Instead, she turned toward the bed. She crawled across its surface, the silk sheet barely whispering beneath her hands and knees. She curled into a ball in the middle of the bed. Minutes ticked by. Every movement, every sound made her tense and glance around. Eventually she found herself looking toward the balcony again.
She could see Caleb’s form, a dark lump across the balcony outlined by pale moonlight. She watched him, waiting for him to move, to come into the bed and have his way with her. More likely he was on the balcony to keep her from escaping again.
Trust Me, little one. I will take care of you.
For once Nierne did not recoil from the quiet voice. But neither did she embrace it. She still felt too numb to move either direction. Slowly, a question began to burn inside her mind.
Why? Why should she trust the Word?
The impertinence of her question scared her. She had been taught to believe in the Word and serve Him. But she needed answers, answers to why so many terrible things had happened. So she pressed on.
Why did You let the Shadonae into Thyra? Why did You let so many people die? Her heart constricted as she remembered the woman dying at the hand of the Shadonae. She remembered the look on the woman’s face, and her own cowardice. And the shadow creatures…
She closed her eyes. Her grief came rushing back like a stab to her chest. She clutched the silk top she wore. Why did You let Father Reth die?
A memory filled her mind, a moment when she was young, a time before she’d come to the Monastery. She remembered finding a small dead bird just outside the stained two-story house she’d lived in before the plague. She’d picked up the bird and cried. She hadn’t been able to understand why it wouldn’t move.
So she’d carried the bird inside, up the stairs, and into the dark room where her mother lay listless on the single bed. Her mother had turned and told her to throw the dirty thing out.
But she couldn’t. Instead, she remembered taking it to a section of the city wall where wildflowers forced their way through the broken cobblestone. There, she’d buried it beneath a broken brick.
Her memory faded. Nierne knew she was still on the bed inside Lady Meira’s manor. But inside her mind, she was that little girl again, cupping a small dead bird in her hands.
Let me have Father Reth.
Nierne looked down at the bird. Its wings were bent at odd angles, and its eyes were open but not seeing.
“I can’t,” she whispered. She couldn’t give up Father Reth. She loved him so much.
Trust me with him. Trust me with all of them.
Large hands drew near hers. Nierne didn’t look up. She knew whose hands they were. Her own fingers trembled, and the bird shifted in her hands.
Let me have him.
She stared down at the little bird.
Trust me, little one. My hands are much larger than your own.
Nierne looked at the little bird. “Why did You let him die?”
Everyone has a story. A cool desert breeze fluttered across her cheek. And every story has an ending. Their life stories are not for you to understand. I alone write each one, and each one has purpose. Even yours.
Her life had purpose?
Yes, little one. And I’m asking that you trust Me. Trust Me with Father Reth and the others.
The bird slowly faded, and Nierne found herself on the bed again. Sheer gauze fluttered around her. The room was dark save for the pale light streaming through the archway that led to the balcony. On the balcony floor she could see Caleb. His chest rose and fell in a slow steady way.
Will you trust Me?
Nierne rolled over onto her side. She brought her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. She squeezed her eyes shut. I’m not ready yet.
19
Rowen dipped a rag into the basin of water that sat on a small table, wrung it out, and began to wash. A tiny flame flickered above the lamp that sat at the other end of the table. Warm desert air filled the small room behind her. Shadows spread across the floor and up the walls. Her sleeping pallet lay against the far wall, just below the window. A dark grey wool blanket was half flung across it. Above the pallet, the sun was setting outside the window, painting the sky in brilliant orange, red, and deep purple.
She moved the rag along one arm then the other. A long scar followed her underarm, the remnants from a healing a couple of days ago. Rowen dipped the rag, wrung it out, and lifted her tunic. Another scar along her stomach. This one was from yesterday.
