Ashes and Light

by Karen L. McKee

  Chapter 36

  He woke in the night to wind on his face and warmth all around him. A shawl pulled close to his chin, smelled of raw wool, but it could not cover the scent of burned flesh and of the woman pressed against him.

  Where was he?

  Who was he?

  The woman’s arm lay over his bare chest, her softness, clad only in a thin, cotton salwar kameez, pressed close to him. Her jalabiyya lay across them both. Was he dead?

  He blinked to clear the sense of strangeness. Overhead the stars shone lantern bright—too bright. Nearby a horse snorted and stomped. The woman next to him sighed as his arm came around her, as he pulled her close and kissed her hair.

  Who was she—he knew he should remember.

  Across the sky chased a brace of tiny arrows, red and white, and he was suddenly afraid.

  “Michael?”

  That was his name. His arm lifted her to him and her lips found his. Soft. Soft as milk and more quenching to drink. They tasted of peaches and Kandahari melons—all things he loved.

  His mouth drank her in, his hands—they slid down her back, found the smooth round of her buttocks under the thin cotton and pulled her to him, tight against his body. Pulled up her top and found the smooth skin he dreamed of. His fingers traced the notches of her spine, ran up her sides and felt her shiver, traced the weight of her breast and heard her gasp.

  “Michael.”

  The way she said it made him sure he was alive. If he could only remember her name.

  He closed his eyes and slept.

  #

  The sun had traveled a great deal of the way towards noon when Michael rolled over. His side hurt like hell. But it was no longer like a weight rested on his heart.

  He rubbed his head and found his upper arm caked in an ill-smelling substance. What had happened?

  “You’re awake.” A figure stepped before him. Waist-long hair blew around a slender figure dressed only in salwar kameez. The sun cut through the thin fabric and outlined a female form. For a moment he did not recognize her.

  “Khadija?” His voice was hoarse as if long unused. He coughed to clear his throat.

  “Who else?” She sat on her heels beside him and caught his hand. The sun almost blinded him. So did the smile on her face.

  “Who died?” he asked as he tried to sit up.

  “Pardon?”

  He glanced at her as he tried to understand his weakness.

  “I asked who died. You never smile like that for the living—at least not that I’ve seen.”

  The smile faded as she released his hand, and he regretted his jab. His head filled with the scent and image of a woman beside him, a woman in his arms. Khadija caught her hair in her hands and began to twist its thick mass into a coil at the back of her head.

  “Don’t,” he said, his voice catching as he looked at her, as he saw both petu and her jalabiyya draped across his body. “I’m sorry. You don’t deserve that.”

  She was still in the wind, her hands still holding the ropes of her hair. Only her gaze moved across his face. He wanted to catch her hands and free that hair. There had been such joy on her face and he had ruined it. He’d give anything to see that smile again.

  But she was the enemy. She finished twisting her hair in place, tempting him by leaving the lovely arch of her neck free to his gaze.

  “How do you feel? You were very ill last night.” Her voice had gone clinical.

  He closed his eyes.

  “Better. Whatever you did has done something.”

  He tried to lift his left arm above his head, but she stopped him with a shake of her head.

  “Not too much. The wound is grave. You were a fool not to tend it.”

  The way she moved—she must know the reaction she caused in him with every slight touch, each graceful motion. She had to know. The Englishmen must have been mad for her. A Western woman would have left obliterated hordes in her wake. Perhaps she had, as well. Perhaps that was how she tempted him.

  “I had other things to tend to.”

  “You could have died.” She had moved closer, was close enough he could scent her musk.

  “Is that supposed to scare me? I died and was born a man. What would death lose me?”

  “Rumi again.” She shook her head.

  Her liquid eyes were so large and clear—the green like the deep lakes of Band-i-Amir that let you see clear through to their heart. There was something different, something softer. Something that waited.

  He broke the gaze.

  She is the enemy, remember that. She wears the face of so many women in skillful masks. You can’t trust her any more than a wise man trusts the earth under his feet in these unstable places. He looked down at the bandage on his side. One edge was crusted with a green fluid. “How bad is it?”

  “The infection has increased. I’m surprised you’re able to sit up. I lanced the wound again, and cauterized it as best I could. And kept you warm.”

  A memory of soft skin under his hands. She must have seen it in his face, for a sudden bloom of color spread up her neck and across her cheeks like a rose-colored dawn. A real memory, then.

  His head throbbed just above his eyes. His side ached like a bitch and suddenly sitting took all his strength. The world swayed and Khadija was suddenly helping him settle on the ground.

  “Rest while you can. I’m going to get water.”

  “Don’t be a fool. You don’t know the way. You might be seen.”

  Worse, she might be going to tell someone where he was. To bring them to him.

  “I used all our water last night. You need to keep hydrated. I’m going and there’s nothing you can say.” He tried to sit again, but his strength failed him. She had already saddled the horse, so now she pulled on her jalabiyya and mounted.

  “Just rest, stubborn man. You’ve labored long enough.” There was a soft smile and then she wheeled the horse away and began a slow trot down the defile in the direction of the river.

