Page 11 of The Lost Guard's Healer

“Yes, I know,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Impossible. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must be going. I wish you a long and bountiful hunting season.” As I step away, I turn back and add, “And I’ll see about finding you an apprentice hunter.”

He waves another dismissive hand and tells me not to bother, but I can tell he would welcome the help.

A shiver rushes over me as I walk down the path between the tents. I should be used to people watching me closely, like Mortin had just done. Everyone wants to know how I’m going to change the world just because I’m one of the chosen few who can wield magic now. Everyone seems to be excited about their gifts, except for me. I never wanted to be different or feel like an ‘other’. I just wanted to remain myself. But now, I feel like I’m some kind of jester, expected to entertain people and be a source of gossip.

I nod a hello to a few people I pass by and wonder what they’re thinking about me. By the time I reach my family tent, I’m relieved to get away from everyone and find sanctuary in my home.

I step inside to see my father and sister are in the tent. And the Oathlander is with them.

Chapter five

Galene

“Galene, my dear,” my father says, standing up as I enter. “Your hard work has paid off and our guest is finally on his feet.”

I do everything I can to remain calm and not shake with anger. “Good for me,” I mutter.

The tent is large enough to fit us all comfortably, and the lanterns have been lit to give us enough warm light to see by. They are sitting on one side with the chairs and dining table, leaving the utility and kitchen side empty. I glance at the divider across the tent and wonder if my nephews are here in their beds or if they’re out.

“You have my thanks, Galene,” the Oathlander says. My name passing his lips feels like daggers across my spine. I fight off the goosebumps that threaten to form at the back of my neck.

“I’m so happy you can be here, in our home,” I say through my teeth, not caring to hide my sarcasm. My father gives me a hard look.

“Always the great host,” Leila says as she stands and steps away from the dining table. She has that older sister look on her face that tells me I should watch my words and be nicer.

I’m still frozen by the entranceway. My home no longer feels safe and welcoming.

“I was just going to make us some juice,” Leila says.

My father waves me over. “Come, sit with us.”

I glower at Tarin as I take the furthest seat from him and shift it away from the table. Why is he bothering me so much? And why am I letting him?

The Oathlander shifts in his seat to better face me. I take some comfort in his slight wince, as it tells me he is not at full strength and won’t be a threat to us. His dark hair is ragged and greasy, giving him a disheveled look that is emphasized by his heavy stubble. I try to imagine him cleaned up and in a fine suit, like he probably normally looks back home, but he seems unexpectedly comfortable in our humble dwelling.

“I owe you an apology,” he says, “for insulting you earlier by not drinking the tea. I… didn’t know where I was or who I could trust. But I see now that you are good people with good intentions.”

“Isn’t that nice?” Leila says. For some reason, she’s still standing there.

“You were brought to our village,” I tell the Oathlander, “because you wore the uniform of the Oathlands Military, and we wanted to heal you to gain favor with your people.”

My father huffs uncomfortably. “Forgive my daughter. She is cursed to speak her mind. Like her mother.”

Tarin seems more amused than surprised. His cool dark eyes have a hint of good humor in them, or so it seems. He is surprisingly calm and infuriatingly hard to read. Unless… I could try to read him.

Boisterous calls fill the air as two boys burst into the tent. They are in the middle of a competitive run of sorts, and both are out of breath. Milo pauses when he sees Tarin at the table. The younger one, Jonah, takes a few more seconds to calm and read the room.

“What did I tell you about yelling?” Leila says, going over to them and nudging them into the tent.

“To do it more?” Milo tries, mischief sparking in his eyes.

“Close. But the opposite.” Leila places them in front of her and says to the Oathlander. “These are my two boys. Jonah and Milo.”

They have both become shy and quiet in the presence of the Oathlander. Little Milo has pressed himself behind Leila’s leg. The ten-year-old Jonah had gone through a growth spurt recently and is almost a foot taller than his six-year-old brother. He’s been losing his baby fat too and is looking more like his father each day. Same curly auburn hair and narrow eyes.

“Don’t get too close,” I tell them. “He has an infectious disease.”

Their eyes widen, but they seem more curious than scared.

---