by Sarah Fine
I smile, my eyes stinging. “So I saved you from a monster?”
“Not for the first time.” He lays his forehead on mine.
“And now you have returned the favor,” I say, breathless, unable to stop my fingers from slipping down the warm skin of his throat, from burrowing under the collar of his tunic. My thumb traces the silver scar beneath his collarbone, and he shivers.
His lips flutter against mine as he speaks, filling me with the most powerful kind of craving. “No, I haven’t,” he whispers. “The things I owe you can never be repaid.”
His lips press to mine, soft and searching, and I close my eyes and welcome him. My heart is beating so fast that I can barely breathe, and all of me is tingling. His tongue traces a delicate path along my bottom lip, and I wrap my hand around the back of his neck and pull him closer. He may have been a perfect hero in my dreams, but that perfect hero did not taste like this. He was not warm and trembling like this. He had no weight, no force. But this Melik, the one made of flesh and faults, has all of that, and my body recognizes the difference. It revels in that difference.
He deepens our kiss, his whiskers scratching at my face, one hand sliding down my back to my waist, the other cradling my head above the hard rumbles of the carriage. Parts of me are soft and hot, but others are taut and frantic. I am a jumble of mismatched pieces, but somehow all of them have the same goal. Bring him closer.
I remove my hand from the neck of his tunic to slide it over the bumps of his ribs and curves of his muscles. Such liberties, so bold, but I can think of nothing more necessary than this. Melik moans, a low, desperate sound, and turns so his body is half on top of mine. He crushes me to the floor and I feel the vibrations of the wheels and the hum of the engine against my spine. Suddenly I understand why people slide into this kind of temptation, how the power of a moment conquers years of caution. My hand slips under the hem of his tunic. My palm meets the smooth skin of his waist. And when it does, he breaks our kiss to taste more of me, the soft skin under my chin, and oh, just above the neckline of my dress. His hand is fisted in the folds of my skirt, pressed against my hip. I want to arch into him and see if he’ll pull, if he’ll touch my legs, if he’ll—
The carriage bounces as it hits a divot in the road, and the engine roars. Melik is tossed away from me, against the back of the man next to him, but he catches the edges of the blanket and holds it close around us. His breath is heavy and hot in my ear as he says, “I’m sorry.”
He settles next to me, preserving even the tiny distance between us, the one I want to erase. I frown. “Why?”
He strokes my cheek. “Because this should not happen in the back of a crowded carriage under a blanket that smells like horse.”
I lay my head on his shoulder. “Where should it happen, then?” I whisper, my cheeks heating as I realize how brazen I sound.
He holds my head against his body and wraps his arm around my back again. My hand rests over his heart. “Should it happen at all?” he murmurs. “Is that what you want?”
I bite my lip as my thoughts whirl. What am I asking for? I have only the haziest idea, one that involves a good deal more than the ways our bodies could entwine. It seems so foolish, given that we are caught in the middle of a war, that Melik is marked for death—possibly by both sides in this conflict—and that I am without home or family or means or future. And I don’t know what he is thinking at all. Perhaps his thoughts are purely about kissing, about touching, about tasting. Because he is Noor, he might tell me if I asked him, but because I am Itanyai, it seems shamefully prying to do so.
He does not demand an answer. Apparently, there are some things he allows to go unsaid. He merely kisses the top of my head, and we lie quiet together, locked in our own minds. Lulled by the rock of the carriage on the road, soothed by the warmth of Melik’s hands and body, dragged down by the terror of the night and the weight of my exhaustion, I drift back into sleep. It is black and mercifully free of dreams.
I surface from the murk as Melik shifts beneath me. “We are close to Dagchocuk.”
“How do you know?”
He chuckles. “I can smell it.” He inches over and peers out through a crack in the wooden boards. “Yes. We’re here,” he says as the carriage shudders and coughs, then stops.
