I creep past the outer ring of tents, the ones where most of the people retired for the night. The supply tents are in the middle, larger than the sleeping tents and with less snoring coming from within. I know the cooking pots come from the center tent, and some bridles and horseshoes went into the tent next to it. Well, it makes sense that horse equipment would be stored together. I lift the flap and duck in.
Inside, it smells like leather and metal, a good omen. As my eyes adjust, dark shapes materialize around me. The nearest shadow to me turns out to be a pile of blankets. A stack of horseshoes is next to it. I make my way carefully, gingerly feeling everything in my path. Smooth leather saddles, wood bristle brushes…I know it must be in here. The traders wouldn’t travel without something so important.
Finally, my fingers brush a thin metal rod. I follow it with my hands and feel the flat wave patterns at the end, the weight of good, smooth metal. The branding iron.
I slip the iron down the back of my tunic. The branding surface chills the skin of my back. Then I get out of the camp as quick as I can manage. Slicewing flies above my head as I trek across the hills, putting as much distance between me and the horse traders as I can. Finally, when the moon’s about to set, I find a place to rest.
I set the branding iron in front of me, and it taunts me as I gather brush for a fire, poking at memories I’ve long tried to suppress. In the dungeons, they branded the prisoners marked for slavery in the same interrogation rooms where they tortured us. I can still hear the sizzle of first contact, smell the odor of burning flesh. I’d rather stick my hand into the coals than relive these moments, but now I must bring them back, sift them for details. How hot did the slaver heat the iron? How long did he hold it against each man’s skin?
The branding iron is patterned in three curved bars that remind me of horse tails. I stick it into the heart of the fire and watch it take on a devilish glow. As the iron gets hot, I tear up some greener blades of grass and knot them around my arms. I also snap a large stick off a dwarf tree and strip off the spiny leaves.
The screams of the interrogation room echo in my head. We were so helpless in there. So utterly at their mercy.
My heart’s pounding hard against my rib cage as I remove the branding iron from the fire. What I wouldn’t do for a jug of wine right now.
I bite down on the stick.
Breathe, Dineas, breathe.
My hand shakes. I drop the iron back into the fire. I can’t do this.
But I must. For Gatha. For my mother. For my father.
I grab the iron again. Flesh sizzles. White-hot pain sears my skin. That old familiar smell drifts to my nostrils. I swallow a groan and count to three. Then I throw the thing to the ground. My arm feels like it’s being attacked by flaming bees. I lean over to the side and vomit.
I cover my face and double over. The darkness presses in around me, feeding my memories, awakening my ghosts. They whisper in my ears, and all I can do is curl into a ball, pull my arms in close, and wait for the nightmare to pass.
The horse traders had scars shaped like three wavy lines. My new brand looks similar, though the lines are broken up in the places where I tied the leaves. The result is a wound that’s similar to their tribe, but not close enough to be identified as theirs.
Over the next days, I apply Zivah’s salve every morning, waiting for the burn to look a little less fresh. In the meantime, I have preparations to make. In addition to the burn salve, the crows bring me other medicines. One is a cream to tint my umbermarks red. The other is a root to induce fever.
As the days pass, my brand scabs over and the scabs fall off. My umbermarks grow red with ointment. And I know it’s time. I send Zivah one last note and get one last reply: Be careful.
That afternoon, I start chewing the fever root as I wrap my belongings and dig a hole for them near a cluster of bushes. The root has a funny taste—a spicy earthiness that goes up my nose. I chew slowly as Zivah told me, sucking juice out with every bite. Then, when it’s lost all its flavor, I swallow it whole. I don’t feel any different after I swallow it. Maybe the sickness takes some time to settle in.
I shovel dirt over my things, and camouflage the newly packed dirt with rocks. Among the things buried in my bag are the vials of potion keeping my memories intact, and I can’t help but feel as if I’m burying myself under that bush as well. I wonder what it will be like to see the gates of Sehmar City and not feel the anger bubbling up inside me, to face an Amparan dog and see him as simply another soldier. It feels like a betrayal to forget like this. It feels like the easy way out.
