“What kind of sickness?” he asked.
“Fever. Delirium. The hair falls from the heads of the very young and the very old. The children aren’t growing. Some are malformed.”
“Is that why you fell? Were you sick?”
“No,” she murmured, and he realized he didn’t know which question she answered. “I was not sick, but my master was.”
“Your master?”
“I was a . . . slave.”
“Why were you a slave?” he asked. She frowned and her brows furrowed slightly. He wanted to know the circumstances of her servitude, but she didn’t seem to understand.
“Why are you a Healer?” she retorted, as if healing and slavery were similar. He snorted, struck by the comparison, but she did not explain herself further. Instead, she took several hesitant steps toward him, her hands folded demurely. Without warning, she dropped to her knees, her eyes on the ground. Then she leaned forward and touched her forehead to the dirt, inches from his feet. Her hair pooled around her like a shroud. “My master is dead. You healed me. I belong to you now.”
He drew her to her feet, his hands wrapped around her thin arms, and set her away from him adamantly, shaking his head.
“No. You do not. I healed you of my own free will. I lay no claim.”
“I will stay with you.”
“No! You will not.” His voice was harsh and far too loud, and he noted with chagrin the interest of the men around them who were no longer sleeping. One of them laughed, though he smothered it. Kjell glowered, and they were immediately busy with their boots and bedrolls.
Sasha kept her head bowed, her veil hiding her face. Satisfied that she had heard him and that she would obey, Kjell stepped away.
She followed.
He climbed to the water between the rocks, and she moved silently behind him, far enough that she wouldn’t bump into him if he stopped suddenly, but close enough to make him bristle with annoyance. His bladder was full and his temper was short, and he needed her to give him some solitude. She seemed attuned to this, and moved away from him suddenly, behind an outcropping, and he did the same, finding a moment’s privacy before she rejoined him at the waterfall.
He cleaned his teeth and washed his face, his arms, and his neck, scraping the beard from his cheeks with his blade, growling at her when she offered to do it for him. He gave her his soap and his tooth powder, and she thanked him humbly, making quick work of her own ablutions, weaving her long hair into a rope and rewrapping the cloth over it again.
“Will you go to Solemn?” she asked as they made their way back to the men and the horses.
“That is why we came.”
“You came . . . for Solemn? You are the forces of the king. I thought the forces of the king hunted the Gifted.”
“The king is Gifted.” Not to mention the king’s brother. “I am hunting Volgar.”
“The birdmen?” she asked, clearly surprised. “There are no Volgar here.”
“None?” He stopped and stared down at her, disbelieving. “There are rumors of great devastation in Solemn.”
“The only devastation in Solemn is sickness.” She stared up at him soberly.
Kjell groaned. The Creator save him from his gift. He wanted to kill birdmen. Not play nursemaid. If there was illness in Solemn, he would put his men at risk. If he exposed them to sickness, they would only take the disease to other parts of the kingdom, to other lands in Jeru. He could not raise the dead, and he could not heal an entire village. The very thought made his heart cease and his knees tremble.
“You cannot heal them all,” she said quietly, divining his thoughts. “But you could heal some.”
He doubted he could heal even one. “I cannot bring my men to a village stricken with disease.”
She nodded hesitantly, but she did not drop her gaze. “I . . . understand . . . but I do not believe they would become sick.”
“Why?”
“Because the sickness is not in the air.”
He waited, his hands on his hips, wanting to mount his horse and ride away, but his guilt compelled him to listen.
“I believe the disease is in the water that comes into the village from the east. If your men will fill their carafes here, wash themselves here, and stay away from the water from the eastern stream, they should be fine. Some people seem resistant to it. The strong and those in their middle years are less affected. Or maybe it is just slower to grow in them. But many people are sick.”
“So if I heal them . . . they will grow sick again,” he surmised. “Because they have to drink to live, and this little brook is not enough to support a village.” He tossed his hand toward the stream that wasn’t much more than a steady trickle collecting in a shallow pool before it continued on its way between the rocks.
“If you heal enough of them, maybe they will be well enough to leave.”
Kjell cursed, running his hand through the hair that brushed at his shoulders. Images of traveling back to Jeru with a thousand refugees straggling behind him made him grind his palms into his eyes to obliterate the thought.
“Why haven’t they left already? The villages to the north bear no signs of sickness. I’ve come through every village between here and Bin Dar.”
“The people don’t believe me. They don’t believe there is sickness in the water. I need to convince them. But I cannot go back to Solemn alone,” she said, her voice low.
“Why is that?”
“They drove me from them.”
“Drove you . . . from them,” he repeated flatly.
“Over the cliff,” she explained.
“They forced you over the cliff?” Anger lit his voice, though it was not directed at her. Still, there would be a reason for such actions, even if it sickened him. “Why?”
“I saw it. I saw them drinking the water. And I saw them growing sick. I told the elders.” Her words from the night before took on new meaning.
“You saw it?”
“I see many things.”
“Are you Gifted?” he asked quietly.
“I cannot heal.” She shook her head as if his was the only true gift. It was not an answer, and his mouth hardened at the evasion.
“Are you Gifted?” he repeated more forcefully.
“I cannot heal . . . but sometimes I can save,” she amended. “I have learned that if I remain silent about what I see, it always comes to pass. Sometimes, even when I’m not silent, what I see comes to pass, and I can only brace myself. But there have been times when I’ve been able to . . . move people from the path of the storm.”
“You couldn’t save yourself from being run over a cliff?”
“No,” she whispered, and her eyes grew bright, black pools that shimmered with tears. She blinked rapidly. Then her gaze became distant, and she lifted her chin, letting the light caress her cheeks and the breeze tug at the tendrils of hair peeking out beneath her veil. He watched as several emotions flitted over her face before her features relaxed and her gaze sharpened on his once more.
“They know you are here.”
“Who?” he asked, bewildered. He was still caught in the memory of her broken body beneath the cliffs, struck by the changing expressions on her face, and distracted by the fire of her hair.
“They are coming. The elders of Solemn. They want to trade with you.”
“Trade? We are soldiers. Not peddlers. We have little beyond our weapons and horses, and those are not for sale.”
“Not trade,” she shook her head, modifying her statement, speaking slowly as if trying to unravel something she didn’t completely understand. “They have . . . offerings. The night watch must have reported your presence.”
“Why do they bring gifts?”
“I cannot see everything.” She shook her head again. “Intentions are especially difficult. Maybe they know you are the King’s Guard, and want to bring you presents in exchange for your favor. Perhaps they are afraid you know of the sickness, and that you will take advantage while they are weak.”