He found himself hoping she would slip away, back to the life she’d almost lost. But she didn’t. When she approached him, wrapped in his cloak, her hair dripping, holding her wet dress, he’d given her food and directed her to sit. He’d asked Isak—a soldier with a gift for fire—to start a blaze, and she huddled beside it, her head resting on her drawn-up knees. His men moved around her cautiously, keeping their distance and their own company, their wonder making them reticent, but he found them staring at him as often as they stared at her.
There was awe and more than a little fear in the looks they cast his way. They knew what he’d done, but they still couldn’t believe it. They’d seen him mend a bloody gash or a broken bone, but they’d also watched soldiers die in his care—gone before he could do anything for them but return their bodies to their families or bury them on a battlefield. All of his men had withstood the attack on Jeru City—though few had witnessed his singular part in it. But they’d all witnessed this woman—bloodied and lifeless—made whole once again.
Their awe made Kjell grind his teeth and snap at anyone who looked at him for too long. His head ached dully and the tips of his fingers were numb from holding on to his temper. He ate with purpose and no pleasure, attempting to restore his energy and plug the slow drip of patience from his chest. Unable to do either, he immediately retired far from the fire and his men’s itchy reverence, barking at Jerick when he tried to follow.
“Make sure the woman is given what she needs and none of what she doesn’t, and leave me alone.”
“Yes, Captain,” Jerick agreed, falling back instantly.
Kjell tossed his pallet to the ground and, without even removing his boots, fell onto it and into a sleep as deep and dark as Sasha’s eyes.
Now morning had come, and he watched her, wondering if those eyes were as dark as he remembered. When she opened them suddenly, coming awake like she was accustomed to fearful slumber, he saw they were exactly that dark. They disturbed him, the pupils indistinguishable from the surrounding hue. He’d seen skin like hers—pale and speckled like a sparrow’s egg, but never in combination with eyes so black. She stretched, shuddering a little as she did, her body shaking off the vestiges of sleep.
She’d caught him looking at her—staring—and it embarrassed him. He was not accustomed to feeling uncomfortable, especially not in the presence of someone who meant nothing to him, and he rose to his feet, shaking the dust from his clothes and rolling his pallet tightly, securing it with twine. After a moment, she rose as well, shrugging off his cloak and handing it to him. He took it without comment. The sun was already heating the earth and would be relentless before long. He watched from the corner of his eye as she wrapped the pale blue cloth over her hair, creating a cowl that shaded her face. She crossed the long ends of the cloth over her chest and tied them at her waist to keep them from catching the breeze.
“There is sickness in Solemn,” she murmured—startling him further—her voice oddly sweet yet still rough with sleep. “There is sickness there and you are a Healer.”
“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.