Page 76 of Dark Shaman: The Lost Treasure
"Pretty words," she murmured against his lips. "But you always leave anyway."
"Duty before pleasure." He straightened, resuming his dressing. "A harsh master, but one I can't ignore."
There it was again—that weight he carried, that sense of obligation to people no one had put him in charge of but whom he cared for nonetheless.
She could remind him that his main task was to keep her pleased and perhaps help her conceive, but she didn't like to be reminded that she was the property of Navuh and obligated to do anything and everything he demanded of her. Reminding Elias that he was in the same position would be cruel.
He'd chosen to help the humans in the harem, to serve as their temporary healer until a proper physician was found. It made him feel needed, even vital, and that was crucial for his well-being.
Tamira wished she had something she could offer, but her area of expertise was languages. Even though she could potentially teach the harem children, the sad reality was that it would beuseless. They were never leaving this place, and they would never find any use for those languages, so why bother?
"Will I see you at lunch?" she asked.
"I'll try. But you know how erratic the day can be. Lord Navuh might summon me for another session, and he doesn't follow a predictable schedule."
He still hadn't told her what he and Navuh had discussed during those sessions, and she figured out that he couldn't. That didn't stop her from speculating, though. Advice? Treating some mental malady?
Immortals didn't get sick, but emotional turmoil could cause headaches, and Navuh could certainly use help with his paranoia and anger issues.
She watched Elias finish dressing. Such mundane actions, but she still committed every detail to memory. The way he always put on his left shoe first. How he patted his pockets in the same sequence each morning—left front, right front, back left, back right. The way he smoothed back his hair, though it would be mussed again within minutes of working in the humidity of the garden.
"What?" he asked, catching her stare.
"Just watching. Storing up memories."
A shadow crossed his face. "I'm not going anywhere, Tamira. You know that."
"Perhaps. The Fates might still surprise us."
He smiled. "Didn't peg you as an optimist."
"I'm not. I'm a pessimist. My life experience has taught me that expecting bad things to happen is more realistic than hoping for miracles."
He looked like he wanted to say more, but after a moment, he simply nodded and headed for the door. At the threshold, he paused and turned back to face her. "This week has been the best of my life. I just wanted you to know in case of a disaster striking and ending us before I have a chance to tell you that."
He was mocking her, and she lifted a pillow to throw at him, but he was out the door faster than should have been possible. She was left alone with the echo of words that she wasn't sure had been a tease or a goodbye.
She rose and made her way to the bathroom, running through her morning routine while her mind replayed countless moments with Elias, and a collection of inconsistencies that refused to form a coherent picture.
His hands, for instance. She'd watched him work with thorny plants, seen the inevitable cuts and scratches. But by the next morning, his skin was always unmarked. She'd tested it two days ago, running her fingers over where she'd seen a particularly deep gash. Nothing. Not even a faint line.
He'd said that he had developed a special salve that expedited healing, but until she saw a human healing as quickly with its help, she would remain doubtful.
Then there was his stamina—not just sexual, though that was remarkable enough. Yesterday they'd gone to the pool and when they'd swum laps, she'd pushed the pace, testing him. He'd claimed exhaustion when they'd finished, but his breathing had been barely elevated.
Perhaps the herbs he was cultivating provided uncommon benefits. Perhaps his shamanic knowledge included secrets such as the rapid healing of wounds and even the prolongation of life.
After all, he sounded much older than he looked, both in manners and in knowledge.
The salve he'd created for Rolenna worked better than any lotion their previous physician had prescribed, so there was that.
Elias's night vision was exceptional. She'd tested that too, eliminating all light in her room, and he had still navigated the familiar space without hesitation, finding her in the bed as easily as if it were full daylight. When she'd commented, he'd laughed and said that the glow in her eyes was what he'd navigated by.
A plausible explanation.
The languages, though, were what puzzled her the most. His fluency made sense for someone who'd traveled extensively, but last night, he'd corrected her pronunciation of an ancient word not in modern Sanskrit, but the archaic form that hadn't been spoken for over a thousand years. When she'd pressed, he'd claimed he'd studied with an old teacher who was a purist about such things.
Always an explanation. Always plausible. Never quite satisfying.
