by Sarah Fine
Melik strides over to me, his expression blank, his eyes cold. His shoulders are tense as he tosses the sack at my feet. “We found them,” he says in a dead-quiet voice. “Open it.”
My heart is hammering against my ribs, and my mouth has gone dry. “No.”
Melik gives the commander a sidelong glance, then picks up the bag. “Your father’s scalpel was quite useful,” he says, staring at me with an intensity that makes me tremble. “We had to travel quickly, so we couldn’t bring their bodies. So we brought something else.” He upends the sack. Five bloody fingers land at my feet, along with five patches bearing the insignia of the national army. I cover my mouth with my hands and clamp my eyes shut. My skull is home to one long scream that blocks out everything else. It goes on and on, wordless and anguished and raging, until there is no more fuel left inside me to burn.
When I open my eyes, Melik is gone, and so is the grisly gift he forced on me. All that remains is spots of dried blood on hard stone.
That and my newfound hatred of the Red One.
He hunted them. He killed them. He brought back trophies for his master.
That I ever believed he was good is a shame I will never live down.
My hatred is a cold, cold thing. Colder than the air around me. I let it eat me up, grateful that it leaves nothing behind, not sorrow nor grief, neither fear nor regret. I am as still and unfeeling as the rocky peaks above me as Bajram coils the rope around my neck. I am numb as he yanks me to my feet.
Bajram jerks the rope to set me in motion. “Cuz. Ilerlemaye.”
I stumble over the rocks but manage to stay on my feet. The other Noor are already hiking, bundles of supplies on their backs, a few horses bearing the stolen Itanyai arms. The sun is high over our heads, providing the slightest whisper of warmth as we trudge upward. My breath comes out harsh, feeble wisps of fog in the chilly afternoon. I can’t seem to get enough air no matter how hard my lungs work. My head spins. My feet and hands become hunks of unfeeling flesh. But still I walk. If the rope is chafing my skin, I do not notice.
The only thing of which I am aware is a growing certainty. I will not tell these Noor rebels what is coming for them. I think they deserve to be slaughtered. Yes, I believe in mercy. But these men are merciless, so why should they be saved?
It is not a happy realization. It does not bring me any pleasure, not even the savage, animal kind. I thought my own people were the villains, but now I see the truth: all of us are villains. The Noor are just as bad, just as bloodthirsty, just as willing to cause suffering and death. If they had war machines, they would use them. When they have the ability to hurt, they do.
As the sun begins to descend over the west, we reach the peak of our journey, and I get my first glimpse of Yilat. Brown plains crisscrossed with fencing and roads, like careless stitching across ugly fabric. In the distance there is a growth of gray and black, a city. Probably Kegu.
I will never leave this place. This is where I will die. The thought slips in without feeling, without fight. It is just there, a simple truth.
The men settle at the trailside to make camp for the night. They pull rations from their packs and chatter at one another while they eat. Bajram ties my leash to the base of a thick shrub—one too far from the fire to allow me to feel its warmth—and goes to sit with some of his friends. I sink to the ground and pull my knees to my chest. The slosh of water jerks my head up. Melik kneels next to me, holding a canteen. He presses it to my lips, and when I flinch away, he curls his hand around the back of my head and holds me still. Cool water trickles into my mouth, and then I gulp greedily, my body instinctively clinging to life. After a few swigs he pulls it away and offers me a hard biscuit. My hands shake as I take it.
“Tomorrow afternoon we will arrive in the plains. There will be steam-powered carriages waiting to take us to Kegu,” he says as I close my teeth over the biscuit. It has little taste, but I gobble it like it is the juiciest meat bun. “We will be at the capital just after sundown.”
“Why are you telling me this?” I rasp, wincing at the renewed pain in my throat.
Melik’s gaze slips down my face and settles on my neck, where the rope coils around it like a viper on a branch. “Because that is how long you have to decide what to do.”
“What do you mean?”
