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The Third Scroll (Volume 1) [Dana Marton] on cunofarnodis.cf After reading Dana Marton's The Third Scroll (Hardstorm Saga), I read her comments too about .
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From his initial appearance and those gentle words of promise that no harm would come to He has to be one of my favourite male counterparts I've read in a while. LOVE him.
Dana Marton - Book Series In Order
It flows sometimes like water. I don't know how else to describe it other than to say i enjoyed how it felt reading it. New York Times bestselling author Dana Marton writes about smart, strong women and the alpha heroes they love, especially when those heroes are cops and military men. Luckily, her secret research source is always close by--her husband has served in the US Army, has been an EMT, and a fireman, a hunter, a trapper, and a number of other things he won't admit to in public. Reluctant Concubine.
Dana Marton. Dana's small-town romantic suspense series set in Broslin Creek is based on her real life home in Pennsylvania, and has over one thousand positive reviews. My clothes stuck to my skin. Up in the treetops, I had the wind, and at our home on the beach, a constant breeze blew from the sea. But in the woods, the hot air stood still. I wished my mother were with me, showing me wonders like the flowers and birds that lived on top of the tall trees.
Maybe she had many more secrets she had not had time to share, things I would never know, could never show my own daughter someday. I did want a family. But not before my healing powers came to me. I could cure without those powers, help others with potions and poultices, powders and teas. But true healing, my mother had warned me—the knitting of bones and binding of spirits—would be lost to me forever if I rushed the sharing of my body.
I had to make sure Jarim understood this before anyone came to offer for me. I climbed faster. In my hurry, a broken branch snagged the worn linen of my thudi, leaving a slight tear in one of the puffy legs that gathered to narrow cuffs at the ankle. I kept moving. I never thought that the snag might be a warning from the good spirits resting on top of the numaba tree.
If they had whispered Little Sister, do not rush, watch out, I did not hear.
On the beach side of the thick trunk now, to avoid another sharp branch, I had to turn away from the tree. Jarim stood in front of our home, four men around him. I brushed the hair out of my face and pushed a leafy branch aside for a better glimpse of their strange clothing. Jarim was gesturing as if trying to convince them of something very important, his arms going up and down in a choppy motion like the wings of the small chowa bird. I smoothed a hand down my breastbinding. I had left my dress and my veil at home, as always when going for a climb.
I could not let strange men see me like this. Jarim said I did not have the power in my hands, but I knew the truth: I did not have the power in my heart. Sometimes, secretly, out of sheer frustration, I blamed him. My mother had been a Tika Shahala, a healer from the highest order. Jarim, a foreigner, weakened her Shahala blood, robbing me of my heritage. I slipped to the next branch, and it dipped under my weight.
My fingers went numb as I recognized the black sails. Despite the heat, I shivered. I had seen a slave ship once, years before.
An illness on board had brought them to seek my mother. The fame of her powers drew all manner of people to us day and night, never giving her a moment of rest.
- Hardstorm Saga | Awards | LibraryThing;
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She did not seem to mind. She did everything with a smile.
She had the kindest face of any woman, always comforting, making the sick believe they were already well even before she began her cure. I only saw her sad once in all her life, the day the slave traders came to shore. She helped them, like she would anyone else, taking a boat to the ship and staying on it well into the night.
The Shahala did not own slaves—my people found the practice distasteful. But the Kadar did, attracting unscrupulous traders from the nearby kingdoms that dotted the sea. The Kadar had to be the most terrible people anywhere, I had thought, but it was not until months later that I truly learned to despise them. Visitors brought news that the Kadar High Lord had fallen gravely ill. My mother, with her caring heart, wished to go and heal him.
She sailed away and never returned. Two whole moon crossings passed before word reached us from a trade ship that she had died on her journey.
Whatever healing the Kadar had demanded of her had killed her. I had sworn many times that somehow I would find out how and for what purpose she had died. I swore to the spirits that someday, when I was a true healer and had enough crystals to afford the long journey, I would find her resting place and recite the Last Blessing over her grave. After her death, many a night I had lain on my tear-soaked pillow, wishing to be a sorceress of old, so I could curse the Kadar.
But as time passed, I let such thoughts drift away with the outgoing tide, for I knew they would have saddened my mother. She could not have borne to see me with hatred in my heart. Still, forgiveness did not come easy. The Kadar made war, brought injury and misery, while the Shahala healed and lived in peace.
I used to think the good spirits that sometimes rested on top of the numaba trees must have been the spirits of the Shahala who had passed on. The bad spirits that lived in the depths of Mirror Sea to grab after anyone who sailed it, I believed to be those of the anguished Kadar who had died in war, not finding peace even in death. I was not surprised that Mirror Sea churned under the slave ship. I could almost see all those restless Kadar spirits angry because the traders no longer brought them slaves.
Maybe those dark spirits were trying to pull the ship under so they would have servants once again. When I finally slid to the ground from the lowest branch of the tree, I ran through the forest, knowing every rock, every root I had to jump over. Then I reached the edge of the woods, and bending low, I rounded some boulders, ran down the stone stairs and kept to the bushes until I reached the side entrance of our wooden house.
Better to sneak in and retrieve my clothes before the men saw me.
https://ererdeda.gq The men made loud bragging noises as they talked in the front. I frowned at the sound. Polite people talked little and pleasantly, bringing no more attention to themselves than necessary. Then everyone would have looked at him and seen him for a fool. I hoped they did not come for healing, for I feared what people such as these would do when disappointed. I hoped they had come for medicinal herbs. Dried herbs I had aplenty. I hurried to my room and pulled on my short tunic, regretting for a moment that not one piece of my worn clothing matched any other.
We had better clothes when my mother had been alive. We had fine robes and food and laughter. I put away the memories that seemed less than real, like legends from a golden age, and wrapped my veil around my head in the proper manner for a healer, then hurried toward the front. I pushed through the wind-torn curtain that covered the entrance. I could scarce keep from staring back at them. Shells and small disks of metal decorated their clothes in a dizzying array of patterns I had never seen before.
The richness of the materials, the sheen of the fabric, the glitter…. Jarim caught my gaze and smoothed down his thin tunic. He wore better clothes than I, but still he could have been mistaken for a servant next to the strangers. I sucked in my breath at his rudeness.