Chosen (The Warrior Chronicles #1)(10)

Why were there so many ways to fail?

“Two days. Come back here at dawn. Don’t tell anyone and don’t let anyone figure it out. Do well in your classes, focus on what you’re doing, and don’t let them see your distraction. When you come, in two days, at dawn, bring enough provisions for a week and a map. Will you remember?”

Marc nodded again, glued to her hypnotic, slightly glowing eyes.

“Okay. Now get out,” Shanti said with a tight voice. She replaced lust with shame, as if a parent had given him a punishment after catching him masturbating. With any luck the next time he looked at her he would be mortified. Not the nicest of things to do, but definitely necessary.

She lay back down and pulled fistfuls of the sheet to her chin. Her people had never worried about nudity. The baths were public, in deep wells of a natural hot spring. One would have to go without bathing to avoid being seen naked. And when washing was as much a relaxing treat as necessary for hygiene, her people got callous to nudity quickly. She’d often walked through the village air drying, carrying on a conversation with someone completely clothed.

She wasn’t at home anymore, though. Home was destroyed. It was time she finally caught on.

Chapter 6

The next two days whisked by in a blur of Molly’s idle chit-chat while Shanti dodged her questions. Molly would do things like talk about her niece’s new baby, then ask if Shanti had a niece. Or a baby. Or a husband waiting for her somewhere. She would tell Shanti of places she had traveled, which weren’t many, and then ask if Shanti had traveled. How far. With whom. Every long-winded story had a question periodically popped in. Shanti, half asleep most of the time, had to keep herself from answering by sheer will, hypnotized as she was by the verbal linguistics of an accomplished gossip.

Then there was the dry, lackluster healer. He had her dressed in a long slip-type thing, which he called a nightgown. Apparently people in that town, or village, or city—Shanti had no idea how big the place was—liked to wear long drapes beneath their covers. They wanted a loose, flowing garment to trap their legs and get tangled as they slept. This made sense to them, somehow.

Once she was covered, the older healer listened to her heart, felt her bones through her limbs, and said things like, “You have quite a lot of muscle tone. How does a woman come by so much?”

Shanti used the same dry tone as she answered: “I’m not sure if you are aware, doctor, but the muscle in a woman’s body, like a man’s, can be developed.”

“Your eyes are a strange shade of blue. More violet, actually. Is that normal amongst your people?”

“I don’t imagine anyone would have the audacity to remark that I am normal, doctor. Slightly unhinged, certainly.”

“Your skin is too light.”

“Racism does not become you.”

“Why is your hair so pale?”

“Genetics, doctor. Same as why yours is so dark. Just what do they teach in medical school here? Or does school for that discipline not exist? Are you a witchdoctor, sir?”

Finally the doctor got so irritated he informed her that if she didn’t supply answers to his questions, he wouldn’t be able to help her. To which she sighed gratefully, stepped out of the sack of fabric, and slipped back into bed. She was starved, not hurt. With food and rest, she would be fine.

He was not thrilled with her assessment.

The rest of the time was spent eating as much as possible, as often as possible. Molly brought food whenever Shanti asked and watched over her while she ate, for which she was thankful.

Marc came each day, more nervous than anything, but also desperate to tell her how well he was doing in class. He was focusing, just like she said. He already knew everything they were teaching, but now he was proving it, trying not to care what they thought. Trying to make sure he focused, just like she said, right? That he should focus?

He groveled for her praise and blushed when he got it. He never mentioned the little…episode from the first meeting, and he was careful to always direct his eyes at his feet or her head. The small dose of shame was apparently working, and to make sure it stayed effective, Shanti stayed well away from his mind. And thoroughly covered.

Two hours before dawn the day they planned to leave saw Shanti on her feet in the small room. The air was changing, taking on the sweet, fresh smell of early morning. She was up, moving about the room, testing her legs, getting her heart rate up. Her muscles were hard and brittle, but they were mending. A few more days at an easy walking pace, with food and water, and she’d be fine. She had to be.

An hour before dawn Shanti paced as the birds started their morning chatter. They weren’t the only ones. There were signs of life within the house; Molly moved around much too early.

Dread tickled Shanti’s stomach. She hadn’t wanted to alert anyone she was leaving. She wanted to be a wisp of vapor, there and gone and out of people’s minds the second they turned around.

Half an hour to go. Hopefully Marc would show up early. Hopefully—

Shanti’s pacing was interrupted by a soft knock on the door. She froze in the murky brown of pre-dawn. Shadows stretched across the floor and hovered over the door. The knock sounded again, hesitant. The door opened slowly on well-greased hinges. Molly poked her head into the room. Shadows veiled her eyes, but her plain oval face pointed at Shanti, motionless for a moment of analysis.

“You’re up,” Molly accused.