He nudges my chin and makes sure I am looking at him. “You traveled west alone. You were headed for Kegu. And yet I know very well you have no family there, and that you have never been to Yilat. I am wondering why you made this journey.”
I stare into his face, the one I dreamed of so many times, the one that now fills me with loathing. “So am I.”
His brow furrows. “You should never have come.”
“It was my foolish mistake.”
“As was freeing those soldiers while you stayed behind to bear the consequences.”
“No. That I do not regret.”
Like a block of ice beneath the sun, Melik’s frown softens a bit. “You have not changed.”
You have. I do not say it, but I think he can read the thought in my expression.
He leans close. “Tell me why you came here. Perhaps I can help sway the commander. Perhaps he will have mercy.”
“I am not asking for mercy.” I cannot believe it will be granted.
Melik lets out a frustrated growl. “You are in no position to be this stubborn.”
“I am in the cage you have built for me.” It’s an old saying, one my mother used to snap during rare fights with my father when she felt he was giving her no choice but to dig in her heels.
Melik takes my face in his hands. As he bows his head over mine, his rust-colored hair falls over his forehead, and his tunic gapes at the neck, revealing the top of his scar, complete with the tiny silver dots from my stiches. “You stepped into it all by yourself, Wen, and you alone are tossing away the key.” The tremors of his muscles vibrate into my bones, blurring my thoughts. “I have done everything I can for you,” he says from between gritted teeth.
His anguish does not match the blank, cold way he presented me with those trophies of death. “What have you done for me, apart from slaughtering boys I tried to save?” I hiss.
He looks at me in disbelief. “Why is it so easy for you to believe the worst of me? If I were Itanyai, would you feel the same?”
“I spent the last year believing nothing but the best of you!” I cry out, my voice cracking with strain. “I spent every night dreaming I would see you again and every day searching the papers for word of how you were faring. And every moment I was lost in that fantasy of you, strong, noble, and good. So no, Melik, it was not easy, until the last two days, when the living truth stripped those foolish beliefs away.”
His eyebrows rise as he hears my bitter confession. “Did you come to find me? Is this because of me? Or has something happened?” He holds me tight as I try to pull away, and he searches my face as if it will tell him what he needs to know. “Please tell me.”
As his thumb strokes across my cheek, I push down the desperate, confusing words that are tumbling and crowding inside me. Hold me. Protect me. Save me. These are the hands that have touched me in the most tender, secret ways . . . the same hands that sliced fingers from the dead bodies of Itanyai soldiers. He will not save me, nor do I want him to. He is part of this war, and it is bigger than both of us. It has changed him. Torn his mask away. Stolen his goodness. Or perhaps he handed it over willingly. And despite all that, looking into his eyes makes me want to tell him everything. “Leave me alone, Melik,” I whisper.
He bares his teeth as his fingers slide along the side of my head, weaving into my hair. “Zhayapaman,” he says, low and rough.
He lets me go and walks away. I spend the evening shivering in darkness.
But when I wake, I am near the fire, my head on a folded cap, my body curled warm beneath his coat.
* * *
As we descend the steep paths that lead to the plains, my body gives out. After days of barely
eating, barely drinking, barely breathing, my toe catches on a loose stone and I fall. My arms aren’t strong enough to keep my head from hitting the ground. The hemp rope around my neck pulls tight. Bajram yanks, and I slide along the trail, my vision going black. My ears fill with the roaring of waves in the Southern Sea. It’s nice. I’ll watch the sun set and see if the steam rises as the water devours the ball of fire. Then my mother will give me a sandwich and tuck me into bed with a song.
When I come back to myself, I am not in my mother’s arms. My head is against Melik’s shoulder, and his coat is wrapped around me, and I am rocked by his strides. My trembling fingers reach for my throat.
“I know it hurts,” he says quietly. “I had to cut the rope from your neck.”
“You should have let me die,” I rasp.
