The Slave Princess Part 6
Weaving in her cloister, While the angry winds conspire, The spider takes no heed Of all their noise and mischief And their empty, sullen words. – The Canticle of Menkeret. A bead of sweat rolls down between my breasts. I catch it and taste its saltiness. It is the salt of me, the salt of my blood, the blood of the Mentrassa. To me, a woman in the bonds of captivity and the sole representative of my people in this accursed land, that blood is a precious thing. Only seldom now does my...