The Third Scroll (13 page)

We did not stop to eat nor to take a break of any other kind. When a warrior had the need, he would stop his beast, do what he had to, then catch up with us. But every time I tried to hold my beast back to stay behind—I noticed by accident that it did that if I placed my hand on its back behind my seat—one of the warriors fell behind with me. Soon I was so full of water it could have floated a ship. Batumar must have felt the same as he brought his animal to a halt, and when he did, all his guards stopped, for the first time that day.

I did not think he stopped on my account, I did not think he even remembered by that time that I traveled with them, but I felt grateful to him just the same. He slid to the ground with ease, then, before he walked into the woods, he ordered a man to help me off my mount.

The warrior patted my beast’s knee, and I could finally escape. I did my best not to show how tired I felt or how sore. On legs numb from all that sitting, I hobbled in the opposite direction from Batumar.

The Shahala forests were always loud with the cries of colorful birds and cheerful with a multitude of flowers. But here I barely saw a bird or two, small and drab in feathers of brown and gray, nervously flitting from one branch to the next.

Soon I came to a stand of bushes in a hidden spot. Nobody could see me here from the road. Then I finally gave my body the relief it so badly needed. For several moments, I did not even think of running away. But once I did, the urge to bolt came swiftly, the uncontrollable instinct of a wild animal.

With a pounding heart, I flew through the woods, silent like the night birds. Then I saw the guards and froze, unsure what to expect. An arrow? Or at the least to be apprehended at once and bound while I awaited punishment. One man stood among the trees ahead of me to the right, the other to the left. They watched me in silence.

I backed away from them and sulked back to the road to my beast, grabbed the long, coarse hair behind his ears, and put my foot on his bent foreleg to pull myself up to my seat.

Not a day had passed since my arrival to the Kadar that I did not think about running away. I was greatly disheartened at how easily my first true attempt had been defeated.

I wanted to go to Karamur to find my mother’s grave and the truth about her death, but I would have rather traveled on my own. If I reached the city with Batumar, I might be summarily locked up in his Servant Hall or Maiden Hall. Whatever became of me, I would be
his
.

I would never again have the freedom to do as I pleased.

As I mulled how to best escape the next time I received an opportunity, the High Lord returned and strode to his beast without sparing a glance for me. If his guards had told him what I had tried to do in the woods, he showed no sign.

We rode on until we reached the House of Joreb, which held a feast in the High Lord’s honor. The Great Hall looked much the same as Tahar’s. Servants bustled about, their eyes never meeting ours as they saw to our needs in silence.

Joreb had a feast prepared worthy of a king and heaped offering after offering on Rorin’s altar in the High Lord’s honor. The warlord had a slender maiden brought for Batumar, but he politely declined. Once again, I sat in the concubines’ place behind him, and his guard led me to his chamber after the feast.

He reclined on the pelts that covered his bed and watched me as I sat on the floor in the corner by the hearth, my arms around my knees.

“Tahar’s warriors claim you to be a healer of much skill.”

A moment passed before I gathered the courage to respond. “I know the uses of herbs.”

“You are a Shahala. What else are you?” His obsidian eyes narrowed until I squirmed on the stone.

“I do not understand, my Lord, I am but a slave.”

He looked at my hair. “Why are you still a maiden?”

I grew embarrassed at his words, for I knew what he meant. I was older than the girls at Maiden Hall. Even among the Shahala, young women my age had long had their rija feast and were called wives and mothers.

“And as a maiden, why were not you with the rest? They had to search for you for some time.”

I had not thought the High Lord had paid any mind to me at all, but now I began to think maybe little escaped his attention. But I could not answer his question, for that would have been a long tale, one that stretched all the way to his brother.

Did he know how Lord Gilrem had fared at Kumra’s hands? Since he did not mention his brother, neither would I. Maybe the High Lord did not wish to be reminded that his brother had fallen victim to the scheming of women.