“Zhayapaman,” he says again. His voice is heavy, possibly with regret.
“Put me down.”
“Zhayapacaj,” he murmurs.
Too weak to fight him, I blink as the world comes into focus. We are no longer in the high passes of the hills, but on a dirt road, entering a small village. The Noor fighters are marching in rows ahead of us.
Mud huts with thatched roofs huddle on either side of the rutted street. Old women wearing colorful, threadbare tunics have gathered, offering the rebels wrapped, grease-spotted packages and live chickens. Old men waddle at the roadside, squarish woven caps on their grizzled heads, waving bottles brimming with some sort of cloudy liquid. Younger women, their hair cascading down their backs in clusters of thin braids, their heads covered with patterned scarves, hover in the doorways, eyeing the rebels with keen interest. The rebels accept the admiring stares along with the gifts, then place their hands over their hearts and turn their palms to the people, receiving wide, gap-toothed smiles in return.
Two rebels—a young man and a young woman—break from the group, running toward a middle-aged couple and throwing their arms around them, laughter and sobs indistinguishable. Another rebel strides quickly to a pretty woman in a long tunic and a red head scarf. He scoops her up and kisses her right on the mouth while his hands fist in the fabric over her back. She melts into him, her fingers tangled in his hair and tears streaming down her face. To these Noor, the raiders are heroes and saviors, not a merciless scourge. They are sons and daughters, brothers and sisters, husbands and wives. They are living, breathing hope.
Outside one hut two small children play in the dirt, their smocks streaked with filth, their brown hair matted around their little faces. They stare at me with their light brown eyes, and I stare back. They are the first Noor children I have ever seen. The younger of them, a little boy of perhaps two years of age, smiles shyly at me. His cheeks are not as chubby as they should be, and his eyes are huge and round in his pinched face. I feel the faint urge to smooth his tangled hair and wrap my arms around him. The layer of hatred protecting me from pain and thought and mercy and conscience begins to melt.
A woman, her dark hair covered with a red and purple head scarf, comes out of the hut and sees the rebels. She waves, but her hand freezes in midair when she sees me being carried along in Melik’s arms. Lines furrow her forehead and she calls out something in Noor.
Melik nods and says, “Zhapacaj,” which seems to satisfy her. She kneels to kiss the little boy on the forehead, then returns to her hut. Melik looks down at me. “She reminded me that even though you are Itanyai, you are a woman.” He lets out a humorless huff of laughter, and for the briefest moment his gaze focuses on my mouth. “As if I had forgotten.”
“Why would she say that?”
“She meant that you should be treated with proper respect. It means something different to us than it does to you.”
“If you say so.” My eyes drift back to the little boy’s. He stares intently at me, clutching a carved wooden horse in his tiny hands. He holds it up for me to see as we pass him by. “Where are we?”
“Czizhgie,” he says. “The Line. This village, along with many others, is strung along the road that skirts the Western Hills and connects south to north on the eastern side of Yilat. From here it turns west toward Kegu. My village is also on the Line, but far to the south.”
“At the mouth of the canyon,” I whisper.
What will happen to that tiny boy with the wooden horse when a war machine comes thundering up this road? No matter what Melik has done or become, no matter how cruel these Noor raiders have been, does that little boy deserve to die? How many of these villages lie between the canyon and Kegu, and how many little boys with wooden horses? How many worried mothers with gaunt faces?
“Melik,” I say, my voice cracking. “Where are the men?” I have not seen one young man in this village, save for the few rebels who kissed their loved ones and rejoined their comrades on the march, and now we are at its outskirts, approaching five large carriages, their beds lined with benches on either side.
“The men have joined the revolutionary force,” he says, as if it should be obvious. “The general has recruited many, ready to meet the national army as they march into Yilat. We will give them a fight.”
As they march into Yilat. This general must believe the threat will come from the northern grasslands, then, instead of over the Western Hills. “Is there no one defending these villages?”
