The Healer's Warrior

THE HEALER’S WARRIOR

Published by ReneeRomance Books

ReneeRomance.com

All rights reserved. Except for brief excerpts for review purposes, no part of this book may be reproduced or used in any form without written permission from the publisher.

This story is a work of fiction. All characters and events are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to any person, living or
dead,
is coincidental.

ISBN-13: 978-1466497108

ISBN-10: 1466497106

© 2011 Renee Lewin

Cover Design: ReneeRomance Book Design, Renee Lewin

Cover Photos: ‘Back massage to the young man’ ©
Vitaly
Valua
; Licensed by Depositphotos.com

 ‘Old Africa map illustration’ © Alexey
Shcherbatov
; Licensed by Depositphotos.com

Printed in the United States

First Edition 2011

DEDICATION

To everyone who loves and supports me: Family, friends, readers, and Spirit.

CHAPTER ONE

Jem’ya
Okobi
stepped toward the shore just far enough for the water to lap at her toes. The sea breeze whispered over her hair, toyed with the hem of her long green cotton dress and chilled her dark skin, but the heat of the dying sun warmed her still. She could almost feel the deep, warm colors of the sunset wash over her face. The beauty before her was one of the reasons she moved to the North Coast two years ago.

It was a luxury to live in this peaceful, secluded spot by the sea. It was also spiritually rewarding. Living on the Coast allowed her to help a great number of people. She was often busy, but there were times, quiet times like this, when the thought of falling asleep in her empty house, in an empty bed, caused a burning ache in her stomach and in her heart, a feeling she’d hoped to never feel again when she left
Tikso
.

Jem’ya blinked away the moisture in her eyes as she watched the sun sink below the horizon. She began to hum her favorite song to lift her spirits as she stirred up the sand with her feet. At her age of 24, Jem’ya was more and more aware of the years that passed by without her soul mate beside her, but she had faith that she would find him soon enough.

He would be strong but sensitive, handsome, and most of all loving and respectful to her and towards nature, the plants and animals that were the Creator’s abundant gift to humankind.

The sound of a braying animal broke Jem’ya from her daydream. She recognized immediately the man atop the white camel making its way through the sand towards her home. She smiled only briefly. She was glad to see him, but his visit meant he was in incredible pain. The man, draped in a long black tunic with a black hood, stiffly stepped down from the animal’s back.

Jem’ya gasped as he shoved the camel away from him. The camel moaned sorrowfully as it stumbled sideways on its long knobby legs then regained its balance. She ran up the shore towards them.

“Tareq!
How many times must I tell you not to treat him that way?”

“I hate camels! They are so slow and so ugly.” Tareq grimaced as he stood straight.

Jem’ya could now see the lightly tanned face hidden inside the black fabric of his hood. She met the hazel eyes squinting at her from behind striking black lashes and smirked. “Then why do you not take a horse instead?”

“Because my horse…Because I don’t have one! Do you think I have money to spare for a steed after paying for your services?”

Jem’ya laughed. After a year of working with him she knew that Tareq was not the destitute man he portrayed himself to be. “You know my services are free, Tareq.”

His pink mouth bent in disgust. “That is nothing but a line designed to guilt people out of their meager earnings. Tie up that beast already,” he grumbled as he stalked into the house and into the open, candlelit healing room.

Jem’ya took hold of the reins and gave the camel’s neck a soft pat. “Come on, Handsome.” She took her time securing the rope to the fence and retrieving water and grain for Handsome to eat.

Tareq whined from inside the stone dwelling. “
Jem’yaaa
!”

Jem’ya sighed and glanced at the stars becoming visible above the sea before hurrying into the house. Tareq had already removed his robes and was lying on the table in the middle of the room, wearing only his black undershorts. Her heart always beat a little quicker at the sight of his muscled form. She knew his body well after many months of soothing his chronic pain.

Her fingers began to tingle as she glanced at his shoulders, lower back and thighs; his trouble spots. His face was turned away from her and his hands were drawn into fists.

“I’m almost ready, Tareq,” she assured him. “Try to relax your muscles.”

“Mmm,” he responded tiredly.

