by Stacey Jay
I turn to see her hunched over, fist pressed to her side, face pinched, and my heart twinges a second time. I’ve done it again—forgotten that her legs are shorter and that a lifetime of privilege hasn’t prepared her for a night and day of hiking in ill-fitting boots across hard ground with only cactus milk to drink and a handful of dried meat to eat.
She brought enough meat in her pockets for one meal, not three days in the desert.
I’m not surprised. She has no concept of what it means to be hungry.
But after this journey, she will. She’ll survive—we’re rationing the meat, and cactus milk has strengthening properties—but she won’t enjoy it.
Maybe that small suffering will be enough to convince her to honor her part of our bargain.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, leaning on the walking stick I found to help her navigate the unfamiliar terrain. “I want to keep going. The sooner we get there, the sooner we get back, but …”
Her tongue slips out to wet her lips. She tucks a few loose strands of hair behind her ear with a trembling hand. Despite her sun-pink cheeks, she looks pale, and more fragile than she does in her domed city. I should be pleased to see her in distress. I should push her further for the joy of seeing her break. But I only wish I had my walking pack and supplies. If I did, I could build a shelter against the rocks. I could unroll my grass mat to soften the ground and cover her with a skin.
Puh. I want to make a warm bed. For my enemy.
No, I want to make a warm bed for a girl I care for. It’s the caring that shames me the most. I don’t understand it. How can I feel pity for a queen I’ve killed a hundred times in my mind? How can I admire the determination of the girl who has held me prisoner? Why do I put my arm around Isra’s waist and offer what strength I have, when I should crave distance from her the way my people crave enough food to feed their children?
“Don’t.” She shies away, as if my arm is a snake she’s discovered under a rock. She dances out of reach, closer to the edge of the path, where the wind blows harder than it does near the rocky face of the hill.
A sharp gust tugs her shawl down around her shoulders and lifts her hair, making it writhe like a bonfire made of shadows. Behind her, the setting sun paints the tired desert a hungry orange, the color of vengeance, while far in the distance the dome squats smugly on the horizon, confident the people it shelters will never be held accountable for what they have stolen.
The desert bears their scars. The land spread out below us is all but barren. The desert floor is baked hard. The wind can barely move it. There are no more dust storms here. The ground cracks like eggshells, the pieces moving farther apart with every month that passes without rain. The trees are dead, and the few cacti that stubbornly push their way up from the scarred earth cast gnarled shadows, crooked fingers that would snatch Isra’s pant leg and pull her over the edge if they could reach high enough.
I could deliver her into their hands. One firm push, and in an instant she’d tumble down the hill it has taken us an hour to climb.
I say, “You’re too near the edge. Let me help,” before taking her arm and guiding her back to safer ground. I rearrange her shawl to hold her wild hair captive, brush the dirt from her cheek, warn her to “Be careful. The path drops sharply on your right side,” and ignore the way she flinches at my touch.
“I …” Her eyes squeeze closed. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
I know. Now that we’re alone, far from the city she rules, with no guards to protect her or chains binding my arms or legs, she remembers that I’m a monster. She remembers to be afraid. I should be glad of that, too, but it only makes my stomach clench and my voice harsh when I remind her, “I gave my word. I’ll keep you safe.”
“I know you will,” she whispers, eyes still closed, her dark lashes fanned out over her cheeks.
I want to call her a liar, but it would serve no purpose, and I’m too tired to fight. I’m feeling how far we’ve come. We’ve stopped long enough for my muscles to cool, and the places where the spears pierced my flesh ache more than they have in weeks.
“We’ll camp here for the night,” I say, turning to assess the trail.
“There’s a wider place in the path just behind us, and rocks to block the wind. There’ll be nothing to drink until tomorrow, but there’s enough dry wood for a fire.”
“That would be nice,” she says with a thin smile. “I haven’t felt my nose for hours. I can’t believe I thought I knew what it felt like to be cold.”
I grunt in response, and her smile slips away.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “Your people must suffer during the winter.”