It starts to grow dark, and I make my way toward the compound. A headache starts to take hold, first a sneaking tightness in the back of my head and then an insistent drumbeat as the walls of the compound come into view. Spots dance in front of my eyes when I blink, and I’m muttering choice insults at Zivah as I struggle ahead. I sincerely hope she got the timing right. If this gets much worse before I can make it to the wall, I might be riding out this fever in the open desert with snakes and jackals for company.
The sun sets, and the bell is rung for first watch. From my vantage point, I can see the guards making their rounds. They march around the walls ten circuits an hour, so it doesn’t give me much time to get myself down there. It doesn’t help that the world’s starting to shift around me every time I move my head. I suppose there’s not much point in waiting. With every round the guards make, the fever will only grow stronger, and my memories weaker. So I wait until the guards pass by one more time, and then I make my move.
The ground lurches as I get to my feet. I bite down on a curse and stumble to the side before I catch myself. My stomach heaves in protest. I swallow the bile in my throat and force myself to put one foot in front of the other. Don’t fall down. The night air feels colder and colder.
A wall materializes before me, and I barely keep myself from slamming into it. My knees buckle; I scrabble at the bricks to stay upright, but it’s no good. My head feels like someone’s driving a spear through it and twisting.
Footsteps sound as I crumple to the ground, voices as well. I look for them, but my eyes won’t focus. I make out helmets and armor, swords, and shields. Amparan soldiers. I can’t get captured, not now. I need to get back to Gatha, the rest of my tribe. I throw up my hands to block their blows. My arms feel weighed down with stones.
“Another one left here,” says a voice. “Blast it.”
They reach for me. I scream and try to push them away. They brush away my efforts like I’m nothing at all.
“Load him onto the cart.”
They fling me onto some kind of wagon. I’m back in prison again. They’re going to march me through the streets in front of jeering crowds. They’ll lock me up and whip me bloody, and this time they won’t stop. I scream until someone stuffs a rag in my mouth. Then I gag.
“Cover him up,” says a voice. “Might as well keep the cart in case anything else shows up tonight.”
I’m in the front room, trying to get a fevered woman to drink, when the soldiers finally arrive at the hospital. It’s all I can do to keep the cup steady at the woman’s lips as I watch the soldiers carry a stretcher through the door.
A blanket is draped over the stretcher. I can’t see who’s lying underneath.
The patient I’m treating turns her head away from my cup, and I help her back down.
“Just one last night?” I ask the soldiers.
“A young man,” says one soldier.
Finally I make out the lines of Dineas’s face. His forehead’s damp with sweat, and his hair is plastered to his temples. My limbs go soft with relief.
“Thank you, sirs. Please lay him on that empty pallet.”
I manage a show of composure until I see the soldiers out. Then I rush to Dineas’s side. He stirs at my approach, but his eyes don’t focus on me. His skin is warm to the touch, and his pupils are dilated. I lift a corner of his blanket and take his wrist. His pulse is fast, but he’s alive,
and I cling to that knowledge. Though I’ve only known him a few weeks, finally having him in the compound with me is the closest thing to having a bit of home.
The fever-inducing root I gave him has clearly taken hold. He’s sick and distressed, as he should be, though I can’t dispel a nagging guilt for having done this to him. I find the brand he’s given himself underneath a bandage on his left forearm. It’s no longer an obviously new burn, but it’s raw enough that it would catch a seasoned healer’s attention. I wrap it up carefully. Better to keep it out of sight a few more days.
And then there’s the umbermarks. I look around to make sure no one’s watching, then check the skin of his torso and legs. The dark splotches are now a reddish color—not as bright as true rosemarks, but the hospital is dimly lit, and I’ll just have to hope nobody looks too carefully.
This is the state of his body, but what is the state of his mind? As if in response to my thoughts, Dineas’s eyes suddenly focus on me. He reaches for my hand, and when I take it, he grips me with surprising strength. His gaze is frightened, and he struggles to form words with his lips.