The men around us are already leaping from the carriage as I sit up and pull the blanket off. We are still on the Line, pulled over to the side of the wide dirt road. A few yards from us is a stone arch, and beyond it lies a sea of stone cottages with thatched roofs. The air is filled with the scent of woodsmoke, the tang of manure, and something slightly sweet and musky—sage on the fire. To our left, towering high above us like a tidal wave of stone is the jutting western face of the hills, and directly behind the village it looks as if a giant has ripped the rock down the middle. The canyon’s mouth gapes wide; a walk from one side to the other would probably take several minutes. To the right are endless plowed fields of dirt that stretch, sunbaked and fallow, for miles.
Cries and shouts pierce the morning as the inhabitants of Dagchocuk realize their men have come home. The men run to their families, some disappearing into cottages from which come shrieks of happiness a moment later. All around us people embrace and cry and laugh and kiss, so openly, as if everything they feel inside is much too big to stay there. As I watch, women and old men come rushing out of their cottages carrying strips of embroidered cloth, each one unique, and they wrap them over the shoulders of some of the men, the older ones, mostly.
Melik vaults from the carriage just in time for a tall young man to slam into him. They wrap their arms around each other, muscles shaking with the need to hold tight, talking fast in voices clogged with tears. As they pull away from each other, the young man looks at me, and I gasp. It’s Sinan, wearing smudged beige trousers and a brown tunic with a torn collar. He is even taller than he was the last time I saw him, and his shoulders are a bit broader, but his cheeks are hollowed as if all this growing has come at a price, probably because there has not been enough to eat. His rust-colored hair, like Melik’s, has grown long, but he has pulled it back with a bit of colored yarn high on the back of his head. His dark blue eyes widen with surprise when he sees me.
“I have a story to tell you,” Melik says to him in Itanyai.
“Must be very entertaining,” says Sinan, still staring at me. “Hello, Wen. You look really terrible.”
Melik squeezes his eyes shut and then rubs his hand over his face. “Bazan sissilie iyud,” he groans.
“Why would I be silent?” Sinan retorts. “You wanted me to practice my Itanyai.”
I smile at the impudent boy, for that is surely what he is, but I don’t mind. It is nice to see his bright, fierce grin. “Hello, Sinan. I’m sure you’ll get plenty of practice, because my Noor is no better than it was,” I say as Melik grasps my waist and lifts me from the carriage. I hold on to his arms as my legs buckle beneath me.
Melik gives me a worried look. “You are not well.”
“I’m just very, very tired. . . .” My voice trails off as I notice the crowd gathering. Their arms are still around the waists and shoulders of their young men, but their eyes are fixed on me with suspicion and alarm. One of the women points at me, and her harsh tone is unmistakable. I hear it, “kuchuksivengi,” and I know the words on either side of it are not friendly.
There is a murmur from the back of the crowd, and it parts to reveal a tall, thin woman with rust-colored hair streaked with gray. Her face and coloring are so striking that I know immediately who she must be—Melik and Sinan’s mother. When Melik sees her, he strides forward, his arms spread wide. She is silent as he sweeps her into his embrace and bows his head against her shoulder. Her eyes close and her brow furrows with a bittersweet kind of happiness. Her hands move to his hair, holding him there, but when her eyes open, her gaze drifts past him to focus on me for a moment. She releases him and steps back, looking up at his face. She lifts a strip of embroidered cloth, this one red w
ith delicate green leaves and a border of black diamonds, and lays it around Melik’s neck. I think it means he is the man of his household. He accepts it and moves back into her embrace, kissing the side of her head and murmuring into her ear.
A hand shoves me to the side, and I stumble into Sinan. “Kabilie, kuchuksivengi?” an old woman snaps at me, her cracked lips peeling back in a sneer.
“I’m sorry. I don’t speak Noor,” I mumble.
Sinan steadies me and puts his other hand out to keep the old woman from pushing me again, but he looks helpless and unsure of himself. “Melik?” he calls.
Melik spins around and holds his hands out as several others shout “Kabilie?” while glaring at me. My heart beats wildly as I wonder if I’ve escaped one date with execution to be right on time for another. I slip into Melik’s arms as he reaches me, relieved to be sheltered by his body.