Jem’ya went to the side of the room and filled a mahogany bowl with cool water from a large pewter pitcher. Steadily she carried the heavy bowl to the stand beside the massage table and then went back for the decanter of almond oil. Once she was standing over Tareq she took a moment to close her eyes and focus her mind. With her thoughts centered on the image of Tareq in perfect health, she lowered her hands until they were an inch above his tense shoulders. The tingling in her fingers changed into a burning sensation as she pulled out the negative energies being harbored in his body.  When the heat on her palms became too intense she paused to soak her hands in the cool water and then continued finding hot spots and lifting the pain away.

She sang quietly as she
worked,
a song her aunties would sing when their husbands were gone for days of hunting, and soon Tareq’s fists uncurled in relaxation.

Once she was finished she let her aching hands soak in the water bowl for a while. Jem’ya knew that the heat she felt in her hands represented the intensity of the pain Tareq experienced. She was saddened that he had to live with such pain. Next she dried her hands on her dress and poured almond oil into them. She rubbed her hands together to warm the oil and began to knead his lower back. She jumped at the sound of his voice.

“
Mahsalom
, thank you,” he groaned.

She’d thought he had already fallen asleep. A small smile crossed her lips and she continued to massage his warm fair skin.
Mahsalom
was his nickname for her. It meant “My peace” in Samician, a language almost like Arabic. He could be very charming when he was not irritable or arrogant. Jem’ya did not know Samician so they spoke to each other in Arabic.

Tareq had said he was from a town called
Eulid
in the country of Samhia, but she doubted that was the truth. He also claimed to be a farmer, but his hands were too soft and clean for someone who worked the land. His body wasn’t lean like that of a countryman. He was built like a fighter, solid, yet his skin was flawless. He had no scars and his nose showed no sign of ever being broken in combat. She did not know his title exactly, but she knew he was well-off.

Jem’ya held her breath as her hands moved down to his thigh. It was difficult not to appreciate the sight and feel of a young, healthy body when she worked so often with the old and the infirm. However, beneath the surface of a body so healthy in appearance, a nameless disease crippled him. Jem’ya believed deep-seated negative emotions had brought the disease to this point of severity. Repeatedly she advised him to relax his mind and get in touch with the serenity of his inner being, but it fell on stubborn male ears.

“Tareq?” she whispered, finished with the massage.

The response she received was a soft snore.

She put away the water bowl and pitcher and found a thin brown blanket for Tareq. She pulled the blanket over him and watched for a moment the rise and fall of his back as he slept. Jem’ya reached out and touched a curl of his shiny black hair but withdrew from it just as quickly. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment as she left for her own room. In her bed she fell asleep easily because the house was not empty.

Tareq awoke in the middle of the night. He inhaled deeply, appreciating the fact that he hadn’t been awakened by pain, but rather by the faint sense that he wasn’t sleeping in his own bed. He sat up and stepped down from the massage table. With his fingers woven behind his head, he arched his back to relish the warm looseness of his muscles. The moonlight streaming through the window square in the front door caught his attention. He slipped out of the house.

Outside in the night air, standing in the cool sand before the vastness of the sea, was one of the only times Tareq ever felt free. There was no fear of attack, assassination or surveillance. With Jem’ya he was not Prince Tareq Samhizzan, soon to be King of Samhia. He was just Tareq. And he suspected that even if Jem’ya learned he was royalty, she would treat him no differently.

Jem’ya had her suspicions about his identity, but she never pushed him to reveal his title. It had become their playful routine for him to complain about his life as a farmer and for her to challenge him on it. Jem’ya didn’t care about titles and status, luxury and riches. She was devoted to healing her patients and asked for nothing in return.

That’s why he enjoyed giving her gifts for her kind work. He knew she appreciated them with her heart. He couldn’t wait to give her the gift he’d brought this time, to see her dark brown eyes light up.

Tareq returned to the house, but instead of returning to the healing room he walked towards Jem’ya’s bedroom. He pulled aside the white curtain covering her doorway. The bedroom was lit yellow by an old kerosene lamp. He crept further into the room to see her more clearly as she slept. Her hair was still in its high bun held together with a strip of cream-colored fabric. Her brown skin shone under the light of the lamp. He started to move a bit closer in order to see her pouty lips and the curve of her cheekbones, but froze.