“They suffer. They starve. You don’t care. Remember?”
“I care. Of course I do. That day in the infirmary was a long time ago.”
When she reaches for my arm, she’s trembling harder than she was before.
I take her hand and pull her to me with more force than I intended.
“If I were going to kill you, I would have done it already,” I growl, not bothering with the Smooth Skin inflection that I’ve perfected in my months of captivity. We are in my world now, and I will speak the way a Desert Man speaks. “This is a foolish time to lose your courage.”
Her breath rushes out, and a wrinkle forms between her brows. “I haven’t lost my courage. I … You …” The wrinkle smoothes, and something flickers deep in her eyes. “You think I’m afraid of you?”
“I know it.” I hate the wounded note in my voice. I must be more tired than I thought, or I wouldn’t allow her fear to affect me, let alone allow her to hear it.
“Oh, Gem.” She lifts her chin, tipping her face up to mine. I know she can’t see me, but in that moment I can feel her attention. It prickles the place on my forehead where flesh meets scales, makes my nose itch and my mouth wrinkle. “I’m not afraid of you. I swear it.”
I grunt again. “That’s why you flinch when I touch you.”
“No. I … That’s not …” The wind blows her shawl open at the throat. I watch the muscles there work as she fights to swallow. Ripple, clutch, ripple, shudder.
Seems her lies aren’t going down easily for either of us.
“Don’t bother,” I say, gripping her fingers harder, reminding us both I could snap her bones as easily as the sticks I’ll gather for kindling. “Hold your fear close. It will make for poor sleep tonight but peaceful nights back in your tower. If you stop thinking of my people as monsters, how will you ever sleep again? Knowing what you’ve done?”
ISRA I’VE done nothing! I want to scream. It’s not my fault your people are starving. I had no idea until I met you that the Monstrous weren’t beasts perfectly suited to life in the desert. And a Monstrous killed my father less than three months past. Is it my fault I’ve been too miserable and angry to think of the good of your people?
By the moons, I can hardly bear the weight of what’s good for mine!
I’m only one woman, and most of the time I still feel like a girl. I wasn’t raised to rule; I was raised to die. You know nothing about what it’s like to be the queen of Yuan, so don’t stand there and growl your judgment at me, you stupid, moody thing!
But I don’t scream. I don’t speak at all.
I endure Gem’s less-than-gentle guidance to our campsite and his angry silence as he stomps back and forth gathering wood for the fire without saying a word. I cross my arms and bite my tongue and keep my peace, because if I open my mouth, I’m not sure what will come out.
It could be a reasonable argument, but it could also be something much more dangerous. I could find myself confessing that I’m not afraid of him, I’m afraid of me. That I’m afraid of how much I want him to touch me, and keep on touching me, no matter how wrong it would be.
A wicked part of me would like to observe the quality of Gem’s silence after that sort of confession. I imagine it would be very different from the cold, efficient one I’m enjoying right now. More shocked a
nd off balance. Far less sanctimonious. The pleasure I’d take in pulling the rug out from beneath his self-righteous feet would almost make up for the shame of his knowing my secret.
Almost.
“Hand me your shawl,” he demands, startling me.
“What?”
“Your shawl. Hand it to me.” From the direction of his voice, I can tell he’s standing. Glaring down at me, no doubt, too sickened to sit and enjoy the fire he’s miraculously built. I would ask him how he did it, but it’s clear he’s not in the mood for polite conversation.
“There’s plenty of room by the fire.” I leave my scarf where it is, lift my chin, and do my best to look imperious, though I can’t remember feeling this filthy in my life, even right after my mother died, when I refused to let anyone bathe me for weeks. But back then I was a little girl locked away in my music room, the only place the tower fire hadn’t touched. I didn’t spend my days roaming the desert, collecting dirt and grit on my skin, somehow managing to work up a sweat despite the winter chill.
Frozen nose, damp undershirt. Eck. I should have taken off a layer when the sun grew warm in the afternoon. At least then I’d be dry right now. I’m discovering the only thing worse than cold is cold and damp.
