The Queen and the Cure (The Bird and the Sword Chronicles #2)(11)
“I’ve decided we will not need baths or food. We are told the water is unclean,” Kjell said, projecting so his words reached the edges of the crowd. A murmur rose through the assembly.
“It’s making your people sick,” Kjell insisted.
“You may be the King’s Guard, but you know nothing of Solemn,” Syed protested.
Kjell shrugged. “It matters not to me whether you believe me. We will not be staying in Solemn. And we will not be drinking the water.” They would not even be dismounting from their horses if he had his way.
“The woman lies,” an elder hissed, pointing toward Sasha, laying the blame, and Kjell shrugged once more, though his ambivalence was feigned.
“Why would she do that?” Kjell demanded.
“To frighten the people,” Syed warned.
“To frighten them so much they would kill her?” Kjell scoffed. A guilty muttering rose again.
“She is clearly unharmed,” another elder said. “She lies to you too. It is she who makes the people sick.”
The villagers pressed and surged, closing around Kjell’s men, emboldened or simply curious, he couldn’t tell, and the horses shimmied and stomped, feeling the energy and the emotion gathering. They were armed soldiers on horseback, protected by their prowess and recognized as emissaries of the king. He was the king’s own brother, yet he knew that if the elders of Solemn could incite the crowd, the sheer numbers would overwhelm them.
Someone threw a stone, and then another. Rocks began to rain, striking the horses and the occasional guard, but they were aimed at the woman who had been accused of causing all the suffering. Sasha cried out in pain, and Kjell drew his sword. His men, following his lead, immediately unsheathed their own.
“By order of the crown, there will be no harming or casting out of the Gifted. They are bound by the same protections and laws every citizen of Jeru enjoys. If you stone, you will be stoned. If you harm, you will be harmed. If you cast someone out without cause, you will share the same fate.”
The people began to step back, and his men moved their horses forward, their swords extended, their intentions clear. Some of the villagers began to run, some covered their heads, and the elders threatened wildly, demanding the soldiers leave the village at once.
He felt a hand on his leg, tugging at him, demanding his attention, and he looked down into Sasha’s frightened face. Her veil had fallen and her hair was in tumbled disarray.
“They are suffering. Will you help them?”
“There has to be some justice,” he argued incredulously, staring down into her bottomless eyes.
“There was justice. You are my justice. You saved me. Now you will redeem them,” she implored.
“I will not!”
“You are a Healer, not an executioner.”
“I am both!” he roared, his indignation toward her almost as great as his outrage over what had been done to her.
“You can’t be both,” she rebuked gently. A knot was already forming on her cheek, and a thin line of blood welled up in the abrasion. His anger swelled again, so great it enlarged his chest and pounded in his temples. He pressed his fingertips to the wound and wiped the blood away, leaving flat, unbroken skin in its wake.
“Kjell of Jeru is a Healer,” Sasha shouted, her eyes locked on his, pleading. The murmur became a new kind of rumbling. “He healed me, and he can heal your sick,” she cried, lifting her voice to the crowd. “Bring your sick to him, and you will see.”
A hush grew over the riotous crowd, and for a moment every breath was drawn in wonder. It rippled through the gathering, the possibility of her assertion, the prospect of hope. His men were motionless, their blades level, listening for his command. The people were frozen in anticipation, silenced by the seduction of a chance. And Sasha clung to his leg, beseeching, waiting for him to bend to her will. He eyed the villagers, their cautious faces, their veiled optimism, the scorn of their leaders. And bend he did.
“If they want to be healed, let them come,” he acquiesced. “Let the innocent come. But I will not heal them.” He tipped his blade toward the elders, condemning them. “I can’t heal men’s hearts,” he added, and immediately felt the weight of his own guilt.
Sasha nodded, withdrawing her hand from his leg. She turned without another word and began to push through the crowd that only minutes before had been trying to stone her.
They parted for her immediately.
Kjell didn’t know where she was going or what she intended, but he drew in behind her and his men followed, a procession of soldiers being led by a servant girl. The wake became wider, the stones forgotten, and the people watched them go.
Kjell wondered if anyone would follow, if anyone would have the faith to bring their dying to him. There was a time when he wouldn’t have followed a Healer. Not for himself. But maybe for Tiras. For Tiras he would have done anything. He would have risked the derision and ostracization of the non-believers. He would have taken a chance and faced the disappointment of false hope. He’d done it over and over again. But their faith was not Kjell’s problem. If they wanted to be healed, let them follow. He would not make it easy for them.
Sasha led Kjell and his men to the empty house of her deceased master, a small home of rock and clay with heavy rugs over the doors and windows. She seemed convinced the people would come and pushed the rug over the door wide to welcome them when they did. Kjell climbed down from his horse, handed his reins to Jerick, and commanded him to post half the guard around the house and the other half back at the clearing where they’d camped the night before.