  Michael fell back and closed his eyes. He was so tired, weak, just now when he needed to be strong. The question was, how weak had he been last night? Fevered men said things. He’d seen it often enough—had even used it to gain information from wounded Taliban. One of the many things he wasn’t proud of.

  “You’ve labored long enough,” Khadija had said.

  “Inshallah, please not that,” he whispered. Please not betrayal. Not by me. He looked down the defile where Khadija had supposedly gone for water. He didn’t dare trust her.

  It took everything he had, but he clambered to his feet with the help of a boulder. He stood shivering. He hadn’t realized the wind had turned so cold. Khadija should have worn one of the shawls. He wrapped one petu around his shoulders and left the other on the ground with a rock holding it in place. She would need it if she was to carry on alone.

  The medical pack he slid over his good shoulder.

  He turned up slope, thinking to cross the ridge into the next valley, but when he tried to walk, his legs gave under him. Damn and damn and damn. He was not this weak. He could do this just as he’d done everything else.

  He looked over his shoulder. Had he spoken the truth of Yaqub and how his best friend had died? She would truly hate him, then, and with the names she would betray him and so many others. It would be an apt revenge.

  Slowly he hobbled back to camp. There, he collapsed on a rock and caught his breath. Cold had sunk into him again, had found the deep places inside, as he considered the long, fragile column of her neck.

  It was not just the infection that drained his strength; it was the knowledge of what he must do to avert so many deaths.

  Chapter 37

  The wind ran cold into the neck of Khadija’s jalabiyya and the water bag slopped against her leg. Water absorbed into her jalabiyya and ran down into her boot as she stared up at the rough red canyon walls and the blue sky above.

  Was this the right way? She’d spoken with such confidence when she left Michael, but wh
at if he was right? What if she couldn’t find him again? Hadn’t the return trip gone on too long?

  She should have taken that last turn an hour ago. That had been the right one. But didn’t that outcropping against the sky look like the one she had marked?

  The darn shadows had shifted and everything looked different. The sky was a deeper blue as the afternoon faded away. The wind had gotten colder. She had to find camp soon, or night would fall and then there would be no way she could find her way back. She swallowed back the panicky feelings. Michael would think she’d deserted him.

  No. She’d shown him she wouldn’t leave him by helping him last night. Blood rushed to her face again. What had happened last night when she tried to keep him warm. He had been so fevered, and their coverings so meager, she’d only done the same thing he had done for her after the river dousing.

  But it had caused something she hadn’t foreseen, hadn’t it? He’d pulled her to him with a gentle hunger that had raised something in her as well. She shivered at the memory of his hands, touching, easing, loving, even as her hands explored as well.

  She stopped and considered where the canyon split into two.

  “Don’t be a fool. The need you see is your own.” Michael might be a troubled man, and a troubling one—but it was her problem that he filled her mind so much. His touch….

  “You won’t feel his touch again, if you don’t find him.”

  The wind took her words away, but not before Khadija realized she wanted that touch again. If had lit things in her she had not felt before. It was a hot ache deep inside, more true than anything James Hartness had evoked in an inexperienced girl.

  When the soul lies in the grass, the world is too full to talk about—her father had said something like that. Knowing her father, it was probably Rumi again.

  But that was how she felt, wasn’t it? Too full of the knowledge of him whenever he was near. She shook her head. She should be full of piety and thoughts of Allah.

  Praise be to Allah, Lord of Worlds,

  The Infinitely Good, the All-Merciful,

  Thee we worship, and in Thee we seek help

  Which way to go? The left defile carried a few boulders she thought she remembered, but didn’t that strange hooked crag mark the way back?

  She should have marked the way with small cairns. That was what Yaqub or Michael would have done. That was the thing, wasn’t it? Michael was much like her brother—brilliant, methodical, and capable of a burst of thought or speed that always kept her chasing to catch up.

  The sun had fallen below the ridge, leaving deepening shadows in the valley. Neither trail looked right. Either of them could be. Keep moving or make camp, those were her choices. Make camp and admit Michael was right about her, or keep going and show him she knew her way in the world. She knew it shouldn’t be so important to prove herself, but it was. She looked down at the gelding.

  “So, my friend. Which way do you think? Your choice is as good as mine at this point. Better, probably.”

  The gelding’s ears twitched back and forth at her voice. Just loosen the reins and let the horse take you home?

  “You’ll probably just lower your head and graze, won’t you.”

  Another ear twitch.

  She loosened the reins, holding to the end of the loop and the gelding stretched his neck down and forward, grabbed a bite of dried grass and began walking.

  He took the defile with the hook-shaped crag and walked, stopping to grab a bite of grass every so often.

  Around them, the day faded into darkness. Khadija huddled in the saddle, staring into the black. Would Michael have started a fire to welcome her? Would he be glad to see her?

  The darkness was so thick she wondered that the horse could see. The animal picked its way along the defile, changing direction every now and again, so Khadija knew there was no way she would find her way back. Should she take back the reins and direct the horse?

  Too late for that now. She had started this and she would finish it. Her father’s life depended on it. She had to get Michael and his secrets to safety.

