The Mark of the Crown(14)

Elan crossed to the swoop and swung a leg over the saddle.

“Something about the election, I’m sure. It’s no concern of mine.” She pointed back the way Qui-Gon had come. “The way back is that way. Don’t stay in the hills. You’ll be sorry if you do.”

He didn’t know if she was threatening him, or warning him against other bandit attacks. Another swoop flew toward them and stopped, hovering in the air. A tall young man with bluish skin gave Qui-Gon a quick glance, then turned to Elan. “Bad storm coming.”

“I know, Dana,” Elan said, casting a worried eye at the sky. “When they come in, they come in hard.”

As if to illustrate her words, the snowfall suddenly began. The flakes were like hard crystals, peppering Qui-Gon’s exposed skin. He leaned over to retrieve the survival pack he’d dropped when the fight began.. The pain cut him to the quick, and he let out an involuntary hiss.

“He’s wounded,” Dana said.

Elan frowned, annoyed. “I can’t send you back, I suppose. Wounded, with this storm. You’d never survive. And night falls quickly in the mountains.”

Qui-Gon waited. His wounds hurt him. But they would heal. Now it appeared that he was lucky to have them. Elan’s conscience wouldn’t allow her to send him on alone.

“One night,” she warned him. “That’s all. Now climb up behind me. And don’t fall off. I don’t want to have to rescue you again.”

The hill people weren’t overly friendly, but they were kind. Their encampment was made up of white domes of various sizes constructed out of a flexible material that was bolted to struts. Inside his small dome, Qui-Gon found every comfort and convenience - thick carpets and quilts, a glowing heater, a small kitchen and bath, even a datapad for his personal use.

Dana told him that a healer would come to dress his wounds. Qui-Gon did the best he could himself, but he could not reach the gash he’d received on his back when he fell. He slipped out of his tunic and waited for the healer to arrive. Even though the storm howled outside, the dome felt solid and warm.

There was a knock on the dome door, and he called out for the person to enter.

Elan ducked through the doorway, carrying a small bag. She shut it quickly behind her to keep out the wind and snow. “Good, you’re ready,” she said.

“You’re the healer?” Qui-Gon asked, surprised.

She nodded as she set out vials of ointment and rolls of bandages. When she looked at him, her blunt gaze was challenging.

“Surprised? I’m not the healing type, is that it?”

“No, that’s not it,” Qui-Gon answered. “I have just never known a healer who could pilot a swoop like that.”

A reluctant grin tugged at her mouth. “All right, let’s see what we have here.” She inspected his wounds and dabbed more ointment on one, then dressed it. “You did a good job.”

“Jedi are trained as healers, too,” Qui-Gon said. “I can’t reach the one on my back.”

“Turn around.”

Qui-Gon felt the coolness as she dabbed salve on his wound. The salve soothed the burning. “Thank you for such comfortable quarters,” he said.

“We do not live like barbarians, no matter what the city people think,” Elan answered. She unrolled a bandage.

“I didn’t think you did,” Qui-Gon said. “And it has been my experience on many worlds that ignorance breeds fear. The fearful make up stories about what they fear.”

“Yes,” Elan said coolly. “The city people are ignorant and fearful. I agree. So why would I want to live among them?”

Qui-Gon tried to curb his exasperation. Talking with Elan was like trying to catch a drifting snowflake. Whatever he said, she found a way to make his meaning disappear.

“So that is why you won’t participate in the elections?” Qui-Gon asked. “The support of the hill people could make a difference to the right candidate.”

“And who is the right candidate?” Elan asked. She still worked on the bandage on his back, so he couldn’t see her face. He could only feel her cool, expert fingers and occasionally the brush of her hair against his skin. “Deca Brun, who shouts slogans and murmurs promises? Wila Prammi, who has been a slave to the royal system and now talks of democracy? That young fool, Prince Beju? No thank you, Jedi. I don’t trust the elections, I don’t trust the Queen, and I don’t trust the candidates. I am happy where I am.” She patted the bandage in place, then rose. “I’m finished.”

Qui-Gon turned to face her. “Thank you. You feel no loyalty to Gala?”