“Zi…Where…”
A bolt of panic shoots through me. “Be calm,” I interrupt before he can say anything more. “You need rest.”
He stares at me, and his eyes crinkle as if he’s trying to remember. My heart lodges in my throat. He’s not supposed to know me.
A new voice speaks from behind me. “Just one brought in this morning?”
Jesmin stands at the foot of Dineas’s pallet.
It’s a wonder I don’t burst from nerves. “Just this one. The fever’s gripped him tight.”
Jesmin kneels across from me and gives Dineas a cursory examination. I pray he doesn’t notice the strangeness of his rosemarks.
“What is this?” Jesmin asks, pointing to the bandage on Dineas’s arm.
“A burn scar,” I say. “I think he got it before the fever.”
Jesmin lets out a heavy breath as he pushes himself back to his feet. “It’s a pity when the young fall ill,” he says.
“He’s young and he’s strong,” I say. “Perhaps it will help him fight off the disease.”
“May Hefana smile on your efforts, then,” says Jesmin. His tone is not patronizing, but neither does he speak with great confidence.
“Thank you,” I say. I need the Goddess’s help far more than Jesmin can possibly imagine.
Over the next days, I watch Dineas toss and turn under the effect of the poisonous root I gave him. He cries out and talks about things only he can see. When I hold water to his lips or give him a spoonful of honey, he stares past me without acknowledging my presence. And all I can do is wait. Wait and hope that I haven’t gotten things horribly wrong.
Every day, I wipe down his skin with a cloth, then hide the cloth away before people see the pink dye that’s come off onto it. The color is slower to disappear than I expected. By the fourth day, when his fever breaks and he looks at me with clear eyes, Dineas’s skin still looks like that of someone in the throes of the illness. So I do the only thing I can think of. I crouch down at his bedside and squeeze the juice of another fever root into his mouth. He cringes away at the taste. At some level, he knows this will prolong his suffering, but he’s too weak to resist.
“Forgive me,” I whisper.
Thankfully, the repeated washing starts to work. By the time the root wears off again two days later, Dineas’s umbermarks have turned dark. By the sixth day, he’s sleeping off the last of the fever.
All morning, I watch him as I go from patient to patient, but he doesn’t stir. Finally, when I can’t take it anymore, I kneel by his pallet. Once again I’m guilt-stricken by the grayish tone to his skin and the circles under his eyes. His mouth is tight, as if something pains him even now. I pass a wet cloth over his forehead and notice the pallor of my own skin. The past days have taken their toll on me as well.
Suddenly, Dineas’s eyes snap open and he sucks in air like a drowning man. He tries to sit up, and despite his weakened state it’s all I can do to push his shoulders back down. He yells incoherently and throws his hands up.
“It’s all right,” I say softly, repeating the words in my gentlest voice, hoping my own fear doesn’t show through. This entire plan is folly. I should have known this, but it’s too late now. “You’re safe. You’re safe with us.”
As I repeat those words, I feel his muscles relax under me, though his breathing still comes hoarse and frightened. His sweat rubs off onto my forearms, leaving slick tracks on my skin. Finally, I sit up straight and look down at him. His brown eyes are wild, bloodshot.
Footsteps sound behind me, and I see Jesmin rush into the room. I suppose Dineas’s yelling was loud even for this hospital. I put up a hand and try to pretend I have everything under control. Jesmin takes a few steps closer, and then stops in his tracks. His jaw drops open.
I focus my attention on Dineas. “My name is Zivah. What is your name?”
At this, he blinks. Confusion crosses his face. “I don’t know.” For a long time, he says nothing. He stares at the ceiling, eyes moving back and forth. “I don’t remember anything,” he says, with the slow horror of someone who’s realized that something is very, very wrong. He pushes himself up on one elbow and fixes his eyes desperately on mine. “How did I get here?”
