Reluctant Concubine

by Dana Marton

  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. By the looks of his sackcloth shirt and pants, he must have been a peasant from one of the villages.

  At Lord Joreb’s questioning glance, his guard reported. “Caught him skulking outside the gate, my lords.”

  “What is your business here?” Batumar demanded from the captured man at once.

  For a moment, the battered youth looked defiant, but then he folded, suddenly tearful. “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.”

  Batumar nodded to the guards to release him. They did and stepped back. And the High Lord drew his sword and cut the spy down where he stood.

  I gasped as he fell, his blood gushing onto the stone floor. Tremors racked my body at such cold-blooded murder.

  The guards dragged the body out without the slightest show of emotion. Joreb’s boy, having taken a quick step closer to his father, now stared wide-eyed at the bloodstain.

  “Do you know why I had to cut this spy down?” the High Lord addressed him.

  Startled by the great honor, the boy hesitated.

  “Once a turncoat, always a turncoat, my lord,” he said at last, as Batumar wiped his blade. “He betrayed his people to the enemy for his mother, then betrayed his new lords and pledged to join our armies to keep his own life. He would have betrayed us too.”

  Batumar nodded. “Well said.”

  Joreb did not exactly smile, but his gaze softened.

  I reeled from the hideous, merciless violence but refused to let my knees tremble. I would not have any murderous Kadar see me weak.

  I was about to ask the High Lord for leave when one of the Palace Guard strode in to report that a horseman had ridden ahead to Karamur to carry news of our approach.

  Batumar dismissed him, then turned to me. “You may go and prepare for our journey.”

  So I hurried away, out of the room, away from the ruthless men in it.

  Later that day, as we rode on for the High Lord’s seat, Batumar slowed his beast until it walked next to mine. “Where did the first prisoner come from?”

  For a moment I thought to feign ignorance to avoid punishment, but I had just that day decided that I would no longer cower in fear in front of any Kadar, even if the price be my life. “The Kingdom of Orh or somewhere near.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  I flinched. I knew nothing escaped Batumar’s attention. I should have expected the question. “He begged to die, my lord.”

  “But you healed him.”

  “I tried.”

  “Will he live?”

  “If the spirits will it.”

  A moment of silence passed before he said, “If I see you practice deceit again, you will not live to regret it.”

  I knew him to be a man who meant the words he spoke. “But I will not come to harm from you today?” I asked, trusting that if he said so, I would be yet safe to see another morning.

  He shook his head. Some resemblance of a smile played at his crooked lips, the expression so unlike him, I found it more frightening than friendly.

  * * *

  We rode hard, stopping briefly at midday. I picked some stinky kukuyu weeds from the side of the road where they grew freely and prepared a poultice for the leg of a manyinga that had begun to limp. I had to crawl between the beast’s legs, each double the thickness of my waist, to apply the medicine.

  I asked the manyinga to stay still, told him I understood his pain and was trying to help. With a single step, the beast could have broken more bones in my body than a person could break and still live, but the manyinga stood still as I worked. I caught a couple of warriors watching me, although they turned every time I glanced their way.

  Once I helped the beast, I strode into the woods to relieve myself. I did not try to run away this time—I tried to sneak away. But once again, I could not sneak past Batumar’s guards. His men worked together in a way I had not seen among Lord Tahar’s warriors or among the Shahala. He scarcely gave orders. They simply knew his will and did it.

  Before I could find a solution to this problem, we mounted and rode on.

  I watched the injured manyinga, and it seemed the poultice took some of the pain as he did not favor his leg as much as before.

  When the sun slipped low in the sky, we stopped and dismounted, and the guards went about setting up the tents.

  Some warriors spread out to collect firewood for the night, and I did the same, aware that no other servant traveled with the small group but I, surprised that they did not expect me to do all the work. None were assigned to guard me, but every time I walked any distance, one would move so he could keep me in sight.

  I grew so accustomed to constantly having their eyes on me that I didn’t sense another kind of watchful gaze.

  I was collecting dry twigs at the edge of a clearing where it met the thick woods. When I heard the rustling behind me in the bushes, I thought it another warrior. The sudden rumbling growl had me swirling around in a hurry.

  And then I saw the tiger.