I trusted not that he would reward me for my part in Lord Gilrem’s escape. As far as I had seen, gratitude or acknowledging a debt of any kind was not something practiced among the Kadar. Neither would a High Lord want to be indebted to a slave.

So I put the tale of Lord Gilrem out of my mind and said instead, “I was under punishment, my Lord.”

He nodded, the punishment of servants common in his lands, no doubt. “I would hear the story of how you came to the House of Tahar.”

I found talking a preferable task to whatever else he could have required, so I began with our Shahala land and told him a thing or two about how civilized people behaved. Cautiously I started, but grew bolder little by little, less and less afraid of offending him. I had survived deadly flogging at the House of Tahar. If truth brought punishment, so be it. I would not cower in fear for the rest of my life like a child.

I recounted the day Jarim had sold me. I told Batumar about the traders, leaving nothing out, neither the scum of the ship nor the hunger, nor the despair of those herded to the auction house.

And I told him about Kumra too, and the flesh stripped from my back, only I did not tell him why. But I wanted him to hear the whole horrible unfair truth, so he could never say he knew not the cruelty in his lands. So if he let it happen, he would know what he gave his approval to, so he could not lie to his own twisted soul in the night.

The more I talked, the darker his face turned, but I pushed on to the end, even while knowing he might break me like the lantaya man had broken the mirror my mother had given him, not liking what it showed him.

Never had Batumar’s face looked friendly with that scar, but his expression turned truly frightening as he listened. Still I stood my ground, cringing back only when he shoved to his feet.

“You will not come to harm from me today,” he said; then he strode out of the chamber.

The words did not sound like a threat now. They sounded careful. As if he wished not to promise more than he could keep. But any man that careful with his words had to be an honest man.

As eager as I was to believe such fancy, I could not. Still, his quick forgiveness of my frank words did surprise me. Had I said as much at the House of Tahar, I would have been beaten half to death.

A jumble of emotions fought each other in my heart as I snatched a blanket from the pile on the bed, dragged it back to the corner to bundle up in, then drifted off to sleep.

When I woke in the morning, the High Lord was dressing by the bed, one of his guards waiting in the open door.

I scrambled to my feet and straightened my dress. At the House of Tahar, servants always rose before their Lord. At Maiden Hall, all maidens stood ready for the day as soon as the door opened to allow Kumra through. Had she found anyone sleeping, I imagined the punishment would have been severe. I wondered how bad a beating this day would bring me and vowed not to walk to the whipping post meekly as I had before.

“Joreb has a prisoner,” Batumar said. “An enemy spy too ill to talk.” He strode to the door. “I would have you see if you can heal him.”

I looked at him, confused, for I had expected scolding. Then my thoughts flew to the unfortunate who needed my help, and I hoped I could give him at least some measure of relief. I followed behind Batumar, wary at his lack of visible anger. I had learned since having lost my freedom that those who hid their fury the best were sometimes the most cruel.

And suddenly I had more than sleeping late to worry about. What would the High Lord do when he found out I was no true healer? Would he send me to be sold on the auction block, would he keep me as a household slave, or would he toss me out and let me go?

Him being Kadar, I could not conceive any possibility of that last option. Then another thought occurred to me. Would he be embarrassed by my lack of skills in front of one of his warlords? Would he think his servant shamed him? Would he have me flogged? I followed Batumar to Joreb’s Great Hall with a heavy heart and a determination to face my fate with courage.

The servants had already cleared away the remnants of the feast from the night before. The double doors that led to the courtyard stood thrown wide, allowing in enough sunlight so we had no need for torches.

Two warriors held up the limp body of a burly man in front of Joreb. The man’s head, with its matted long hair, hung onto his naked chest, his scars telling tales of many battles. Fresh bruises and blood covered his body from his last fight.

Batumar watched me.

For the time, the man was mine. “Would you set him down?”

The warriors looked at their Lord, who nodded.

I knelt next to the man and saw at once the bloody hole below the last rib where his spirit was slipping away. Even if I still had some of the moonflower’s tears left… He needed so much more. The sickness went too deep inside him.

