"I do not, but I cannot interfere between thakur and 'na. So long as
you both live and she wears your mark, however, she is yours; no one
else may be involved in what you order for her."
"Oh? All right." Jason took a folding knife from his pocket, opened
it, and bent over his 'na.
Dana felt cold sharpness against her cheek, and she gasped. Then the
knife bit, four quick shallow slashes, followed by a tugging, and she
cried out more in loss than in pain. By the time the tugging stopped,
she was sobbing quietly, the salt of her tears accenting the pain of
her missing tattoo. When she was able to see again, Jason was gone and
the w'woman was standing over her, cleaning her cheek.
Dana raised the head of her bed, trying to think. Her thakur--her
former thakur--had admitted seeking her death, but he had that right; a
'na's gift of @self was absolute. She had even imagined circumstances
where she would welcome death at his hands, or give him his own--but
those had been honorable circumstances, where death was preferable to
the alternative. This was . . . She shied away from the thought
momentarily, then forced herself back.
Her thakur had ordered her to die, in humiliation and agony, even as he
had said she had done nothing to deserve such a death. Then he had
told her to do whatever a Sandeman 'na would do under the same
circumstances. And she had absorbed enough of their ways to think that
a proper response--except that, as far as she knew, similar
circumstances had never arisen.
For the moment, at least, she was too stunned to be really afraid. She
turned to the w'woman. "Lady--can you help me?"
"Help you how?" the w'woman asked.
"To do what's needed--except that I don't know what is needed!" She
hesitated. "I mean . . . I've been dismissed, but he said I haven't
done anything wrong!"
The w'woman shook her head slowly. "Nothing like this has ever
happened before. All I can tell you is that custom says a 'na who has
been dismissed must make atonement for allowing @'s thakur to accept
one who proved unworthy."
Dana was silent for a moment, absorbing that, then she nodded. In her
misery, it didn't seem too unreasonable that she should have to die
just for being of no further use. She had tried to live by Sandeman
custom; she couldn't change that now, simply because it became
. . . inconvenient. "You're right, of course. But I can't do it myself
right now, and I don't have a clan-chief to help me."
The w'woman looked at her with what seemed to Dana like approval.
"Perhaps a clan-chief can be found for you."
"I'd . . . appreciate that." Dana licked her lips, fear beginning to
emerge from her stunned misery, but her mouth was so dry it was little
help. "I should talk to them myself, I suppose--at least if they'll
talk to me--but I can't dial the phone. Would you, please?"