The water turned a cloudy brown. She dipped the rag again. At least the diseases she healed did not leave scars. Rowen shuddered at the thought of carrying Sherard’s rotting flesh disease. She could still remember the smell of decay when he’d removed the bandages from his face, and the puss and blisters she’d seen across his body. However, the diseases hurt more to heal.
She brought the rag to her left side, then stopped. One long narrow scar just above her hipbone. It was older than the other scars now littered across her body. It was her first one.
Rowen fingered the scar. Memories of Lore lying on the white sand near Avonai came rushing back. She remembered him thrashing beneath the pale moonlight and the pool of blood forming beneath his body, soaking into the sand. Even then she loved him, though she didn’t know it at the time. She realized now that it was her love that had driven her to heal him, despite the consequences. And now she bore the scar. She brushed her finger over the fine line again. It was almost like having a piece of Lore with her.
Rowen sighed and finished her washing. She wrung out the rag and hung it on a corner of the small table. Then she grabbed the nightdress Drake had given her and shrugged it on. After blowing out the small flickering lamp, she crossed the room and lay on the sleeping pallet.
Lore. Rowen rolled onto her side and pulled the blanket up to her chin. Every night she thought of him. Sometimes she dreamed about her past, her time in the White City, serving as Lady Astrea’s varor. Sometimes she dreamed about her village, though her memories of Cinad were growing more and more distant. But in every dream, Lore appeared. She would try to reach out and touch him, but he always remained an arm’s length away. He would speak to her, but she could never hear his words.
Sometimes, like today, when Drake was especially mean, she struggled with what might have been. She knew Lore loved her. And now, having had weeks to remember his words on the balcony back in Avonai, she knew she loved him too. Her love had grown quietly through months of working with him, learning from him, living the varor’s life with him.
Perhaps if things had been different, if she had never had this mark, they might have eventually bonded. Had a family. Grown old together.
But without the mark, you never would have been able to save him, a part of her whispered. He would have died from the assassin’s blade. She also would have not been able to save the White City. Lore would not have lived through that, either.
Rowen sighed and rolled onto her back. Yes. It was true. But it was also her mark that kept them separated. She was an Eldaran. He was Captain of the Guard and first varor to Lady Astrea. They had different paths to follow. This was the way it had to be.
Something moved outside her window. Rowen gripped her blanket and held her breath. She lay as still as possible.
“Ex-excuse me?” whispered a feminine voice. A shadowed head appeared in the window. “Is the Mirelukahn here?”
The what? Rowen shifted her face toward the window. The sky was dark now and full of stars.
“H-hello? Mirelukahn?” There was more shuffling outside. “I don’t think she’s here,” the woman said quietly.
“Yes, she is.” A man’s voice. He sounded farther away, and familiar. “Drake never lets her leave.“
Rowen sat up. It was Lanzo’s voice. The tall, lanky man who worked for Drake. She sometimes saw him around. He rarely spoke, but she would know that voice anywhere. Deep, like speaking into a well.
“Well, then you ask her,” the woman said.
&nb
sp; “She won’t come for me. You know that.” Rowen could barely hear Lanzo’s voice now. “You need to do it. For the sake of our son.”
There was a pause, then, “Please, can you hear me? My son, he needs help. Is anyone here?” A shadow appeared in the window, blocking out the starry sky. “Please,” the woman whispered.
Rowen thought through her choices. She could remain quiet, and they might go away. On the other hand, they might try to climb in the window and steal something, or worse. No, wait: They had mentioned something about a son. Thieves wouldn’t say something like that. She took a deep breath. “Yes, I’m here.”
The head moved as if looking in. “Are you Mirelukahn, the miracle worker?”
Rowen shook her head, not sure if the woman could see her. “I’m afraid I don’t know what a Mirelukahn is.”
“Oh.” The word was said in a small, quiet voice. The head withdrew from the window.
“Wait.” Rowen stood to her feet and looked out the window. She could see two silhouettes standing in the small park behind the building. Windows from the other buildings surrounding the park were lit with orange light from the lamps or candles burning within, but none of the light fell on the couple. The sky above was moonless, with only pricks of starlight. One of the silhouettes looked like it was holding a long, large lump. The son perhaps?