I can see his breathing speeding up again, the confusion building up in his eyes, but this time it seems he has himself under control. I squeeze his hand. “I know this is frightening, but try to rest. Once you are better, we can sort everything out.”
His eyes flicker over my face again. “You look familiar. I feel like I’ve spoken to you before. But it was in a different place.”
I’m painfully aware of Jesmin watching us, listening to every word of our conversation. So I look Dineas in the eye and tell the first of many lies to come. “You’re confused by your delirium. We’ve never spoken before today.”
They tell me I was found outside the compound wall. That my companions, my family, my friends, whoever they were, left me for dead. And they tell me that even so, I’m one of the lucky ones.
The day I wake up, I’m some kind of marvel to those around me. Zivah, the woman who takes care of me, drops by often, checking my pulse, my color, my eating and breathing. Honestly, I think she’s just trying to convince herself I’m alive. Then there’s Jesmin, the head physician here. He looks at me as if I have two heads.
“You must have been very healthy before your illness,” he says. “We haven’t had someone emerge umbertouched for years.”
Rosemarked. Umbertouched. Sehmar City. Hearing these words is like seeing something through a mist. My physicians tell me about the rose plague, about the course the disease can take. Some of what they say feels familiar. The rest takes me by surprise.
The mist is uneven. I can see no pattern to it.
Late in the afternoon, Zivah visits me again. Even in these past few hours, her gentle presence has become a touchstone. I remember glimpses of her during my delirium…wiping my forehead, holding water to my lips…I even remember speaking to her. There are confusing images of a cottage in a wood.
“You really don’t know your name?” she asks.
I shake my head. I can’t rid myself of the feeling that I’m letting her down.
Zivah folds her hands in her lap. “When you were brought in, you wore a bracelet,” she says. “I threw it in the fire along with the rest of your clothing, but I remember seeing the name Dineas on it. Does that sound familiar?”
Now that she says it, it does feel right. “I suppose that’s as good a name as any.”
She nods, pleased, and her smile makes me feel warm.
“Good,” she says. “That’s what we will call you.”
Dineas recovers quickly. This shouldn’t surprise me, since I’m the one who designed his illness. But the rhythms of illness and recovery are imprinted in my healer’s instincts, and even though I know that he doesn’t actually have the rose plag
ue, I’m still surprised every time I find him healthier than expected. Day by day, he gains strength.
We move him to a smaller room in the hospital. After a few days, he’s out of bed whenever I come to see him, either walking around or at the window staring at the ramshackle houses beyond. He’s eager to be outside, but I’m not quite ready to let him. Real illness or feigned, his body is still weak. I’m firm about this, and he seems to accept my authority.
He’s hungry for human interaction, anything that will help him feel less lost in this world he no longer remembers. His face lights up whenever I enter the room. It’s strange to me the first few times I see it. The old Dineas would never have shown such happiness at the sight of me, but the new Dineas’s smile is infectious, and his eyes are warm.
Today when I check on him, he’s at the window. “Zivah,” he says, and breaks into a grin.
“What are you looking at?”
I bring his herbs to him, and he keeps his gaze on the window as he sips. Outside, two women are yelling at an old man. It’s too far for us to hear what’s being said, though their anger is easy enough to detect. After a while, the man starts yelling back. A crowd gathers.
Dineas frowns. “This city outside. It’s poor, isn’t it? Not every city is this broken-down.”
It’s fascinating, seeing what parts of his knowledge have survived my potion. He’s remembered nothing about himself thus far, which is a relief. But his understanding of the world is also haphazard. He knows bits and pieces, but he needs help stitching them together.
“You’re right,” I tell him. “Money and skilled workers are hard to come by in here, so the residents must make do with what they have. Once you’re well enough to leave this place, you’ll see far nicer cities.”
It’s quiet at the hospital today. One other patient is sleeping off a hangover in the corner, but other than that it’s just the two of us in this room. The sheets on Dineas’s bed are still mussed from the night before, and I straighten them. “Can you sit down?” I ask him. “I need to take a look at you.”
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