“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.”
A whistle pierced the air, signaling to Kjell, verifying Sasha’s prediction. Kjell abandoned his questions and started down the hill to the clearing, but Sasha descended more slowly, tucking herself behind the soldiers scrambling to ready themselves before the visitors arrived. Kjell mounted Lucian, desirous to be in a position of authority, even if there was no threat. In the near distance, winding down the mountainous pass, six men approached, not on horses, but on great, lumbering camels with lashes that curled above their enormous nostrils. The elders were dressed in pale robes and, like Sasha, their heads were covered, protected from the sun. They came to a stop with a wide gulf still dividing them from Kjell and his men.
“I am Kjell of Jeru,” Kjell greeted, his voice raised to be heard. “Captain of the King’s Guard. We are here in search of Volgar. We are here only to serve. Not to condemn or . . . collect.” There’d been a time when the King’s Guard had accompanied the tax collectors as well. Thankfully, those days were a thing of the past. The provinces sent money to the kingdom of Jeru for the support of the guard and the protection of the realm. Collecting it was now a duty of the lord of each province.
The bearded man in the center of the group, his face as thin and dark as the trees that grew in the Drue Forest, responded, “We have heard of you, Kjell of Jeru. You are the king’s brother.”
Kjell would not deny his relationship, but he also refused to feel any pride in his status. The blood that connected him to the king was not blood he was proud of. He also wasn’t certain being notorious was a good thing. His past was not especially pristine. He simply waited without confirmation for the man to continue.
“Greetings to you and your men. I am Syed. We’ve brought gifts for His Majesty and ask that you extend our fealty to him when you return to Jeru City.” The suggestion was veiled, but Kjell did not miss it. The elders had ridden out of the village to head them off. It would be greatly appreciated if the King’s Guard would continue on, never entering Solemn.
It was entirely the wrong move. Kjell hated to be told what to do.
“That is very gracious, Syed. But we don’t need gifts. A meal, a bath, and maybe a day’s rest is all we require. Our horses could stand the rest and food as well. Then we will be on our way. Can your village accommodate us?” Kjell’s voice was mild but his eyes were shrewd, testing his audience. So far, everything Sasha had said was proving true.
The bearded man stiffened, and the men around him squirmed, exchanging weighted glances.
“There is . . . trouble in our village,” Syed hedged. “Some of our people are sick. It would be wise for you to pass by.”
“Our captain is a skilled Healer,” Jerick spoke up. “He healed one of your women last night. She’d fallen and was near death. Perhaps he can bring relief to your village.” Jerick’s voice rang with a sincerity few would sense was false. Kjell would have silenced him—violently—had it not served his purposes. Clearly Sasha had confessed something of her story to Jerick the night before.