“You said your son needs help.” Rowen’s voice echoed across the park. She lowered her tone. “What is wrong with him?”
The smaller, slimmer silhouette approached the window. “He needs the Mirelukahn.”
“Wait a moment.” Rowen turned and made her way to the table. She found the lamp and lit it. She turned and held it up toward the window. A young woman’s face appeared in the window. Her face was smooth and angular, with dark eyes and dark wavy hair beneath a black hood and cloak. Rowen could not see Lanzo, but she suspected he was standing somewhere behind the woman.
Rowen approached the window with the lamp in her hand. “Now, what happened to your son?”
The woman’s face twisted. “He fell into a fire pit and is badly burned. I took him to see a healer, but…” She looked down, and a small tear trickled down her cheek. “We do not have much money. And the healer would only give us a sleeping draught. He said it didn’t matter, that our son is going to—” Her lip quivered. “He said our son would probably die.” The last word came out in a whisper.
“But my husband, he knows you.” The woman clasped her hands in front of her as in prayer. “He has seen what you can do. He said you are the Mirelukahn, the miracle healer.”
“The Mirelukahn?” The word felt strange on her tongue.
“Yes.” The woman’s eyes widened. “He said you could heal anyone of anything. And that you are a kind woman, the type who might help people…people like us. Even though we can’t pay you.”
“Drake won’t like that,” Rowen muttered.
The woman’s face fell. “Of course. I see—”
“Please.” Lanzo came to stand beside the woman. He held a large lump in his arms. The lump did not stir. “I know what you must think of me, working for a man like Drake. But it supports my family. And it’s the only job I could find. But don’t let my son suffer for what I do. There is nowhere else we can go. He will die if nothing is done.”
Rowen looked away. Drake would definitely not like this. And if he found out it was one of his own men asking for healing, who knew what Drake would do. Kill Lanzo? Kill his family? And just how burned was the boy? Could she even save him?
The woman started crying.
“Shhh, Chera!” Lanzo said. “He might hear us.”
Rowen turned back and sighed. “I’m not saying I won’t do it.” She looked down at her hand. She had left it uncovered since bathing earlier, and now it glowed faintly in the dark room. “The Word gave me this ability to heal people.” She held up her right hand and moved the lamp away. “Not just the rich.”
Chera wiped her eyes and looked. She gasped and took a step back as though a snake sat in the window. “Your hand! It’s-it’s—”
“Glowing,” Rowen finished.
Lanzo stared grimly down at her hand. He had seen her mark before during other healings.
“So it is true! You are the Mirelukahn,” Chera said. “We don’t have any gold, but what we do have, we will give it all to you if you can heal him.”
Rowen grimaced. “I do not charge for my healing. Like I said, it is a gift from the Word. It is Drake who charges gold.”
“So you would heal my son…for free?”
“Let me see you son first.” If he was really that bad, he might be too far gone for her healing.
Lanzo stepped up to the window and held the lump over the sill. He slowly unwrapped the linen. The boy was only two or three years old. Dark hair framed his face, and his eyes were closed tight in sleep. A patch of linen was wrapped around his neck, reaching up to his chin. The boy didn’t move. The sleeping draught must have been strong. The moment the linen fell away from the boy’s face, Rowen gasped. Even in the shadows she could see the ugly red burn just below his jaw, spreading down the right side of his neck. Blisters formed along the crispy skin.
How had the boy lived through such an accident?
She didn’t know much, but Rowen knew that if an infection set in, it would kill the boy. And the healer they saw must have known that too and didn’t want to waste time on a boy from a poor family.
But if he did somehow live, and the burn healed naturally, it would leave a nasty scar, one that would forever distort his skin. Such a scar would make him an outcast for life.
