Children of the Healer

by Barbara Ann Wright

  Lydia went still. Now; it was going to happen now. “Where’s Fajir’s bone sword?”

  “Um.” Mamet looked around. “Rene had it yesterday.” He gestured to an ossor waiting outside a nearby tent. It carried a saddle and bags as well as the sword, packed for a hunt. Rene must have loaded it early and was now getting ready in his tent. He hadn’t even bothered to secure the ossor to the ground. It stood docile, waiting.

  Lydia smiled, not bothering to look into the future when she could see it this plainly in the present. “Perfect.” She squeezed Mamet’s hand. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

  Mamet smiled. “Thanks, but I—”

  Samira bent and picked up a tent peg. “Did you see this? Who knocked over—”

  Lydia held her breath.

  A shape lurched up from under the tent, throwing the heavy leather. It landed on Samira, and Fajir fled into the plains. Her hands were still bound, but now they were in front of her, and she ran like the wind.

  The tent billowed as Samira thrashed inside. She cried out and fell. Mamet went to help, and Lydia ran for the supply-laden ossor. She climbed into the saddle, stuck her feet under the bug’s vestigial wings, and prodded it after Fajir. People were wandering out of their tents, probably roused by the noise. Fajir disappeared over a rise. Lydia drew the bone sword as she rode. If anyone wanted to chase them, they’d have to dress and saddle more ossors.

  Lydia wouldn’t have thought Fajir would be so swift. She’d seemed haggard and weak when they caught her, but she’d clearly found her second wind. Or maybe she’d heard some of the talk about keeping her alive. Now she streaked through the grass, leaping over ditches and rocks. Lydia lost sight of her twice and had to change direction. Fajir slid down a steep slope, and Lydia pulled the ossor to a halt so it wouldn’t fall.

  A narrow gash led downward, hiding a deeper ravine cut by some ancient river. Lydia kicked her ossor again and followed from above as Fajir ran along the dry riverbed below. The riverbed forked, and Lydia was forced to pull up short as Fajir took the branch leading away from her. She cursed and sheathed the sword before kneeing her ossor harder. The ravine had to come up sometime, and she rode hard, following the track until the ground leveled again. No Fajir. Lydia stopped, turning in all directions.

  Nothing. “Damn.”

  She didn’t hear any other sounds of pursuit, but the Engali would track them. Maybe she should go back. If she could find her way. The ossor shied and keened. She wondered if it was as frustrated as she felt.

  Lydia felt a rush of air behind her, but before she could turn or focus her power, Fajir collided with her, knocking the wind out of her. They fell in a tangle, and Lydia grunted as she hit the ground. Fajir’s bound wrists ground her face into the dirt, and she squealed.

  Lydia fought down panic. She twisted, sending an elbow back into Fajir’s ribs. When Fajir grunted, the pressure on Lydia’s head eased. Lydia bucked, managing a half turn. She threw a wild punch and scored a hit somewhere soft. Fajir’s weight lifted, and Lydia scrambled up, running for the ossor.

  Lydia drew the bone sword and turned, but Fajir hadn’t moved from the ground. She breathed hard, and whatever energy she’d summoned seemed to have abandoned her. She probably hadn’t slept at all in the Engali camp, and she’d refused all offers of food and water.

  “Get up,” Lydia said.

  Fajir didn’t respond except to glare. With the tattoos, her face seemed skeletal and dangerous, even when she was exhausted and starved.

  “I said, get up!”

  “Kill me,” Fajir said.

  Lydia frowned hard. “I was the prophet of Gale. Do you know what that means? I can see the future, and last night, I dreamed yours. You don’t die here today. You have a future, a job to do, and I’m not going to let you hurt innocent people while you do it!”

  Fajir’s face scrunched up. “What?”

  “You’re going to save the plains.”

  Fajir stared before sputtering a laugh that turned into a guffaw, and then she was rolling on the ground, cackling away.

  Heat rose in Lydia’s cheeks. “Shut up! Do you want to be caught by the Engali again?”

  Fajir only laughed harder.

  Lydia sighed. No one ever believed her, but people didn’t usually act like this. “The Engali don’t keep prisoners. Usually. They were going to make an exception for you.”

