"Silver Lady," a woman's voice said behind her, "I can help the Great Rider with his hurts."
Dany turned her head. The speaker was one of the slaves she had claimed, the heavy, flat-nosed woman who had blessed her.
"The khal needs no help from women who lie with sheep," barked Qotho. "Aggo, cut out her tongue."
Aggo grabbed her hair and pressed a knife to her throat.
Dany lifted a hand. "No. She is mine. Let her speak."
"I meant no wrong, fierce riders." The woman spoke Dothraki well. The robes she wore had once been the lightest and finest of woolens, rich with embroidery, but now they were mud-caked and bloody and ripped. She clutched the torn cloth of her bodice to her heavy breasts. "I have some small skill in the healing arts."
"Who are you?" Dany asked her.
"I am named Mirri Maz Duur. I am godswife of this temple."
"Maegi," grunted Haggo, fingering his arakh. His look was dark. Dany remembered the word from a terrifying story that Jhiqui had told her one night by the cookfire. A maegi was a woman who lay with demons and practiced the blackest of sorceries, a vile thing, evil and soulless, who came to men in the dark of night and sucked life and strength from their bodies.