Ark(33)

“She?” Japheth couldn’t allow his mind, his heart, to believe.

“Yes, she,” the driver snapped. “I dare not speak her name, not here. Just bring her in, you fool.”

Japheth circled to the back of the wagon and peered into the drawn hoods of the two robed figures seated there. One was a young woman, vacant brown eyes staring into space, sweat-damp mouse-brown hair sticking to her fair cheeks. Japheth knew her—she was Irkalla, the servant of Aresia. Her expression was haunted, traumatized, that of a woman who had known the rape of a conquering warrior; he’d seen the expression often enough to know it.

The other figure, leaning against the servant girl . . . Japheth held his breath as he stepped closer.

Aresia.

Japheth wept. Her lovely face was swollen, her nose broken and reset, her eyes black and blue and green and fading yellow. Her knees were drawn up beneath her, and she shivered, sweating. He saw the sole of a foot peeking out from beneath the folds of her robe; wide triangular brands were seared into the tender skin, overlapping and scattered in random patterns, the painful brands too numerous to count.

Japheth touched her cheek with a feather-light finger, and Aresia started, whimpered, and curled away into the servant girl.

“Shh, it’s me,” Japheth whispered. “It’s Japheth. You’re safe now. It’s me. Open your eyes—you’re safe.”

Aresia cracked an eye open, hesitant and disbelieving. When she saw Japheth, she wept, cried out, and reached for him. Japheth caught her, lifted her up, and kissed her cracked, swollen lips. She was thin and frail, weak, so light now he could lift her without effort.

“Is it really you?” Aresia’s voice was a hoarse whisper, her golden eyes peering into Japheth’s, glittering with hope and fear. “Is it you? Are you real? Elohim, please. Don’t mock me, thus.”

“It’s me—it’s me.” Japheth touched his lips to her forehead. “Elohim has brought you to me.”

Aresia lifted a hand, touched his face, his mouth, his cheekbones, smiling. Then she passed out, going limp in his arms.

Japheth and Uresh drove the wagon near to his room. He carried her up to his room over the candlemaker’s shop and laid her on his pallet of blankets, covering her gently.

Then he went back out to find Uresh, trying to coax Irkalla out of the wagon. She wouldn’t let him touch her, shrinking away from him, shaking her head, moaning and whimpering.

Japheth motioned Uresh, climbed up, leaned close and whispered to her. “You’re safe now, Irkalla. You know me. No one else will harm you. Come inside, please. Come inside. I won’t touch you, I promise.”

The girl glanced at Japheth, her eyes finally focusing. She looked from him, to the city around her, the people shuffling by with loads to sell at market, supplies to cook dinner, water from the well. Eyes stared at her, at the guard, at Japheth, and back to her. Booted feet tramped in the distance, spearheads flashed in the sun.

“Come, girl, come inside,” Japheth repeated, keeping his voice low and calm. “The king’s guards are coming.”

“Irkalla, please . . . you must come inside, now.” Japheth reached for her, but she pulled her arm away.

She seemed to rouse herself then, waking up finally. She looked over Japheth’s shoulder at the formation of city guards approaching, and fear crossed her features. She reached out, not for Japheth, but for Uresh. He too was glancing over his shoulder at the approaching soldiers, shifting his feet nervously. When Irkalla reached for him, he gathered her in his arms and lifted her down from the wagon bed, as Japheth had Aresia.

Japheth led the way back to his room. Uresh sat down in a corner, Irkalla still cradled in his arms. Japheth heard him muttering to her. “You are safe now, Irkalla. I will protect you. I won’t let that ever happen again.” His voice was soft, surprisingly gentle for so rough a man.

Japheth wondered at that, but dismissed it—Irkalla and the guard would have to wage their own wars. He checked to make sure Aresia was still sleeping, and then gathering his remaining coin he left, telling the Larsan to not let anyone in unless it was Japheth himself. The healer who’d tended to Japheth’s foot lived near the market at the center of the city, and it was her he sought now. He found her grinding herbs with a mortar and pestle.

“Please, mistress, will you come?” Japheth asked. “I need you, please. I have coin.” Japheth showed a flash of gold.

“What is it you need me for?” The healer was an old woman, granite-gray hair still thick, eyes sharp and clear, her fingers quick and strong.

“A girl . . . my woman, she’s hurt.”

“Well, I need to know more than that, boy. Hurt how? Is she with child? Has she bones broken? A fever? Courses won’t stop? I can’t bring the right herbs if I don’t know what ails her.”

“I don’t know, woman! She’s been . . . tortured, I think. Her feet were . . . branded. Her nose is broken, but it’s been reset, I think.” Japheth paused, running his hands through his hair in frustration. He didn’t really know the extent of her injuries. “She’s been abused, sexually—I’d gamble the king’s own life on it. I think it’s safe to assume that if harm can be done to a body, it’s been done to her.”

The healer gathered various pouches, sniffing some and replacing them, choosing others, muttering to herself. Finally, she nodded and gestured for Japheth to lead the way.