The deep wound in her heart had not healed.
Her skin had knit, of course, and it had formed a savage looking scar across her heart, but the deeper and more terrible ache would not leave. She had busied herself as soon as able; while not fully healed, Salvia was capable once more. The horses kept her busy. Nacht was serving her well for travel in the territory, and Tiger was still young enough to do little more than amuse her. He would grow strong, of course. He would likely be faster than her older stallion, who took after Horse in size.
She had come to the village to finish collecting her father’s things. A high yowl rose from nearby, however, and the desperation of the tone drew her from her task. On horseback she moved quickly, expecting the worst—but what she found was her mother and Molca, bloodied and screaming.
My baby, the slave yowled. It was an endless drone, overwhelmed by the blows of her mother. Salvia slid from the black horse’s back. She rushed forward and both hands shot out, palms up, to shove at her dark hued mother. “Enough!” She bellowed, and spread her legs over the cowering slave. Shoulders hunched and hands half-curled into fists at her side she showed her teeth. “Stop it, mother.”
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