Kjell didn’t know where she was going or what she intended, but he drew in behind her and his men followed, a procession of soldiers being led by a servant girl. The wake became wider, the stones forgotten, and the people watched them go.
Kjell wondered if anyone would follow, if anyone would have the faith to bring their dying to him. There was a time when he wouldn’t have followed a Healer. Not for himself. But maybe for Tiras. For Tiras he would have done anything. He would have risked the derision and ostracization of the non-believers. He would have taken a chance and faced the disappointment of false hope. He’d done it over and over again. But their faith was not Kjell’s problem. If they wanted to be healed, let them follow. He would not make it easy for them.
Sasha led Kjell and his men to the empty house of her deceased master, a small home of rock and clay with heavy rugs over the doors and windows. She seemed convinced the people would come and pushed the rug over the door wide to welcome them when they did. Kjell climbed down from his horse, handed his reins to Jerick, and commanded him to post half the guard around the house and the other half back at the clearing where they’d camped the night before.
“I can’t stop you or your horses from getting sick if you drink the water. I may be able to heal you once you are, but I can’t be easing your bowels every time you take a swallow. We will take shifts. Use your swords to keep order if you have to. We will be vigilant, and we will leave as soon as possible.”
Sasha was right. The people came. The first to arrive was a man who was lame, not ill. He hung back, waiting for someone else to go first. He was soon joined by others, some curious, some cautious, many accompanied by people who were obviously ill. Children were carried, men and women were assisted, and some villagers came alone to see what the Healer could do before raising the hopes of their sick. A large crowd gathered, talking amongst themselves, eyeing the home of Sasha’s master, whispering about the servant who had “risen from the dead.” They all knew Sasha had been chased over the cliff, and Kjell’s fury rose inside him again. Their knowledge made them guilty, yet here they all were, in search of a blessing.
He watched them from a window, the covering pushed aside just enough for him to see the growing numbers. Sasha had straightened the small home and changed her gown into something equally plain but not nearly as stained. She tidied her hair and washed herself in water he could only guess she’d fetched from the pool between the cliffs. She poured him a glass of tepid wine and drew some dried meat and hard bread from a cupboard in the small galley, placing it on the table and bidding him eat.
He did as she asked, demanding that she eat as well, and refused to partake until she obeyed him.
“They are afraid,” she said quietly, eating daintily, her eyes in her lap.
“Courage is a small price. If they want healing they can pay it,” he grumbled, but his stomach twisted as he spoke. He was afraid too. He hoped the people would leave.
“Peace of Jeru,” someone spoke shyly from the door, and Sasha rose so quickly her small stool toppled. She didn’t stop to right it, but walked quickly to the shadowed entry, her hands stretched toward the woman who stood just beyond, her head covered, her posture timorous. Great circles hung below her eyes and her dress could not disguise the frailty of her body.
“Kimala,” Sasha greeted, as if the woman was a welcome friend. “Come.” The woman name Kimala allowed herself to be drawn into the house, and from outside, voices cried out, accusing her of foolishness.
“The captain can help you.” Sasha said with certainty.
Oh, gods. He didn’t think he could. He stood, battling the need to run, knowing he couldn’t, knowing he shouldn’t. He moved away from the table, toward the woman who was clearly as frightened as he was. She couldn’t run. He could see she was barely walking.
“Lie down.” He pointed at the low bed Sasha had covered in fresh linens, and Sasha assisted the woman, helping her recline until she lay looking at Kjell with fear and fascination. He knelt beside her, and placed his soldier’s hands upon her chest. Her heart practically vibrated, her rapid inhalations fluttering over her lips like tiny wings. The hope in the room took on its own heartbeat, pounding in time with her hummingbird heart.
He couldn’t hear a melody. Not a single, solitary note. He couldn’t hear anything but her echoing expectation, and the realization made him desperate. He yanked his hands away. He was not equipped to wield his gift. His heart began to pound, and his anger—at himself, at Sasha, at his father, at the Creator, at the very world he was born into—bubbled inside him. He was a warrior. He was not a man who loved or nurtured. He’d been given a gift that was so at odds with who he was that he wanted to howl in frustration and sink his sword into something lethal.
The walls of the hut seemed to swell and retreat, making him sway dizzily and close his eyes. He realized he hadn’t taken a breath for a very long time. Suddenly he felt a palm, calloused and slight, pressing into his.
“Kimala is a mother,” Sasha said softly. “She lost her first child, and her second. But last winter she gave birth to a beautiful little boy. He was strong and his cry was so powerful that all of Solemn heard it. Now she is sick, and she worries that she won’t be able to take care of her son.” Sasha’s soft voice brushed against his closed eyes, and her hand stayed pressed against his as she continued talking, telling him about the mother who longed to see her child grow. Kjell’s anger retreated, and something else took its place.
Compassion. He felt compassion.
He opened his eyes and noted the gathering despair in the woman’s gaze. Sasha was holding her hand the way she held his, linking them together. Without letting go of Sasha, he placed his palm on Kimala’s chest once more and listened harder.
The note was so faint he hardly trusted it, a whisper of air that could have been nothing more than an indrawn breath, but he exhaled, matching the sound, so different from the soul-deep, healing melodies he’d felt before. The volume increased, until the breath resembled a sigh and the sigh became a shudder. He made the sound with his teeth and tongue, his hand still in Sasha’s, her hand still clasped around the woman who had begun to stare at him in wonder. Her color warmed, the darkness beneath her eyes and the pallor around her lips disappearing as he pulled the disease from her skin and coaxed it from her bones, setting it free with a final gust of air.