The Healer's Warrior (12 page)

Tareq turned his face. The sight of the spear bulleting toward him cured him of the paralysis. He threw his upper body backwards in the saddle. The spear missed his throat, but it grazed his cheek as it zipped past. The close call enlivened Tareq with rage. His blood had never been spilled in battle before. He’d been bruised and sore from battles in the past, but never wounded. His eyes narrowed in on the rebel that threw the weapon. The warrior, a young man, stood at the edge of the combat zone, his chest heaving as he stared at Tareq with bloodshot eyes. As soon as Tareq pulled on Sultan’s rein, the warrior ran for a thicket of tall grass nearby. Tareq charged after him.

Sultan galloped past the warfare and towards the offender, but the black warrior sprinted into the grass and was quickly hidden within the tall blades. Tareq brought Sultan to a sliding stop before the thicket and leapt down from the saddle, saif in hand. His lungs burned as he raced into the grass. He was immediately enveloped in the greenery. It was so thick he could not see where it ended. Tareq continued to sprint forward through the willowy grass, stalks crunching under his boots, and then eventually burst through to the clearing on the other side, in time to see the young warrior cutting across the plain. 

The ebony warrior looked over his shoulder to see Tareq still pursuing him. Determination was in the Arab’s light eyes, a lethal sword was in his hand, and his stamina was not waning. The gap between the two men was rapidly closing. The young man turned his focus to an Acacia tree twenty feet away.

Tareq noticed the tribesman change his course, heading for the sole tree in the area. Tareq was not about to clamber up a tree. He would end this chase now. Tareq sped up his pace and dug his fingers into the rebel’s shoulder just as he was reaching for a low branch. He yanked the man backward. Tareq dropped to the ground after him and pinned him with a knee to his ribcage. Tareq raised his sword high, both hands white-knuckling the hilt. The tribesman squirmed, wide-eyed, and shouted a frightened plea in a language that was foreign to Tareq but sorely familiar. Tareq brought down the sword and screamed.
“
Raaaaaaah
!”

A quiet moment passed as Tareq stared down at the man’s tensed body.

The tribesman opened his eyes. His reddened eyes round with shock, he looked from the sword to Tareq. He exhaled a staggered breath, not sure if he should be relieved yet.

Tareq wrenched the sword out from the soft soil between the tree’s roots. He stood up and studied the tribesman, a man about
Kibwe’s
build and age. Tareq whirled his sword in one hand, contemplating. Then he rested the curved tip of the sword against the rebel’s quivering face. Tareq thought of slicing the man’s cheek to match his own. The memory of the brown-haired tribesman of
Tikso
holding his gushing cheek together hit Tareq.

He couldn’t do it.

Tareq lifted the sword, shoved it into the sheath at his hip and strode away. His eyes stung with anger and humiliation. He’d sat stupidly on his horse while the kingdom’s best soldiers fought the rebels. He was almost killed by a spear aimed for his jugular. He’d managed to become wounded, and then he couldn’t muster the motivation to punish the rebel responsible. He couldn’t bring himself to fight any of them. Tareq knew how important it was to the kingdom’s stability to make a lesson of these rebels.  If upheaval carried on across the territories, Samhia would be destroyed. Destroyed before he could inherit it and finally prove to everyone that the motherless prince was not to be pitied, but respected as a better leader than his father. Still, his feelings were conflicted after the consequences of his last battle.

Tareq spat at the ground. He would have to face everyone with the cut on his face a symbol of his weakness.

Hakan was standing at the thicket and watched the rebel stand up and take off as Tareq walked away from the tree.  “Prince Tareq? What happened?”

Tareq walked past without a word. How could he explain to one of the greatest warriors Samhia had ever known that he could not fight?  Tareq pushed through the grass and went to Sultan. With his eyes lowered to avoid the sight of the warfare or a soldier’s questioning eyes, Tareq climbed into the saddle. The long trip home provided Tareq lots of time to make sense of what had stricken him on the battlefield.

Jem’ya spun gracefully in a circle as big as her cell would allow. She hummed a village song as she slowly danced alone. She was heartbroken, restless and bored. There were no patients for her to console and chat with. She couldn’t soothe herself with the beauty of the sea. She was so far away from her peace—
mahsalom.
 
Jem’ya started to sing the words aloud to drown out the beginning of a line of thoughts that had brought her to poisonous despair a hundred times already. If she was going to survive yet another 18 days in this cellar and return to her family, she had to be strong.

“I know it was you, Jem’ya!”

Jem’ya jumped and turned around to face the gate. She noticed the reddish scar on Tareq’s stubbly cheek. “What happened to your—?”

“Do you think I’m stupid? I know you did it! You
humiliated
me in front of my soldiers!” Tareq was still in his armor. His jet black hair and tanned arms were damp with sweat and his face was flushed from being in the heat.

Jem’ya squinted at Tareq and cocked her head to the side. She pointed from Tareq to herself. “You’re saying that
I
embarrassed you in front of some soldiers, but, as you can see,
I
have been locked in this cellar by
you
the entire time you were gone. So, yes, I
do
think you’re stupid!
An extraordinary idiot, in fact!”

Tareq smacked his palm against the metal gate. “If you can do that healing magic that you do, then I know you have other tricks up your sleeves. Voodoo! Witchery! Somehow,
somehow
, you got into my head. I couldn’t fight! I rode for five days into the desert to fight and instead I was trapped on my horse by your black magic and then almost killed! I couldn’t even stay for the remainder of the battle! Do you know what a bad impression that is on the Samhian warriors? Do you know that if word of this gets back to my father it could ruin everything?!”