“Are they threatening to kill me?” I cry.
“No, but I should have thought of this,” says Melik, holding my head to his chest as the shouting goes on. “Wen, will you have faith in me?”
“What?”
He looks down at me, his eyes filled with uncertainty. “Do you trust me?”
After our conversation in the carriage there is only one possible answer. “Yes.”
Melik raises his head and shouts something that immediately silences every voice in the crowd. His face is utterly somber and his eyes still glint with anxiety as he removes the embroidered cloth from his neck and encircles my shoulders with it. My hands automatically rise to catch the soft fabric when it threatens to slide down my arms, and I pull it around me like a shawl, willing to accept any kind of protection he can offer me.
Astonished whispers roll through the crowd. All around me these Noor stare like it’s what they were made to do. Their jaws are slack and their eyes are wide. Melik stands very still and waits. His mother steps forward. She is taller than most Itanyai men, and I fight the urge to take a step back. Her gaze is riveted to her son’s. “Buna zhakabul,” she says quietly, and then she looks at me. “I accept this.”
Melik grins, and Sinan whoops. Many of the men in the crowd cheer, and the children, seeing the excitement, join in. Some of the women whoop and clap as well, but many, especially the ones my age or a few years older, stare at me in stony silence. They are outnumbered, though, and Melik is drawn forward into the crowd as people hug him and slap his back. Sinan tousles my hair and says, “Congratulations, Wen.”
“Why?” I ask, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Melik’s mother puts her hands on my shoulders. “Because my elder son has just claimed you as his bride.”
Chapter
Twelve
MELIK GIVES ME another quick, uncertain look before joining the rest of the men in unloading the supplies they brought from Kegu. I am nearly numb with fatigue and shock as Melik’s mother leads me to her cottage, her firm, warm hand wrapped around my cold fingers. She tells me her name is Irem but that I should call her Anni, which Sinan told me means “Mama” in Noor. My new mama chatters in Noor with some of the older women, who crowd around me, running their gnarled fingers through my black hair, spanning my waist with their hands, pulling up my skirt and coat and pointing at my feet. I feel like a cow being led to the auction block.
I decided to put my faith in Melik, and I will not avert from that path. But I will admit, I have my doubts here. “What will happen now?” I ask, leaning close to speak in Anni’s ear.
She puts her arm over my shoulder. “We will do this tonight.” I blink at her, and she gives me a sympathetic smile. “You will become part of our family, and once you are wed, you will have all the rights and protection we can offer. That is why Melik did what he did.”
Does it have anything to do with how he feels about me, or is it simply the only way to extend his protection? I wish I knew which I preferred. “What would have happened if he hadn’t?”
“Other families could have chosen to offer you a place in their home.” She gives me a sidelong glance. “But I don’t think they would have.”
“Because I’m Itanyai.”
She nods, tugging me free of the grasping hands and pushing me through the low doorway of her stone cottage. A fire burns in the hearth. The floor is smooth dirt, and a straw broom is propped in a corner. There appear to be two rooms, the main living area and the sleeping area. Anni leads me to that second room, smaller than the front room. There are two wool pallets on the floor, and she points to one. “You can take my bed. You look like you are about to fall down.” Before I can protest, she unbuttons my coat, her fingers sliding over the threads that held the button I left for Bo as an offering.
“I don’t think I can sleep.” My head is spinning with all that has happened and all that will.
She smooths her hand over my hair. Her nose is long like Melik’s, and her lips are full. There are wrinkles around her mouth and her eyes, and her cheeks are covered in freckles, as if she has spent countless afternoons under a harsh sun. “Rest while you can. Tonight will be long. But pleasant, I hope.” When she sees my wide eyes, she laughs. “I am speaking of the feast, cuz.”
“Cuz?” Bajram called me that.
“It means ‘girl.’ But it also means ‘daughter.’ ”
The tears sneak up on me, and I fight to keep them inside. “My mother,” I whisper. “She . . .”