“I’m going down the mountain for something to drink,” Gem says tightly, making it clear he’s noticed that my nose is as far in the air as it can get without tipping me over backward. He sounds even angrier.
Good. Let him stay angry. I’ll stay angry, too, and we’ll both be better off.
“If you want me to bring some back for you, I need your shawl to soak up the cactus milk,” Gem says. “I’d use my shirt, but I’m sure you don’t want to drink from that.”
His shirt. He wasn’t wearing a shirt the night I saw him through the roses’ eyes, but I don’t remember what his bare chest looks like. I was too focused on his immense size and large, white teeth.
You should still be focused on his teeth.
I should. I lick my lips and think of my father, but even imagining Baba’s horror is no longer enough to banish the tingling at my fingertips. I would like to see Gem’s chest with my hands. I would like to see his face again, to find out if his hair has grown, and if it’s still as soft.
Abomination. My internal voice is as venomous as ever, but harder to hear over the wind whistling through the rocks.
I love the wind more than I thought I would, even when it is tangling my hair into fantastic knots and freezing me to the bone. I can’t remember ever feeling so alive, so—
“As you wish, my lady,” Gem snaps. “But don’t complain of thirst come morning.”
I reach for my shawl, but before I can hand it over—or tell him I was only thinking, not ignoring him—he’s stomping down the mountain.
“Ridiculous,” I mutter beneath my breath, but it’s hard to hold on to my anger for long. I’m the one who’s being ridiculous.
Why am I letting this madness distract me? For seventeen years I’ve had close to no interest in the opposite sex. The only men in my life were Baba and Junjie, and what the roses showed me of boys my age did little to pique my curiosity about the rest of the male population. The soldiers were self-important, and the idle nobles were overly impressed with themselves.
I knew Baba would choose a husband for me from one of the founding noble families, so I took a closer interest when the roses showed me those boys, but just close enough to assure myself the possibilities weren’t too terrible. That was enough to put the business of boys and husbands out of my mind. I knew love wasn’t in my future—not the emotion, and certainly not the … other kind of love. I knew I’d have to welcome my husband to my bed until a child was born, but I didn’t expect to enjoy the process. It seemed best not to think of it.
Now I can’t stop thinking about it. Even being frustrated with Gem doesn’t banish the awareness of his smell, his touch. When he stood behind me and cupped my hands in his—teaching me to drink from the cactus he’d sliced open—it felt like my entire being was catching fire. It was terrifying.
Is it the tainted part of me that makes me ache for a Monstrous boy?
Does this mean I’ll never feel this way about Bo? That I’ll never learn to enjoy his attention as much as the other women of court clearly do? The thought of being with a man I didn’t desire was disturbing before I knew what desire felt like, but now the notion sickens me. Soft hands on my skin, instead of Gem’s rough fingertips. Thin lips on mine, instead of Gem’s full mouth. My name whispered silkily in my ear, instead of growled against my throat.
Sick. Sick, sick, sick.
I huddle closer to the fire, trying to focus on the pleasant warmth thawing my fingers and nose. I don’t want to think about the future or my duty or the fact that I am hours and hours away from my tower, utterly alone for the first time in my entire life and experiencing my lack of sight in a way I haven’t in a long time.
Back home, I know the shape of my world. The tastes and smells and textures of Yuan are familiar, and there’s only so much trouble a blind girl can get into in a domed city. Not so out here. I might as well be on another planet. A dangerous planet where millions of unseen things can kill me before I don’t see them coming.
Ha ha.
I’m able to find the private joke funny until the fire begins to lose its heat and I’m forced to venture away from the rock wall to hunt for more fuel. I know Gem piled the wood close. I remember his repeated huffing and the hollow sound of dry branches tumbling to the ground. But as to where the pile lies …
I pat the ground on one side of the fire and then the other, moving a little farther out each time, nerves electrified by every pebble and dip in the dirt I come across, certain that at any moment I’m going to happen upon one of the zions Gem warned me about.
