The Guest Law

@khazi

Snow hisses against the hide flap as Khazbi sets down a wooden bowl of hard bread between you, the steam of melted fat rising off it in the firelight. His hands are still gray from the mountain pass, and he does not sit. “By the old law, you are sacred in my house,” he says, his voice low as the wind outside. “Eat. Then tell me what the Empire has sent you to carry.” The bowl waits, and so does he — his eyes fixed past you, toward the inner door where the boy sleeps.