Eona - Alison Goodman [171]
It was late afternoon before I was able to make my way to the round tent assigned to Rilla, Lon, and Chart. Surrounded by a three-man escort, I walked through the rows of bleachedcloth-and-rope-bound dwellings. Curious onlookers gathered to watch the Dragoneye walk by, their hopeful murmurs following me like a long, whispered prayer. News of Chart’s restoration had traveled fast in the camp, and a small crowd was outside his tent to catch sight of the evidence of my mighty power.
A few hours ago, the boy had been an untouchable demon of ill fortune. Now he was a symbol of power and hope. It was an effect of the healing that I had not considered.
I saw Rilla through a gap in the crowd, crouched next to a cooking fire. She was shaking a pan over the heat—goat meat, by the dank gaminess of the smoke—and staunchly ignoring the press of murmuring curiosity that followed her every move. Lon leaned against the sturdy frame of their tent next to the faded red door, his size and watchful demeanor sending a clear message.
“My lady, please wait,” Caido said beside me.
He signaled to the other two men in my escort to clear a path through the onlookers. There was no need. A small girl jabbing a twig into the dirt caught sight of me, her yelp of excitement swinging all attention upon us and parting the throng into two ragged, bowing borders.
Rilla hastily placed the pan onto the ground and rose from her crouch, anxiously tucking a strand of graying hair into her coiled braid. She and Lon bowed.
“Lady Eona.” Her face was a tense mixture of smile and tears.
“I am sorry I could not come before.” I took her hands in mine. “How is Chart?”
“He is—” She looked around at the avid faces and turned away. “They will not leave,” she whispered, drawing me closer to the tent. “My lady, Chart is . . . overwhelmed. As I am.” She squeezed my fingers. “I think it will take us all more than just a day to feel the truth of your wonderful gift.” She glanced at the red door. “He is”—her hand undulated through the air—“up and down, my lady. He has had fifteen years as he was, and in just a moment you have made him something different.”
“But he is healed. He is whole again. Like me.”
“Yes, his body is healed,” she said slowly.
“Well, I will see him,” I said, perplexed by her hesitancy.
“Of course, my lady.” She cleared her throat. “Lady Dela and Ryko sit with him now.”
“Ryko?” The islander had never met Chart. Why was he here? I could think of only one reason: to inform the boy about the compulsion. Did he truly think I would keep it from Chart?
“Ryko says he has also been healed by you.” Rilla’s voice was flat. I recognized the neutral tone: she had always used it when my master had done something questionable. Ryko must have told her, too. Resentment straightened my back. Her son was healed; surely that outweighed any cost.
Rilla ushered me forward as Lon swung the door open. Behind us, people craned to look inside the tent. I stepped over the high threshold, the door closing swiftly behind me. For a moment, the abrupt shift from harsh sunlight to dim interior reduced everything to featureless gray shapes. I paused, waiting as color and details sharpened into focus.
“Lady Eona.”
Dela rose from a stool and bowed. She had exchanged her man’s clothing for a long orange tunic cut in the full-skirted style of the eastern tribeswomen. Behind her, Chart was propped against a mound of cushions on a bed seat, one of three that were set around the edge of the small tent. Ryko stood next to him. The islander bowed stiffly to me and stepped back as I crossed the floor rugs. The stove set between the two central poles was unlit, but the tent was still stuffy, the day’s heat trapped by the tightly closed door.
“Lady Eona, I hoped you would come,” Chart said. Without the strain in his throat, his voice held the deeper timbre of manhood. He rocked forward on the bed, attempting to hoist himself to his feet, but his thin arms buckled. “Ryko, will you help me?”
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