudden fury.
‘It is his allotted duty, Korkungal,’ Lamla said reasonably. ‘It will not shame you to submit to him.’
The old man approached Korkungal and tried to unfasten his scabbard. His mouth hung open and dribbled in his senility and he seemed amused by the Brigan’s resistance to him. When he made a more determined effort to grab the buckle, single-minded in his desire to fulfil his duty, Korkungal swung his shield and struck him to the ground. Lamla hissed in anger and Korkungal turned to him, drawing his sword.
‘One more death this day will be as nothing, priest,’ he said with fierce conviction.
Lamla stepped back and studied Korkungal.
‘Why this obsession with death, Korkungal? You do not embrace life with the joy of a victorious warrior. Are you unhappy to he alive?’
The doorway darkened and both Korkungal and Lamla looked over. Sora glided into the room and went straight up to Korkungal without glancing at either of the priests. Silently, she took sword and shield from Korkungal. She undressed him and brought water and oil and washed away the sweat and blood.
She had cleaned her face and neck of all the cosmetics. Her skin was smooth and dark-brown, her eyes less luminous now that the contrast had been removed.
When she had finished washing and anointing him, she put a clean shirt on him, taking it from the corner where the old priest cowered. She kicked the breastplate, shield and helmet away and gave him only the sword and scabbard to wear.
Finished, she nodded to herself, then left the wash-house without looking at Lamla or the attendant.
Lamla stepped forward and said:
‘Do you know that she is only a common whore?’ His voice turned acid as he spoke the last word.
Korkungal suddenly seemed very tall to Lamla, like a Merura noble. He replied with a stinging contempt:
‘What do you know of women, priest?’
Lamla stared at Korkungal, thinking, remembering the new rumours about this barbarian. He turned to the door, through which Sora had gone.
A whore? he thought, seeing irony. Then he shrugged and dismissed the matter.
It was not his concern. ‘Come now and see Kandrigi, Korkungal.’
They walked side by side to Lamla’s quarters, Korkungal tall and strong beside the old priest. In the corridor leading to his chamber, Lamla said:
‘I must forewarn you that Kandrigi has been very ill. Even now he lies near to death. My priests have tended him to the best of their ability, but they are not workers of miracles.’
Korkungal was unmoved by this news.
‘Kandrigi chose to come to this place. He boasted of his knowledge of its ways.’
‘He is without sight or hearing, Korkungal. The illness is mysterious. My priests can find no known cause.’
Korkungal made no reply. He walked with a firm step by Lamla’s side.
Though it was still daylight, the curtains in the chamber were drawn and the multitude of candles cast a brilliant light on to the walls and furnishings. Lamla led Korkungal to the couch where Kandrigi lay.
‘You see how wasted he is,’ Lamla said evenly. ‘We have had to bind his limbs because of the sores.’
Korkungal looked at the shrunken form of the priest without feeling. His cheekbones stood out on his face and his lips were blue. Lamla stepped forward and spoke on Kandrigi ‘s fingers:
‘It is I, Lamla. I have brought Korkungal, the warrior, to see you. Will you greet him?’
Kandrigi paused before drawing his hand back. Lamla caught it again.
‘Is this the way to greet a warrior of your tribe, Kandrigi? Korkungal suffers to see you thus,’ he said on his fingers.
This time Kandrigi wrenched his hand away. The sigh that escaped between his lips showed that it pained him to do it.
Lamla remained still for a long time, his hands hovering over Kandrigi, as though undecided on what to do next.
In that space of time Kandrigi felt the cold at last engulf him. Turning all his attention to the dark that accompanied the cold, he died.
Lamla finally stood erect.
‘He is very ill, Korkungal,’ he said, allowing a note of sympathy to enter his voice. ‘He will not speak to you today. Perhaps tomorrow he will be better.'
He signalled that Korkungal was to follow him into the centre of the chamber. Sitting down on the high-backed chair, he said:
‘Do you know, Korkungal, that Kandrigi came to this Ka a long time ago, when we ware both young?’
Korkungal nodded. He did not speak.
‘We were friends then,’ Lamla said musingly.
Korkungal remained silent. He was staring across at Kandrigi. Something warm and active stirred deep within him, but he ignored it and it went away. Then he grew restless and he wanted to leave. He circled the chair that Lamla sat on. Lamla clasped his hands, waiting for the sword to strike. Korkungal appeared before him again.
‘Will he live?’ Korkungal asked.
Lamla looked up. The figure before him was huge and powerful, yet he did not fear him. If Korkungal were to kill him, it would not be an act that originated within him.
‘I do not know,’ he replied.
Korkungal glanced over at Kandrigi.
‘Will he live?’ he repeated doggedly.
‘No,’ Lamla said quietly. He felt an immense surge of pity, as sharp as cloves and without end. It was not pity for Kandrigi, nor was it pity for himself. ‘He does not want to live.’
Korkungal settled his sword belt on his hip as though in preparation for leaving. When he spoke, his voice was calm and full:
‘I do now know what has happened here, priest. Nor do I care. Only one thing do I know: I no longer fear death. I will go now. I will not return to the land of the Briga. I will go into the Grasslands.’
He spun on his heels and walked with firm steps from the chamber.