  CHAPTER NINE

  (The Fortress City)

 
Warriors moved in slowly, gliding silently over the ground.

  They would not reach me in time. The tiger growled again, louder, a yellow expanse of fur flashing behind the branches, way too close to me.

  I stood rooted to the spot and stared at the giant cat, double the size of the ones that roamed the Shahala forests.

  She watched, her muscles tensing for the jump.

  I could see her better now. Her belly hung low. She had recently eaten—I hoped enough. She was also swollen with milk, although I could not see her cubs. She growled again. I slipped back a step. Her litter had to be nearby. Maybe she was just warning me off.

  I slipped back another slow step and hummed the spirit song my mother had taught me. She had sung it when once a snake twisted around my ankle on top of a numaba tree. The song had no words. I hummed the melody while sending its meaning to the tiger in the way of the spirits.

  Oh great mother, I told her, I mean no harm to you or your children. Oh great sister, I said, we are both children of the earth and the sky.

  I hummed and backed away step by step.

  She let me go but did not relax her muscles. Her fierce gaze moved to something behind me. Keeping one eye on her, I glanced back in time to see one of the warriors notching his arrow.

  I yelled for him to stop, but warriors took no orders from slaves or from women. He let the arrow loose at the same time as the tiger lunged, her powerful hind legs propelling her over my head as she flew at the man.

  He missed the tiger, but the arrows of the other warriors dug deep into her side before she pounced on her target and brought the guard down in a crash that shook the ground. The man yanked his dagger, not much protection against claws and teeth.

  I drew back in horror as grunts mixed with rumbling growls.

  Then, just as suddenly as it began, the burst of violence ended, and the two opponents lay listlessly on the blood-soaked ground. The warrior had been badly mangled. The dozen arrows hanging from the tiger’s side bled her strength.

  The rest of the guards closed in to finish off the great animal, but I ran to her side without thought.

  “Stop,” I begged, and the men did, not because of my plea but because the High Lord burst into the clearing, his sword drawn.

  The warriors parted before him, awaiting his command. He sheathed his weapon, shoved the injured tiger off the man, and lowered himself onto one knee beside his guard.

  He turned his sharp gaze upon me. “Will Zordak live?”

  Skin and muscle hung from the man’s shoulder in strips, revealing the bone beneath.

  “If the spirits will it.” I stepped another step closer to the tiger and stretched out my arms to protect her. All I could think of was that her innocent cubs would starve to death in the woods without her.

  Batumar’s dark eyes narrowed. “For the life of my man, I would give you the life of the tiger.”

  He did not understand the way of healers. I would have tried everything in my power to heal the fallen man without promise of reward. And I would have done everything to save the tiger even under threat of punishment.

  “I will help Zordak as best I can. But the spirits hold his life, not I.”

  Batumar gave a curt nod as he stood, and the warriors lifted Zordak to return him to his tent with haste. I followed close behind.

  As soon as we reached our camp site, I began to boil and cool water to cleanse the wounds. I had some herbs to prepare a potion against infection, although not enough, and no moonflower tears.

  I numbed the man’s mind against pain and told his body to heal, not knowing whether it would listen. I called to the spirits, in case they had not completely abandoned me.

  When I had done all I could, I returned to the clearing where two guards stood a good distance from the tiger, their arrows notched and ready. I stepped right in front of those arrows.

  The tiger gave a weak growl.

  I hummed. I came to help, great mother.

  She understood. She stayed still as I pulled the arrows and smeared disinfectant paste on the wounds that were not as deep as I had feared. She still wore her thick winter coat, a veritable armor. She bled, but I did not think the arrows hit anything vital deep in her body.

  I had sinew and a bone needle but did not close any of her wounds. Should infection set in, they needed a way to drain. She might, in any case, tear out the stitches.

  At least, the disinfectant paste drew the edges together tightly enough for the bleeding to nearly stop. As the herbs I used had a bitter taste, I had hope that she would not lick off the paste.

  Her cubs mewed faintly in the thicket as I worked. From time to time, she lifted her massive head to look that way. Silently I sang to her about her pain lifting with the vapor of her breath, of strength returning into her as she drew in the crisp air of the woods.

  The guards never lowered their arrows as long moments passed. Then at last, the tiger stood on shaking legs. I stayed on the ground, perfectly still.