“Give me a moment.” Rowen turned and walked over to the small table in the corner. She placed the lamp down on it. Slowly, she lifted her hand and felt her own neck. Smooth, unblemished. Could she do this?
She didn’t have to. She could turn them away. After all, healing the boy could put Lanzo’s job in jeopardy. It could put the whole family in jeopardy. Drake would be furious once he saw the scar on her neck. He would know she had healed without payment. He would have words for her, and maybe worse.
The desire for preservation swelled inside her. Life was hard enough already. Why make it harder? But could she let this little boy suffer, and perhaps die, because she was afraid?
Rowen curled her hands and placed them on the table. She leaned forward and bowed her head. Word, she prayed, squeezing her eyes shut, I need Your help. I-I’m afraid to do this. The pain, the repulsive scar it will leave. Drake’s anger. A tear escaped the corner of her eye. What will Lore think of me if I have this scar? She choked at the thought and held a fist to her lips. What if he turned her away?
But I can’t let this boy go unhealed. I can’t turn away someone who needs help. I could never live with myself, knowing I had let a little boy… Rowen rocked back and forth. Please Word, give me strength.
A small fire began to burn inside her chest. It grew, warming her, consuming her. The light across her palm brightened. Rowen let out a choked breath and wiped her eyes. She allowed the warmth to spread across her entire being, using it to fuel her fortitude. Then she turned.
She looked back at the window where Chera and Lanzo still stood. Lanzo had pulled the blanket back over his boy. They watched her with desperate hope.
“Yes, I-I will heal him. I will heal the boy.”
“Oh, my—” Chera buried her face in Lanzo’s shoulder. Lanzo smiled, his eyes watery.
Rowen walked back to the window. Lanzo pulled the blanket away from the boy. The boy still slept.
Rowen dragged her pallet until it was directly beneath the window. When she passed out, she didn’t want to fall far. “Lay him down on my bed.”
Lanzo lifted the boy and reached inside the window. He slowly, gently laid the boy down on the pallet.
Rowen knelt down by the boy. She held her hand above his face. Before she could think on it more, she pressed her hand on the burn.
Warmth swirled inside her chest. It made its way along her arm, moving
like water in a trough toward her glowing palm. The light brightened then dimmed as her power entered the boy.
“Does it hurt?” Rowen distantly heard Chera ask.
Rowen didn’t hear Lanzo’s answer. Instead, she felt coldness enter her fingertips. It slowly crawled up her arm. Her heart pumped harder inside her chest. Closer. Closer. The skin near her neck began to erupt into a thousand pricks of searing pain. Rowen bit her lip to keep from crying out. Her eyes watered.
The pain intensified, spreading across her neck. She heard Chera gasp, but Rowen kept her eyes on the little boy. The burn faded from his neck. A moment later, it disappeared altogether.
Rowen dropped her hand and fell back. It felt as though her neck was on fire. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t swallow.
“Your—your neck!” she heard Chera whisper with a gasp.
Lanzo must have not mentioned how she healed. Rowen tried to say something, but her mouth refused to work. Instead, she laid on the pallet and stared at the ceiling, waiting for the darkness to come.
But it never did.
The warmth surged again inside her, burning the coldness away with such an intense heat that sweat broke out all over her body. This must be her own body healing itself, but she had never been awake to feel this before. Every other time, she had passed out. It burned brighter and brighter until Rowen thought she would faint from the heat. Then it tapered off. Slowly it drained away, starting at her fingers and toes, drawing inward toward her heart. As the heat faded, her vision dimmed for a heartbeat. Rowen blinked and her vision returned.
It was done.
Rowen stared at the ceiling. She hadn’t blacked out. What in all the Lands? Every other time she’d healed, she had blacked out. But not this time. Already, her strength was returning.
She turned her head and found Lanzo reaching through the window for the boy. He lifted the child and backed out the window. Chera stood beside him.
Rowen struggled to a sitting position.
Son of Truth (Follower of the Word) Page 21