  Fajir’s laughter faded away, and she went back to glaring.

  “Since you wanted to die so badly, they thought it would be a better punishment to keep you alive and haul you from camp to camp, force-feeding you if necessary. You’d live a long, unhappy life.”

  Fajir scrambled to her feet so fast, Lydia took a step back and held the sword out. “You lie!” Fajir cried.

  “I can see the future, remember?” And she hadn’t seen all that, but it had gotten Fajir to stand.

  “Why should I believe you?” She sneered. “Are you my nemesis, born only to torture me? You can kill me now, or I can kill you. It makes no difference.”

  Even with her power, Lydia didn’t think she could take on Fajir, but a little proof of power might be in order. She looked a bit into the future, saw herself leading with the sword, and saw how Fajir would react. Lydia lunged, and when Fajir darted to her right, Lydia stabbed into her path before she had even finished the move. Fajir avoided the strike. Barely. Her eyes widened.

  Lydia fell into her power again and saw Fajir feint to the left. She thrust that way, nicking Fajir’s arm.

  “I told you,” Lydia said. “I can look seconds into the future and see what you’re going to do. You can’t beat me.” Again, probably not true, but she pretended with all her might.

  Fajir went still as if considering. “How will I save the plains when my hands are bound, and you’re holding my own sword to my throat?”

  Lydia thought fast. She’d hadn’t really believed she’d get Fajir to listen at all. Now she had to think of a plan? “First…we get away from the Engali.” So Fajir couldn’t kill them, but she didn’t add that. She mounted the ossor and gestured with the sword. “March. You might want to die, but I don’t think you want to be cut to ribbons first.” She put a growl in her voice, even though the thought of torturing someone sickened her.

  Fajir lifted one eyebrow as she began walking. “How fearsome you are, Nemesis. Tell me, do you know what a shirka is?”

  “Less talking, more walking.”

  Fajir glanced over her shoulder, smirk in place. “They are dancers, and each month, they open their stages to amateurs. They do so on the half moon, so the Lady only has to watch with one eye. As I look at you, I know it must be the half moon tonight.”

  Lydia snorted a laugh. “That’s fair. I am an amateur, and I don’t want to torture you, but I will defend myself. And I can see the future. The question is, do you want to ride toward it with your eyes open or be dragged into it like a petrified shirka with stage fright?”

  Fajir didn’t respond, and Lydia hoped she’d gotten through a little bit. She’d have to keep her own eyes open, that was for damn sure.

  * * *

  The mayor’s house was easier to stretch out in, much larger than Dillon’s apartment in the Yafanai Temple. Lyshus and Little Paul seemed interested in exploring, particularly the staircase that led to the second floor bedrooms. Simon left Pakesh in charge of watching them while he sought a place for Evan. There was no crib in the house, so he settled for pulling out a drawer from a cabinet, putting a blanket inside, and laying Evan there. Shiv and her little tree found a room with a window.

  Jacobs had gone to speak to her fellow paladins about setting up guard shifts around the house. It seemed a quiet neighborhood, and Simon hoped it would stay that way. One of the neighbors had told him that the house had been vacant since Paul Ross was murdered nine months ago.

  Simon wandered around, happy to see the place so tidy. Evidently, a group of neighbors had banded together to keep it clean. Maybe they’d been keeping it ready for a new
mayor, but Dillon hadn’t held elections. Rumor had it that he wanted to keep all the power for himself. In reality, he probably hadn’t noticed there needed to be an election. As long as the city was running, Dillon didn’t ask how it got done. Simon was just happy one of the neighbors had agreed to send a message to Mila so she could feed Evan. Gale was a gossipy town, and he had no doubt that everyone would soon know where he was, but he wanted to keep that information to as few people as possible for as long as possible.

  The nosy neighbors seemed happy to have someone famous nearby. Their compliments had made him blush, but any words were better than effigies and someone chucking a bottle at his head. They also told him the house was haunted by the ghost of Paul Ross. He’d done his best not to laugh, but after they left, the idea seeped in enough to give him the creeps.