  She limped toward the thicket on paws as big as my head, stopping only once to lick blood from her fur and look back. And maybe she had her own spirit song, because for a moment a perfect peace descended on me, right there in the middle of the Kadar forest.

  The guards ended that, urging me to return to their injured brother. So I hurried back to our clearing and the man’s tent. I found the High Lord inside when I entered.

  He turned to me from inspecting the warrior’s wounds. “Can you do something for the fever?”

  I stepped closer to feel the man’s forehead, the heat a shock against my palms. I pulled off his blanket, leaving his body exposed to the cold air. But he needed more, so I wet some rags and covered as much of his near-naked body as I could.

  I checked the infusion of feverfew in his cup. I had prepared the medicine before I had left to see to the tiger. The color looked right, so I soaked the end of a clean rag in the liquid, then squeezed and dripped as much as I could between the man’s cracked lips.

  I wished I had more resources than the healing plants I had received from Onra and the ones I had gathered during our journey. Accumulating herbs anytime I passed through woods or fields was as habitual as breathing, my gaze constantly searching for familiar shapes and colors, but the forest was just awakening from its winter sleep, my pickings slim.

  The High Lord watched my ministrations closely. Did he look to find fault in me? Did he understand that no healer could change the will of the spirits? My hand jumped, and I dribbled some of the infusion onto my patient’s neck. I quickly wiped it off with my sleeve.

  “Zordak wanted only to protect you,” Batumar said.

  “The tiger wanted only to protect her young.” The guard had moved to attack first. Until then, the tiger had been willing to let us go with a warning.

  Batumar watched me for a moment but said nothing as he left us. I breathed a sigh of relief and stayed until Zordak rested peacefully at last.

  The aroma of cooking food scented the night air as I stepped from the tent, so I walked toward the small fire in the middle of our encampment. One of the warriors handed me a bowl. I sat on the cold ground away from the men and ate my evening meal, nearly dizzy with exhaustion, barely tasting the thin stew.

  When I finished, I rinsed the bowl and left it with the rest. I walked back toward Zordak to stay the night with the injured warrior, but one of the Palace Guards strode out of the darkness and led me to the High Lord’s tent that stood in the middle of our encampment.

  I went without protest. Zordak would not be alone. Unlike their High Lord, the warriors slept four to a tent. If he turned for the worse, one of the others could come and fetch me.

  I stepped inside Batumar’s empty tent, grateful for the small heat of the torch stuck in the ground in the middle. Although the tent had a small smoke hole, no one had lit a fire. I wondered how cold the weather would have to turn for the High Lord to consider one necessary.

  A water jar stood to my left, Batumar’s trunk and cot taking up mos
t of the space, the latter covered in furs. I grabbed a handful of pelts, then settled down in the corner.

  The furs and my cloak kept me warm but did little to soften the hard ground. Still, I thanked the spirits to be sleeping under cover and not out in the open. I doubted slaves on the road were accustomed to such luxury as I was afforded.

  I dozed, barely waking when Batumar ducked in. The wind picked up and howled outside. I burrowed deeper into my coverings.

  The tent in front of our Shahala house where my mother used to receive the sick was made of cool linen, letting the breeze through to provide everyone with fresh air. The Kadar made tents from animal hides, the panels sewn together tightly, the wisdom of which I was beginning to appreciate.

  Batumar stood over me. “My men say you healed the tiger.”

  “A mother should not be taken from her cubs.”

  He stood in silence for a while. “She did not harm you. Tugren says you sang to her. Must have been some song.” A brief silence passed before he went on. “I know a man like that, Lord Karnagh, a warlord of great power from Regnor. His people talk to tigers, even bring them to battle.”

  I thought about the tiger in the clearing. I did not want the High Lord to think that I would or could talk the tiger into following the warriors into a fight. “Those must be wondrous people indeed. This one allowed me to heal her, but she could have just as easily turned against me.”

  Another moment of silence passed as he considered my words. “Stay on your manyinga during the day; even tigers will not attack the beasts. At the midday break and in the evenings, stay close to the tents and the warriors.”

  To do otherwise would have been foolish, so I agreed. This once I had been lucky.

  I had to accept the fact that traveling through these woods alone would be too dangerous. On my way home from Karamur, I would have to find another way.