I can’t afford a poisonous stinger in the hand or a slow death in the desert. I must return from this adventure with spoils shoved into my deep pockets and ensure the future of my people. I must. I can’t allow my decision to lead to the fall of my city. The shame of it would follow me beyond the grave, torment me for eternity, never allowing me to forget my irresponsible, unqueenly failure.
And so, after only a few minutes of searching, I give up trying to find the wood. I scuttle back to the place where Gem left me and press myself against the rocks.
All too soon, the fire snuffs out and the wind picks up. Night falls, and the temperature plummets. Within thirty minutes, my nose is as chilled as it was before. Within an hour, the places where my underclothes were damp feel as if they’ve frozen to my skin. My fingers and toes go numb, then my arms and legs. The chill creeps into my shoulders, licking an icy tongue down to tease at my ribs.
I begin to shake all over in what seems to be my body’s attempt to warm itself, but I only grow colder. And colder. I have never been so miserable in my own skin or so tired. Sleepy. So, so sleepy … My mind drifts until I’m no longer sure if I’m asleep or awake, hallucinating or remembering.…
One moment I’m alone in the desert, the next I’m back in the tower as it burns. I watch the flames leap, and I scream for Mama while the fire rages and my father beats at the door, begging her to let us out.
Mama. Where is she? Why did she lock the door? I can’t see through the smoke, and I’m dizzy and sick and exhausted, but I can’t sleep. I can’t! I have to find Mama. She and Baba and I have to get out. We have to get out!
I look up and see a woman’s face in the burning beam above my bed, watch her eyes go wide and her mouth move urgently, but I can’t hear her.
I can’t hear anything except terrible moans, as if every monster in the world is crying out for my blood.
I open my mouth to scream again, and suddenly I’m back in the desert, wandering along a rocky path without even my new walking stick to guide me, shaking like a pan of popping corn, not sure which world is the dream. With a strangled sob, I tear my shawl from my head and fling it from me, gasping as the wind whips through my hair.
What
are you doing, fool?
I don’t know. I know only that ridding myself of the thing clutching at my head seemed the right thing to do at the time, and now I’m too frightened to go looking for my lost shawl. I don’t know how close I am to the edge of the trail. I don’t remember deciding to leave my safe place.
My thoughts are fuzzy. I can’t remember … I can’t …
My knees buckle. I collapse onto the ground and decide it’s best to stay there. I don’t know how to find my way back to the rock shelter, and if I keep walking, I’m sure to find trouble. But oh, it’s even colder here.
Wherever I am. So cold.
I pull my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around my shins, wishing I hadn’t been such a coward. Now it’s too late. Even if I find my way back to the camp and the pile of wood, I could never start a fire alone.
But Gem will come back soon. He’ll find me. I can’t have gone far.
Surely …
The wind huffs and puffs, its frigid breath making my bare head ache.
I curl into a ball around my legs, tuck my face to my chest, and bite my lip, shivering as images from my brief sighted life bloom in the darkness behind my eyes.
I see the pearl buttons on my mother’s dress, the ones that dug into my cheek when she let me nap with her on the sofa in her chamber. I see the cabbage fields and the orchards blossoming far below the tower balcony, and the scarlet explosion of the sun setting outside the dome. I see my own pudgy hand—not too tainted then, only dry and a bit cracked—snatching a sticky roll from my mother’s tray, and I feel a giddy squeal rising inside me as I sneak with it back to my room. I’d already eaten my morning treat, but my appetite for burned honey icing was insatiable.
Mother always slept late and so soundly that not even little feet scampering into her room would wake her.
I’d forgotten that about my mama. I’d forgotten most of those memories. Their recovery warms me from the inside out, makes me smile as I give in to the muzzy feeling tugging me closer to sleep.
I curl on my side in the dirt, arm pillowing my cheek—thinking of those pearl buttons, and wishing I could remember my mother’s face—while the cold pulls oblivion over my shoulders, tucks it around my ears, and covers my sightless eyes. Before I consciously decide to go, I am snapped away into something deeper than sleep, but I’m not afraid.