  Almost against his will, Simon went toward the study, the place where Paul Ross had died. Dillon had killed him with electrokinesis, then stabbed the body to cover up the crime. Simon had lied about the cause of death to Cordelia, telling her only about the stabbing, helping Dillon out of misplaced loyalty. It wasn’t until he’d accepted that Dillon had become a murderer that he knew he’d never help Dillon again.

  At least not willingly. Bastard.

  After Simon took a deep breath, he opened the study door slowly, expecting to see a bloodstain on the wall, but someone had cleaned that, too. They hadn’t repaired the crack in the plaster, though. Maybe that was all the reminder anyone needed. Simon shut the door again, hoping that if any of Paul Ross’s spirit did linger, he’d keep himself to the one room.

  He only had to wait a little while before Miriam and Mila arrived in a rickshaw. In the meantime, a man named Private Hought arrived to guard his door, and several more neighbors dropped by. Simon was never so glad to see Miriam and asked her if she wouldn’t mind answering the door while she was there. Maybe she was better at shooing people away.

  She regarded him with her usual flat look, then turned to survey the street, smiling when several watchers waved. “Trouble already?” she asked.

  “I never know how to put people off without coming off as either threatening or timid.”

  “Aim for disinterested,” she said. “It’s all in the eyes.”

  Mila barked a laugh. “Where’s your lovely baby?”

  Simon fetched him, and Mila sat at the kitchen table to feed him. Simon rooted around until he found some tea, then began brewing a pot. Miriam leaned against a counter and watched him with her dark, piercing eyes. She could look far from disinterested when she wanted.

  “Can you find some mugs?” he asked, anything to get her gaze off him.

  She turned to the cupboards. “Well, at least there won’t be any random yafanai running around here. You’ll be able to see them coming. Or the neighbors will.”

  He snorted a laugh. “Until the yafanai burrow into their minds and try to take their heads off.”

  “True.”

  He gave her a sharp look to see if she was joking, but she was still searching. She found and stacked some mugs on the counter, then rubbed her large belly as if even that small motion pained her.

  Simon hung a kettle over the fire. “Can I help?” He turned and held a hand toward her but didn’t touch her, not without permission.

  After raising an eyebrow, she nodded. He put a hand on her lightly. He didn’t need to touch her at all, but it seemed to startle people less if he touched them before using his power. As a yafanai, maybe Miriam was used to it. He soothed the fetus inside, then relieved the twinge in Miriam’s back and the ache in her knees and feet.

  She took a deep, satisfied breath. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He kept from giving her a gratified smile. Instead, he took the mugs to the table.

  Mila grinned. “I could use a shot of those healing hands if you don’t mind.”

  “I’m sorry! I should have realized.” He grazed her hand and soothed her aches. Breastfeeding never seemed like the easiest thing in the world, no matter what anyone said, and healing was easier than chitchat. “Better?”

  She nodded and smiled at Evan. “I’ll have to bring my Kena over for a playdate.”

  Simon sat, dumbfounded. Playdates. He was planning playdates for Dillon’s children. He shook his head, trying to escape the absurdity of it all. He pictured all the yafanai mothers in this house with their children, Dillon’s children, playing together. He supposed he could do worse than a cadre of yafanai as close friends. No one could sneak up on him then.

  “And the rest of the mothers?” he asked.

  “One died in childbirth while you and the renegades were gone for months,” Miriam said. “Then Mila had her baby. The next is due any day now.”

  The first statement gutted him so hard, he couldn’t really process the others. Died in childbirth? So long after humanity had solved that problem? But this wasn’t Earth, and even with yafanai, things went wrong. Mila seemed sad, but Miriam didn’t seem fazed. They must not have been close.

  “Any…any day now?” he asked. “Who?” He could do nothing for the dead but grieve, though guilt would come looking for him later no matter the facts.

  “Victoria,” Miriam said. “She wasn’t there when we confronted you. She’s overdue now and doesn’t move unless she has to.”

  “Why didn’t she ask for help?” He tried to swallow his indignation.

  Mila snorted. “Victoria doesn’t ever ask for help. She’s a pyrokinetic. Rare powers like hers think they’re above it all.”