“I cannot replace her,” says Anni. “But I will be another anni for you.”
“Why are you being so kind?”
She lays her palms on my cheeks, and her hands smell of sage. “When my sons returned from the east, they brought stories of the girl who saved them with her kindness and bravery. Sinan ridiculed Melik for losing his heart.” She leans close. “And Melik did not deny it. He did not argue, though he rarely turns away from a debate. He merely accepted the teasing of his younger brother and stared into the fire, a small smile on his face. My son has never offered his heart easily or without thought. He is a smart and strong young man, and he has his own mind.” She presses her lips together for a moment. “He is very much like his father.”
She lowers me to the pallet and covers me with my coat. “You are my daughter now.” Her smile is bright. “I’ve always wanted one.”
I sigh. “I imagine you did not expect her to be Itanyai, though.” I wonder if the glares from the young women by the carriage were because they wanted Melik. I cannot blame them for that.
“Cuz, my elder son would be dead if not for you. Do you really think that the shape of your eyes or the color of your skin matters to me?”
“Thank you.” I sigh as she strokes my hair again. These Noor with their touching . . . sometimes it is nice. Comforting.
Her eyes crinkle deeply at the corners. “When you wake, we will begin our preparations.”
It is the last thing I am conscious of until she is gently shaking me awake. I open my eyes and peer at the thatched roof, inhaling the scent of mint. I sit up, and Anni presses a stone cup into my hands. It is heavy and full of steaming tea. “That will bring your blood to the surface and make your heart beat,” she says with a smile. “Finish that. I have a bath ready for you.”
I drink from the cup, the tea strong and stinging with mint. It’s been days since I bathed, and I am absolutely filthy. “A bath would be so nice.”
She grins. “Sinan will be glad to hear that. He’s been working all afternoon to bring enough water from the spring to fill the tub.” She holds her hands up when my eyes go wide with fear. “But he will not be in the cottage while you bathe!” She walks from the room, clucking her tongue.
I finish my tea, letting it sear my throat and wake me up, and then I rise from my bed. When I enter the main room of the cottage, I see that she has hung a cloth over the doorway. In front of the fire is a wooden tub. Anni gestures at me to remove my dress. “I can bathe by myself,” I say, praying she will not take offense.
“Of course you can, but you are a bride, and I am your mother, and today is
my day to care for you.” She arches her rust-colored eyebrow. “Unless Itanyai have body parts the Noor do not, please believe I am aware of what is under your dress. No need to be shy.”
My cheeks are blazing. “But I . . .”
She reaches down and lifts my skirt, pulling my filthy, torn work dress over my head. I gape at her as she lifts my legs one at a time and yanks my boots off. I can smell myself suddenly, and my face feels as if it is on fire. I cross my arms over my chest and bite my lip as she pulls my undergarments off. She is so matter-of-fact that I feel stupid protesting. She guides me into the tub, and some of my embarrassment washes away as I sink into the hot water.
“Melik has checked in on you no less than three times since you fell asleep,” she says quietly as she picks up a thick bar of tan soap and rubs it over my shoulders while I pull my knees to my chest.
I lay my cheek on my knees and close my eyes as she soaps my back. My tired muscles thrill at the firm but gentle touch. “He has more serious things to worry about than me.”
“And he is worrying about them as we speak. He has sent riders to all the villages on the Line, asking for their strongest to come. He’s set up a warning system along the main road to Kegu, in case General Ahmet decides to punish Melik and the Dagchocuk men for their disobedience.”
My stomach tightens. “Do you think he will?”
She is quiet as she washes my arms, but then she says, “I do not know. He is a good man, but he has been hurt in so many ways. Melik’s defiance will not sit well with him.”
I stare at the fire. “Do you know General Ahmet?”
“He is from a village at the southern end of the Line. He was a friend of Melik’s father’s and a village elder, but chose not to go to Kegu with the other elders because he did not trust the Itanyai. It saved him, but when the war machines came through, it did not save his family.”