Melik frowns. “They should be safe enough if we can repel the army, or at least make them think twice about invasion.” His gaze is distant for a moment, and I realize that is the best they can hope for—to put up a fight, to make the invaders think twice. They cannot hope to win. I watch Melik, wondering if he is seeing his own death playing out before his eyes.
He sighs before continuing. “We received word that the army would try to infiltrate Kegu in advance of an invasion from the north, which is why our unit was sent to sabotage the rails, and others are gathering along the northern border. We will join them once we report to the general.”
His jaw clenches and he gives me a sidelong glance. Maybe now he is seeing my death play out before his eyes. Perhaps this is why he is so free with this information. He understands that I will never have a chance to share it. He will hand me over to be executed by his general, and then he will leave for the north.
Suddenly Melik hefts me a little higher, holds me a little tighter. As if it has a mind of its own, my arm coils around his neck. I catch myself a moment later, but before I pull away, I realize this may be the last peaceful, gentle touch I receive. I close my eyes and allow myself to pretend that this is the Melik from my dreams, and that I am the bold Wen who lives inside my head, the one who more than once has unbuttoned his shirt and run her hands over his body. My fingers brush the back of his neck, beneath soft locks of his rust-colored hair. I lean my forehead against the side of his face, and my fingertips slide along the bumps of his spine.
Melik shivers, a violent, hard sort of tremor, and leans away. “I wish I’d never met you,” he whispers fiercely, more to himself than to me. He scowls at the horizon.
I exhale the moment and all the childish pretend. I could let his hateful expression seal my decision and his fate. If I want him to die for his crimes, all I have to do is keep silent. But instead of making things murkier, his harsh words make everything very clear, because they have rendered a year’s worth of passionate dreams irrelevant.
I raise my head and look over his shoulder, past the faces of the Noor rebels, and find the small figure of the boy, playing in the dirt like all children do. I never came to save only Melik. I didn’t come to save these rebels, either. And I didn’t come to save the Noor simply because they are Noor. This is not about choosing a side. It’s about choosing a principle and being willing to see it through to the end.
I came to prevent suffering and death. I came to save that little boy, and his sister, and that woman, and these helpless people who wear their naked hope and love like armor.
I have failed to save a single soul so far, and I am on my way to die. Does all that failure absolve me of the burden of trying a
gain? If my father were in my place, what would he say, and what would he do?
“Melik,” I whisper. “I will tell you why I came here.”
Chapter
Nine
THE RIDE INTO Kegu is bump after bump and mile after mile of dismal sights. I knew Yilat was poor, but I had little idea what this kind of poverty really looked like. In the Ring it is sagging skin and bent backs and a bowl outstretched for a coin. It is grasping and groping and hustling and stealing, a bun swiped and stuffed into a starving mouth before the vendor notices, a penny pinched from a pocket followed by a sprint into an alley. In Yilat poverty looks different. There is no movement to it at all. It is wary gazes and complete stillness. Gaunt and hollow.
Many of the people I see are Noor, but there are Itanyai, too, and in some villages I see the most remarkable thing: faces that are neither and both, eyes and hair and skin that are a melding of the two. I stare and stare, wondering where their loyalties fall. What do they call themselves? Who claims them, and whom do they claim? Where do they belong? Are they wanted and cherished? Do they ever wish they were one or the other instead of being both at once?
I glance up at Melik and find him looking down at me, like he’s trying to read my reactions to all I am seeing. I tear my gaze from his and continue to watch as we enter the city. Painted slogans have been scrawled on walls and splattered on roads, accusing the government of abandoning the people of this province. It is only after I’ve seen a few that I realize I can read many of them—not all are in Noor. We pass a few blocks of smoldering and blackened ruins, and other blocks where the destruction is evident but not complete. The streets appear largely deserted, but a few times I see dark figures running from building to building. Melik points at a woman sprinting across the road behind us. “There are pro-government snipers. It is not safe to be on the streets.”