  Miriam chuckled. Simon nodded slowly, digesting that. Pyros and prophets were rare, followed by micro-psychokinetics. Macros were a little more common, but telepathy was the most common power. Maybe they were the yafanai who made friends easily. He looked to Miriam. Or not. But electrokinesis was the rarest power of them all. Only Dillon had it, and he loved talking to people. Well, as long as they kissed his ass. Or any other part of him.

  Simon fetched the kettle and poured hot water into a ready teapot. The unnamed woman who’d died in childbirth kept rattling around in Simon’s mind, and when they’d finished the tea, he asked if he could go with them to the temple.

  Mila said, “Of course!” but Miriam gave him another strange look.

  “To see Victoria?” she asked. “We still don’t know who attacked you.” She rolled her eyes. “Though I would have recognized Victoria. Still, you want to risk it?”

  “I won’t bring Evan this time,” he said. “Pakesh will have to come, but Shiv will be here to watch Evan, not to mention the nosy neighbors.” And the ghost of Paul Ross, but he didn’t say that. The idea made him shudder, and he told himself not to be an idiot.

  On the way out, they met Jacobs, and she tagged along. Once at the temple, Miriam led them straight to Victoria’s door. Miriam knocked, and a weary voice called for them to come in before muttering something else.

  “We’ll wait out here, Doc,” Jacobs said, nodding to Pakesh.

  He nodded and followed Miriam inside. The room was nearly dark, and a tiny woman with an enormously round belly sat on a sofa, her feet up, and her head lolling over the sofa arm.

  “What do you want, Miriam?” she asked. “I just got to sleep.”

  “I brought you some help, you ungrateful hoshpi.” Miriam went to the shutters and opened them, letting in the light.

  Victoria squinted. Her reddish brown hair was an untidy mess, and her eyes looked unfocused. “It’s too bright!”

  Miriam ignored her, and Victoria turned her half-hearted glare on Simon. He had a flash of the graffiti he’d seen about pretenders burning, but this woman didn’t look as if she’d climbed any buildings with a can of paint lately.

  “Well?” Victoria asked. “Are you going to tell me why you’re disturbing me or linger until I explode under my own weight?”

  “Oh, give it a rest, Victoria,” Miriam said, entirely without malice.

  “Stuff it, you old prog,” Victoria said, still eyeing Simon.

  “I’m�
��here to help you,” he said.

  “You already healed me when you healed everyone else.”

  “With your baby.”

  She eyed him skeptically and looked to her belly. “I’m starting to think no one can help me.”

  “Let him try, Vic,” Miriam said. “He does wonders.”

  “Well.” She brightened a bit and waved him forward. For two people who weren’t rumored to spend time with each other, these two seemed very comfortable. Maybe they were the only two who could stand each other’s company.

  Simon sat, and Victoria’s expression changed, becoming almost demure as she batted her eyelashes. Her bright green eyes were a pleasant contrast to the dark shadows underneath them. “I didn’t know that I rated your personal attention.”

  “Save it, Vic,” Miriam said. “He’s not going to fall under your sway.”

  Victoria glared over Simon’s shoulder. “Because he didn’t fall under yours? That just proves he’s discerning.”

  Miriam sat on the other edge of the sofa. “She could manipulate the Storm Lord with those hooded eyes. Gave me quite the laugh.”

  Simon had to smile, happy someone could do to Dillon what he often did to everyone else. “Well, that alone rates some assistance.”

  Victoria sighed deeply. “Oh good. I’m too tired to flirt anyway.”

  He held a hand over her. “May I?”

  “Might as well. You can’t make it any worse.”

  He sent his power easing through her, soothing the same pains he’d felt in Miriam, but he couldn’t do anything to ease the pressure of the child except deaden the nerves. Victoria smiled at him gloriously, and he saw how a man like Dillon could be swayed by her. It nearly made him blush.

  “Well…” He cleared his throat. “Want to deliver today? Completely painless, I guarantee it.”

  Her jaw dropped. His scans told him the child was healthy and ready for the outside world. Fear came from Victoria as well as excitement, but whether it was the pain of childbirth or the lifetime of motherhood that scared her, he couldn’t say.

  Miriam was looking at him in wonder, too. “Do it, Vic,” she said. “Why not?”