 Jem’ya walked up to the gate. Her boldness made Tareq slow his breathing in anticipation of her next move. As Jem’ya stood in front of Tareq, she studied his face and savored his cautious observation. She was amused by his ignorant fear. Jem’ya smirked. She watched his hazel eyes linger on her lips and return to her gaze slightly softened. Her mouth soured.  

“I cannot torment you, Tareq. I can’t. Some days I wish so badly that I could,” she scowled. “I don’t possess the power of the Creator. That’s not how it works. The power possesses
me
. I am only a vessel. Perhaps guilt is what’s tormenting you.
Hmm.
You might just have a soul after all.”

Tareq’s cheeks tinged pink at the realization that his behavior during the battle was completely his own doing. His mind had immobilized him to prevent another emotional agony like
Tikso
.

“Tell me.” Jem’ya gripped the gate with both hands. “How is it that, after what you did to me and my family, you went out to slaughter yet another tribe?”

Tareq looked down into Jem’ya’s fiery dark eyes. Their bodies were close, only separated by the gate. “They murdered all the Samhian officials and their families in
Cambe
. My soldiers and I had to bury the bodies of men, women and
children
. You didn’t see what these rebels did.”

“Rebels?
That’s what you call them?” Rage began to swell throughout Jem’ya’s body. “What are they rebelling against, Tareq? Could it be your arrogance?
Your subjection?
Your slaughter?
How many freedom fighters did you cut down with your sword today?”

He shook his head. “I didn’t kill anyone.”

“Then why the
hell
were you there?
To sit back and watch?
Didn’t want to get your hands dirty this time?!”

Tareq was startled by her language. Her eyes were wet and her hands were shaking as her fingers gripped the metal and leather gate.  She wouldn’t believe him if he told her that his heart was breaking to see her like this. After all the things he’d done, including the newest offense of accusing her of being a witch, he didn’t know what apology could make a difference. His words were so inadequate.

If only he could hold her. Then she would feel that he thought about her every hour of the day, that he longed for her forgiveness more than anything, and that he cared for her so deeply that her rejection was driving him mad, yet he would be in much worse condition if she was not in his life at all.

“Answer me,” Jem’ya demanded.

“My father ordered the attack and—”

“You couldn’t turn it down. You couldn’t, because you can’t resist the opportunity to prove to him and everyone else that you are a
man,
a man of power, stamping my people down so that you can stand above them, all in an effort to hide the fact that you are nothing. Worthless! Weak!
A murderer yourself!”

“Jem’ya!” Tareq shouted. He slammed his fist into a metal beam of the gate. Jem’ya didn’t flinch. “You are supposed to be my
healer!
” he accused. Tareq stood breathing hard, his stare intensified by emotional injury.

Confused by the statement, Jem’ya laughed. “What do you mean?” But then the memories of how things once were between her and Tareq flooded her senses. They used to feel safest in each other’s company. They’d once made a promise never to hurt each other this way. Jem’ya gasped and started crying.

Tareq’s heart fell. “Jem’ya, stop,” he pleaded in a whisper. He’d rather her berate him than cry.

Jem’ya closed her eyes and tiredly shook her head. Her voice trembled with emotion and strained into a higher pitch. “I want it all back the way it was.”

Me, too
, Tareq wanted to say, but there was a lump in his throat. He reached out and put his hands over hers gripping the gate. He stroked her knuckles and the tops of her hands. Jem’ya allowed the contact for a few seconds. Then she opened her eyes, slowly slid her hands away from his and turned away. She lowered herself to her bed mat, curled up and lay there with her eyes open.

Reluctantly, Tareq walked away and went to his room for a bath. He completed the aching task of removing his armor and clothing as the tub filled with near scalding water. As he submerged his pain-plagued body into the hot water, he knew that he could never again be a warrior for his father’s kingdom. 

“I’ve completed the will,” wheezed the King through cracked lips.

Tareq was standing near the foot of the bed with his hands behind his back. He stared out the arched window beside the gold headboard to avoid looking into his father’s milky sunken eyes. Outside, the morning sun was rising. The moon was still visible, a small white lacy sphere against the bright blue sky.

“You and your brother are both weak like your mother when it comes to alcohol. Drunks,” he sputtered.

You’ve driven all of us to it.

“But you are the lesser of two evils. Your brother has no self-control. He is addicted to gambling, liquor, opium and women. His genitals will soon rot off from disease, and a damaged brain is inevitable from abusing those substances. I’m surprised he hasn’t yet overdosed. I will not leave my life’s work to someone who will soon be a drooling—”

The King was cut off by a coughing spell. One of his maids,
Saidah
, the daughter of Bahja’s niece, ran to his bedside and held a glass of water to his mouth.
Saidah
was twelve years old and unfortunately beautiful. Her pouty pink mouth and large gray eyes caught the attention of the King, and so from the age of nine she was one of his personal maids. The King struggled to sip the water between rattling coughs. Water dribbled down his chin and onto his red silk shirt. The little maid wiped the water from his yellowed beard with a section of her pristine white sleeve and returned to the corner of the room.

The King continued. “I will not leave this kingdom to a drooling idiot. Qadir is indulgent and impulsive. He cannot be depended upon to carry on the bloodline. You are more mature, though you are often lazy and reclusive, taking your long baths and such.”