The Third Scroll (chp 1-3)

"Very good healer. Only daughter of a Tika Shahala," Jarim boasted just as rudely, as if not at all offended. He spoke a little of most languages used around our area. I knew them as well as my own, learned from the many visitors who had come to my mother. 

I wished Jarim had not said such a thing, even if he said it only because he did not want to shame me. 

The leader's eyes narrowed. "Ten blue crystals." 

Too much, more than we had seen in a long time, many times more than my help was worth had I been willing to give it. I tugged Jarim's sleeve. 

"She is worth twice that," Jarim insisted and hushed me when I tried to speak. 

I had never seen him like that before. A healer did not bargain over healing or ask payment. The sick gave gifts according to their abilities, despite reassurances that no payment was necessary. 

"Twelve." The trader's impatient tone signaled the end of bargaining as he handed Jarim a worn leather bag. 

To my horror, he counted the crystals.  

Then he nodded. Perhaps he did not feel the need to show manners in front of people who had none, I thought, dazed, and when the traders started toward the ship and motioned to me, I obediently followed but stopped after a moment when my mind cleared a little. 

"My herbs." I turned toward our dwelling. I should probably take a little of everything. 

"You will not need those," the one who had bargained for my services told me. 

Of course. They traveled many waters. They probably had their own herbs on the ship. Maybe I would even see something new and exotic. 

I looked at Jarim, but he would not look at me. 

"Come," the man ordered. 

And I followed him. 

I hoped they wanted me to heal slaves, although I was unsure whether my ministrations would be much help. But trying would have been easy, as my heart went out to the unfortunates. And I had to try now, whether master or slave languished in the sickbed-Jarim had already taken the payment. 

Our shore met the sea not with a sandy beach but with veritable cliffs the waves beat against. Because of this, most ships docked in Sheharree, and our visitors completed the journey over land. But now a grizzled man, wet from the spray, waited for us, holding the rope of a massive boat wedged between two scarred rocks, each as large as the boat itself. 

I eased in, fear stealing into my lungs as we shoved off. The next wave could push us back and smash the boat against the rocks. But the men who handled the oars handled them well and mastered the waves. 

What would they do to me if my healing failed? Would they bother to bring me back and demand their crystals? I could too easily see them tossing me overboard, into the rolling sea.  

I wanted to tell them I was a fake, that I was sorry my father had taken their payment. But none of them talked, so I too remained silent. I did not want to make them angry, these people who stole others' lives to sell. 

My heart beat a hurried rhythm at the unfamiliarity of the boat ride. I squeezed my eyes shut against the fury of the sea. My mother had always forbidden me from taking to the water, a habit I had kept even after her death. The boat tossed, and I grabbed its side, trying to pretend I stood atop a numaba tree, the branches swaying under me in the wind.  

A welcome calm spread through my limbs, until the waves sprayed water in my face. I told myself I stood atop the numaba tree, and the rain began to fall. But my mind no longer believed the tale.