28 October 2026
Today, in the newest installment from the third book of The Redemption series, The Morgle Unmasked, we return to the conversation between Klare and Klaybear, and her reminder to him of what she means to him. . . . (30 May 2016) The full ebook version of this book is available for purchase from all ebook sellers. We remind all that the first book in this series, Chosen of the One, and the second book, Staff of Shigmar, are both free from Smashwords! Glossary links: Book 3, Book 2, Book 1
Chapter 6, Part 4
“Don’t even think that!” she exclaimed, jabbing her finger at the bridge of his nose with every word. “And it is even worse to voice the thought! I do not believe it, and neither do you, not for a moment, no matter who says it, no matter the authority, no matter how often, no matter how many! That is the way of despair, which is the path to becoming a servant of Gar; is that what you want? If it is, tell me now, and I will waste no more time on you.” She stood and pointed to the door, her face hard; she stopped, looked at him, and her face registered the surprise, shock, and horror on his face, and then her features softened, she sat back down, and gently stroked the cheek she had just slapped. “I do not think that is who you are, or what you want,” she went on in a softer voice, “nor who you will become, even if you are a bit slow, sometimes,” she finished with a weak smile and sank onto his chest, slipping her arms under his neck; Klaybear felt hot tears on his neck.
Klaybear wrapped his arms around his diminutive wife. “But Sutugno is your oldest and dearest friend,” he reminded her.
Klare sighed and sat up, picking up his left hand. She lifted up her own left hand and turned them both so that he could see the back of their two hands together. “What do you see that is similar?” she asked, and before he could answer, “and if you reply that they are hands, or they have five fingers, or they are both left, I’ll slap you again!”
Klaybear laughed, recognizing that his wife knew him too well. “The gold rings,” he noted.
“And what do they symbolize?” Klare asked, pressing on.
“That we are joined together,” Klaybear noted.
“For how long?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Always.”
“How long is that?” she asked.
“Until the end of time,” he replied.
“No,” she countered, “that places a limit: there is no limit on ‘forever.’”
“That’s what I meant,” Klaybear noted.
“Then you should have said, ‘forever,’” Klare snapped, “then I would not think you were trying to get rid of me.”
Klaybear choked. “I never said. . . .”
Klare smiled at him. “I know, but I like to see you squirm; my point was, before you sidetracked me. . . .”
“I did not sidetrack you,” he protested “you did that yourself.”
“You did,” she noted, “by not being specific; my point was,” she went on, shaking his left hand next to hers, “that when we made the vow to each other, we each put everyone else aside: you put me first, and I put you first, and no one else, nothing else, should ever take your place, or my place. She is still my oldest friend, and my best friend, after you, but if I have to make a choice between you and her, I should not have to tell you what my choice would be, although I will, since you have been quite slow of late.”
“I have not!” Klaybear protested loudly, sitting up in the bed in mock anger. “And you do not need to tell me, since I know what your answer is, as you are here with me.” He took her again in his arms and kissed her fondly. He looked around after they broke apart. “So what time is it?” he asked. “We really ought to get to work,” he added, and his stomach rumbled audibly.
Klare shook her head and sighed. “It must be near mealtime,” she replied, “although I do not know which meal . . . ,” she started to say, but then her face went pale and she rolled to the other side of the bed and the empty chamber pot; she started to retch dryly.
Klaybear looked at her for a moment then raised one eyebrow. “It cannot be evening again,” he said in disbelief, “that would mean I have been out for about a day and a half.” He looked back at Klare. “Have I been out that long?”
Between dry heaves, she shook her head.
“Then you are out of your reckoning,” he went on, “since your nights and days got reversed.”
Klare shook her head again and sat back, wiping her mouth with her sleeve. “The baby doesn’t care,” she said in a breathy whisper, “any mention of food. . . .”
“Nobody mentioned food,” Klaybear protested, “my stomach growled,” he began, but Klare had resumed her dry retching into the chamber pot, waving him out of the room. He shrugged, picked up his master’s bag of healing supplies, breath-giver, and left through the door to his master’s quarters.
Although Rokwolf dozed lightly, his senses, honed by his seklesi training, were alert for any hint of sound or motion, anything that might disturb the slumber of Klare’s friend who slept in the unoccupied master’s chamber, at the opposite end of the hallway from where Klare kept watch over her husband and his twin brother. Periodically, his eyes cracked open and scanned the room without giving any hint that he was awake; he had seated himself so he could see both the sleeping Sutugno and the door, in case anyone, or any thing, tried to enter the room. Klare had sealed the door with a kailu ward that she claimed her friend could open, but no one else could. Scanning the room again, he fell back into a light sleep.
He stood again in Tevvy’s room in Kilnar, listening to the awemi tell him of the plight of the caravans while Tevvy easily dodged wild stabs, poorly thrown daggers, and slit the throats of his attackers. His surroundings blurred and became a road, bordered on the north by the forested slopes of mountains and a reeking swamp to the south, the Mariskal and a seklesi camp. His fellows were gathered around fires, repairing leather armor, sharpening swords, fletching arrows, and eating. He heard shouts and screams of pain and turned toward the sounds; he saw a merchant caravan burning; the mercenaries hired to protect it lay dead and dismembered around the overturned wagons; the merchants were strung together, tied by crudely woven ropes, led south into the swamp by odd-looking wedaterem with green skin, but their behavior was what surprised him the most: they appeared to be organized like a seklesi squad, with an obvious leader who barked commands the others moved quickly to obey. Rokwolf turned back to the seklesem moving around their camp, shouting orders, but no sound issued from his mouth; he was choking, sinking into the fetid Mariskal, green waters closing over his head. . . .
On Friday, we will continue with Rokwolf’s troubled dreams, and Sutugno’s response to his actions. Until then, we remind all that the first two books of this series, Chosen of the One and Staff of Shigmar, are free from Smashwords. Get this book, The Morgle Unmasked, from the links provided. Good reading!
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