  The gelding paused for another bite of grass and she lifted her gaze to the stars. A meteor shot across the sky, then another and another, and she remembered standing with Yaqub and her father outside their apartment in Mikrorayon, watching the meteor showers that always came this time of year. Both of them had taken such joy in showing them to her. “Signs of Allah’s joy,” her brother had said.

  But her brother was dead and father could see them no longer.

  The horse had paused long enough. It should keep moving them on. She gently set her heels to the animal’s side and the gelding’s head came up, just as something came out of the darkness and caught Khadija’s arm.

  The horse shied sideways, snorted. Khadija tumbled from the saddle, falling onto whoever had pulled her.

  She scrambled away, but a hand grabbed her arm, shoved her down. She tried to roll away—once, twice. Something in the way.

  Her breath rang harsh in her ears. Hashemi had found her! Hashemi would kill her for trying to run away!

  She swung her fist and slugged her captor on the side of the head, but whoever it was did no more than grunt and slam her firmly to the ground. She was on her back, hands pressing her shoulders down, a weight on her middle as someone straddled her.

  “What did you tell them? How many are coming?”

  “Michael? Michael, it’s me!”

  Had the fever taken him again? Please Allah, no. His poor body cannot take much more.

  “I know who it is. Do you take me for a fool? Hashemi must, if he thinks I believe your escape. Now answer me.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  Hands encircled her neck and pressed. Strong fingers dug into her windpipe, making it painful to breathe.

  “Hashemi set you free, sent you for information. How much did you get when I was ill? How much did I tell you?”

  She heard the desperation in his voice. That and something else, something dying, hating himself. She coughed, trying to breathe.

  “Nothing,” she croaked and the hands eased a little. “You told me nothing I wouldn’t guard with my life.”

  “Dammit, no!”

  His hands left her suddenly and she sat up, feeling her shoulders, her neck as he paced away from her. He had probably held back, she knew. The strength of his hands could have crushed her windpipe.

  She scrambled across the ground and caught his hands. He smelled of fever and of man.

  “Please Michael. I understand. I understand so much. Inshallah, forgive me for what I’ve done, for everything. I didn’t know. I didn’t know.”

  He swung back to her, tears and fierce resolve filling his gaze. His hands caught her throat again, this time blocking her air, blocking her life.

  Didn’t she deserve it?

  She wanted to help, to heal, to keep the memory of her brother alive in this man. Her fingers dug into his hands.

  “Michael, no,” she gasped.

  His hands still squeezed. She heard her breath, his own sobbing as he pressed the life from her.

  “Michael….”

  It was all she could manage. There was no breath. Stars speckled her vision. She would die and she deserved it. He did what he must to safeguard the others, her father. He was stronger, could resist telling. There was no way she could have held up under the torture this man had seen. She went limp in his arms. Let it end.

  Against the sky, the starlight caught on his hair, caught in those pale eyes and on his tears. She reached up to cup his cheek—and felt him freeze.

  Suddenly his hands released her neck, arms were around her, crushed her to his chest.

  “Khadija,” he sobbed, his breath in her hair. Kisses on her forehead slid down to her lips, bit hungrily at hers. “Khadija.”

  Her name was like a prayer on his lips, his need an open wound in his eyes. She touched his face, trailed her fingers to his lips, and he closed his eyes and groaned.

  �
��Oh my god, Khadija. What have I done? What have I done? I can’t let you go.”

  “Then don’t.”

  Her arms encircled his neck and she raised her face to his, welcomed his hard kisses, welcomed the weight of him as he lowered her to the ground, as his hands and his lips traced the shape of her face, the length of her neck.

  He paused at the collar of her jalabiyya and she caught his hand, helped it to the buttons and sat up to slide the garment off. Spread wide, it was a blanket to their bodies.

  She slid her hands up the hardness of his chest, felt other hardness pressed into her middle and knew the burn of anticipated pleasure, as his head lowered to the bruised skin exposed at the neck of her tunic.

  His hands were in her hair, pulling it down, running his fingers through the length, running his fingers down her sides until she arched her back, arched her body into his and pressed him up. “Wait.”

  She sat up and pulled her blouse up over her head, then sat with eyes lowered, waiting to see if he would think her too forward.

  He was silent in the night, then he caught her chin and tilted it back to press the lightest of kisses on her lips, on her throat.

  “You gift me. Melt away the shame and modesty, Khadija. When in love, we become one. Love is the yearning of the soul for God.”

  His finger traced the line of her breastbone down between her breasts and farther down to her navel. Then his large palm caught her back and lifted her up from the ground to his lap, as her smaller hands stripped his shirt up over his head until finally the promise of skin against skin was fulfilled.

  He touched her everywhere, and she reciprocated, exploring the scars and the strengths of his body, surprised at her own audacity as her fingers slipped loose the tied waist of his trousers.

  Needful fingers found the clasp of her bra and it was loose with a flick. She shrugged it from her shoulders, welcoming the feel of his palms under her breasts, gasping at his thumbs found the nipples, as he lowered his head.

  He laid her back on her coat, the wind sliding over the skin his tongue left damp. It had never been like this—this feeling, this wanting, this ache, this pleasure. What had happened in England—it was smoke stripped away in the wind.