My mother would have sent her spirit to talk to his, to tell it to stay. She would have showed him how to push out the bad blood, the rotten bits, the pus. She would have called on the good spirits to strengthen him for the fight. And for her, the good spirits would have listened. Under her fingers, blood vessels would have flexed and the severed would have joined back together as whole.

Frustration clamped my teeth together.

I knew what needed to be done, only I could not accomplish it. My spirit had never been the wandering kind. No matter how many times I had tried to send it into a sick person, it never as much as budged in anyone’s direction.

I craved true power in that moment more fiercely than I ever had before, so fiercely that it scared me for a moment. Was this gnawing, all-consuming need what my great-grandmother had felt? Her powers had come late too. But then they had grown to eclipse all others until she had forgotten her vows and wished to use her powers to rule over our people. She had broken the sacred trust, and for this her family had been cast out, living even when I was born on the secluded beach, even though by then my mother’s own faithful service had redeemed our name.

But I could not leave the man without trying, not with the pain etched onto his face, pain so fierce I could feel it in my own bones. So I asked the warriors to bring me a blade and a pan of hot coals, and water first boiled, then cooled.

I blocked out everything but the man before me, noticing all that healers use for guidance: the pallid tone of his skin, the shallowness of his breath, his half-hooded eyes that barely seemed to see, the slight trembling of limbs, and lack of sweat despite the heat of his forehead. I barely noted when Batumar moved on with Joreb to continue their talks from the night before.

I washed the man’s face and his wounds the best I could, removed as much dead skin and flesh as possible. Then I seared the wound closed with the hot blade. He screamed, losing awareness for some moments before he regained his mind and began moaning.

I put my hand on his forehead, telling my arm to tell my hand to tell my palm to tell the skin to feel cool upon him. Then I sent another message, this time to dull the pain. I had gained some skill while healing Tahar’s warriors over the long winter. My senses had sharpened; my fingers had grown more knowing.

Had I been even more skilled, I would have been able to pull the pain completely, but the best I could do was to send some numbness into the man’s mind so although the pain still roared in his body, it could not fully reach him.

He began to speak at once, feverish words of nonsense, and at this, one of the warriors ran off to fetch Batumar and Joreb. A boy of about eight summers came with them, Joreb’s son from the looks of him. He had that stiff-lipped look of boys recently taken to war practice who missed the warmth and softness of their mother but would die rather than show it.

The two warlords listened closed-faced to the man’s gibberish. More warriors were called in, but none knew the man’s language.

“No use to us, then,” Joreb said. “Leave him to die.”

The man spoke again, and this time I caught one word that seemed familiar. It sounded like the tongue of the Kingdom of Orh, only distorted like an echo. I closed my eyes to concentrate on that distortion, and more and more words began to make sense—like looking at yourself in a pool of water, strange but recognizable.

He begged me to let him die.

I hesitated, not knowing whether I should plead for his life with Batumar and Joreb. If the man recovered, they might torture him to death again just to find out what they wanted. How did I know he was a spy? The word of a Kadar. He could have been a slave like myself, caught in escape.

Sometimes a healer did the best service by allowing a man to die. I put my hand on his forehead again and blocked his pain as well as I was able. The rest I would leave to the spirits to decide.

They lifted him roughly and dragged him away at once, his boots scraping over the stone floor, disappearing from sight just as more guards burst in, dragging a scared youth of maybe twenty summers. “Caught him skulking outside the gate, my Lords.”

“What is your business here?” Batumar demanded at once.

For a second, the battered youth looked defiant, but then he folded, tearful suddenly. “I must bring a map of Kadar fortresses to the Kerghi. If I don’t, they will kill my mother, my Lord.”

“Your mother is already dead, boy,” the High Lord said without emotion. “Will you join my army?”

The youth sobbed, tears and snot running down his face. “I will, my Lord. Just spare my life and I will serve you to my dying day.”