Chapter 4 #2
“I don’t know. Bal…Balfour was supposed to tell me who this prince of my dreams would be, but then again, he wasn’t supposed to have dumped me in the middle of Maldovia either.”
“Balfour?”
“My dear friend.”
“What happened to him?”
“I’m not certain.” She winced as Healer Throckmorton touched the deepest laceration.
“You’re not a Maldovian then?”
Tashama stared into the healer’s blue eyes. “Do I look like a Maldovian?”
He shook his head. “You’re too fair. But you’re not one of us.”
“Because?”
He fingered the sleeve of her turtleneck. “Your garments. I’ve never seen such strange clothes in my life.”
“I got used to it just fine.”
“What village do you hail from?”
“I don’t remember.”
The healer eyed her suspiciously, and she shrugged. “Bal…Balfour was supposed to instruct me…”
“Instruct you?”
“Reintroduce me to my people. I’ve been away for a while.” Tashama squirmed on the cot. Her answers must have sounded strange.
“To?”
She said nothing in response.
“We don’t know what to make of you, young lady.”
“I want to see the general.”
“Our women don’t make demands of us.”
“Oh?” Her eyes grew round. Standing up from the mattress, she grew dizzy. She grabbed the healer’s shoulder, and he helped her sit on the bed.
“You might feel a little groggy until after you’ve eaten.”
“Can I eat soon so I can see the general?”
“Our jailers will feed us soon.”
The rumbling wagon wheels rolling into the compound announced the meal was on its way. Not long after, a young man hurried to bring Tashama’s pewter plate to her.
His hand brushed hers, and she glanced up to study his eyes for a moment. “You’ll help lead the revolt.” She looked at the roasted chicken, stewed tomatoes, and garden lettuce sitting on the plate. “I expected wormy bread and potatoes—nothing like this.”
“What does she mean?” The soldier stared at her.
“She has the gift,” one of the wounded men said.
The healer attempted to change the subject. “They feed us well—as we feed their prisoners in kind.”
She took a bite of the chicken. “With food like this, who would want to escape?” She licked her fingers of the lemon-and-pepper spices flavoring the home-grown fowl.
The healer shook his head. “Nobody is to escape, miss. It’s just our way.”
“Does she truly have the gift?” the soldier asked.
“You have other wounded to feed.” The healer motioned for the soldier to leave the tent. Healer Throckmorton turned his attention to Tashama. “You should not say such things to the men, miss.”
She poked at her stewed fruit with her three-pronged fork. “You’re not serious? You mean, no one has tried to dig tunnels or slip under the food wagon when it leaves the compound or wear the guards’ uniforms to make their escape?”
“Of course not, miss.”
She grimaced and lifted a lettuce leaf off her plate. “I won’t stay here any longer than I have to.”
“How do you propose to leave?” The healer’s voice rose slightly as if surprised.
“I would have to check out the lay of the camp first—watch the comings and goings of the guard—that sort of thing.” Tashama had seen enough World War II prisoner-of-war movies to know how it was done.
Several soldiers entered the tent with the remaining wounded men’s plates, and one offered to take Tashama’s empty dish. When she held her plate up to him, he grabbed her wrist, startling her. She looked into his eyes. “You have a new baby boy.”
The man stared at her and stuttered, “It…it’s true. She has the gift.”
The healer studied her, but before he could speak, a soldier rushed into the tent. “The prince has arrived!”
“Aleron?” The healer’s brows knit together, and he quickly stood up from his stool.
“Yes.” The man motioned to Tashama. “They say it’s because of the woman he comes.”
The healer licked his lips. “He has never made an appearance here before, and I’ve been the healer at the compound for over a year.”
“The general says she’s not to be trusted. He says…”
“I don’t care what the general says. Leave us.”
Tashama stood and found her legs steady again. She walked over to the tent's entrance and peeked out.
The prince sat tall in his saddle. The brilliant red tunic he wore shimmered in the golden rays of the sun, contrasting with his dark brown hair.
His sandal ties, made of black leather, intertwined up his well-developed legs, matching the swirls of ebony thread that twisted in intricate patterns on his tunic.
A shirt with blowsy sleeves in gold accompanied this, while he wore a gold sash across his chest. His jewel-encrusted sword rode at his side like his ever-faithful companion. His dark eyes searched the prisoners standing in packs while they watched him.
Tashama’s heart pounded way too rapidly.
Annoyed with feeling so affected by his presence, she gripped the tent flap fiercely.
Her fingers hurt from the pressure of the heavy cloth.
She tried to refocus her thoughts from admiring the sight of the prince to the pain tormenting the tips of her fingers.
Her desire was torn between wanting to run as far away from him as she could and having him hold her close so she could feel his heartbeat thumping against hers.
The healer joined her. “He searches for you.”
“Can you cover me up in my bed, and I can pretend to be asleep?”
“One of the guards has pointed to the tent.”
She sighed deeply. “I don’t want to see this tyrant of a man further.”
“He has spoken to you?”
“Certainly.” She scratched her head and looked around the canvas room. “Maybe I could hide under the bed.”
Several of the wounded men laughed. One said, “You may hide under my covers with me, my lady.”
Her cheeks warmed. “Thank you, no.”
A shadow stretched across the floor, and she turned when the prince stalked through the entrance.