Chapter 27
When gentle winds blow through the city
And strong winds scatter,
They build a milking pen for you;
But when gentle winds blow through the city
And strong winds scatter,
I stand up as an equal to Ickur (the god of storms).
I am Grain, I am born for the warrior
I do not give up.
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—Sumerian poem
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GITA
Gita awoke to the scent of anise-oil, cedar wood and parsley.
"I dreamed about you," she mumbled to Shahla. "You want me to warn Tirdard the fat lizard plans a double cross."
The two goats bleated sleepily as she extricated herself from their warm, furry forms. She grabbed each goat's teat and squirted a bit of milk into her mouth, warm and sweet, just enough to ease the goat's discomfort and quell her hunger. For once, Mikhail's baby decided to let her keep her brea
