Grace by Elizabeth Scott Read Free Book Online Page B

and it has brought me here, to me following behind this soldier, resignation heavy in my heart.
    But the soldier surprises me.
    I expect to be dragged into their washroom—which I am—but instead of reaching under my skirt he asks about my imaginary sister, the one who has a baby due very soon.
    “Was she sick when she was first carrying the child?” he says. “Did it—did it make her ill? ”
    I nod slowly, staring at him warily and trying to hide my surprise at his question. Every woman I have ever seen with a rounded belly in the Hills spoke of being ill. Some with pride, some with resignation. But they all spoke of it. They all knew it would happen.
    He blows out a breath. “Was there . . . what did you do about it? What is there to do to fix it? ”
    I cannot picture this soldier with a family, a pregnant wife, sister, niece—anything. He is Keran Berj’s creature and no more, except here he is, talking to me.
    Asking for my help.
    I clear my throat.
    “Rest,” I say. “Bland foods. Sickness is normal. It passes.”
    He stares at me for so long I think I have said the wrong thing but after a moment he hands me his flask. He pulls it away after I take three swallows. The water is so cold it bites into my teeth. It is glorious. I want more.
    “You weren’t that helpful,” he says when I look at the flask, and then opens the door, pushes me out. His hand is heavy on my shoulder as he walks me back to my seat, and as I sit, he presses something into my hand.
    I wait until after he is gone to open my fingers.
    Sitting on my palm is a waxed packet of rice balls. The rice is fresh, the grains still puffed and not shriveled from the heat.
    “Don’t cry,” Kerr whispers, and the pinch he delivers to my arm is almost enough to mask the note of fear in his voice.
    “I’m not,” I whisper back, but there is something wet on my face, and I am.
    “Are you . . . hurt?” Kerr says, low-voiced.
    I shake my head. How can I say that three sips of water and these rice balls—gained from answering a simple question—are the most kindness I have ever gotten from anyone? How can I say that someone asking me for advice is the most I have ever been judged worthy of?
    “If you aren’t hurt, then why are you—?” Kerr says, a whisper against my ear, and I turn, look at him.
    He draws back as if I have hit him, and I know what he sees. I can’t hide my surprise now. Or my pain.
    I shove a rice ball in my mouth. I offer him the other one and wonder if his softness will make him reach for it, or if he will turn away.
    He opens the top button on his shirt instead, and as he does, I see raw red skin.
    I see why Chris told me he had a use for me.
    I am traveling with Jerusha.
    I am traveling with death itself.

JERUSHA

CHAPTER 22
    O nce, back when I was still living with Da, some of Keran Berj’s followers thought he had too much power. They looked at his gold statues and palace and realized he cared only for himself, not them. They never made any overtures to us, but we heard of them. We knew they wrote letters and smuggled them out. We heard that faraway countries asked to send inspection teams to visit, to see if life under Keran Berj’s thumb was as sweet as he claimed.
    Keran Berj replied by saying he didn’t believe in violence, and that he and his people, his land, would not participate in any ongoing wars or in any wars that were to be. Then he sent money for “relief” or “care” or “rebuilding” to every nation that had ever questioned him. He said there were tragedies going on around the world and “we” only wanted to help. He even built a glass tower and had the word PEACE carved into it to show how much he loved everyone.
    No inspection teams came, and Keran Berj sent his Guards out to round up everyone who had spoken out against him. They say the piles of bodies in the City were so thick that entire streets were closed. In the end, rather than bury the dead, Keran Berj simply lit part of the City