Rosemarked

by Livia Blackburne

  He’s familiar with the routine by now. I place my hand on his forehead, check his pulse, and examine his inner eyelids.

  “Zivah?”

  “What is it?” I cross to my herb table and close all the jars.

  He hesitates for another moment. “You’re a healer here, like Jesmin?”

  I peer over my shoulder with an amused smile. “That, at least, I expect you to know by now.”

  But he doesn’t return my smile. “But you have…” He gestures toward me, and his eyes go to my arms. I follow his worried gaze to the red splotches that decorate my skin. Of course he would notice.

  I turn my face away from him. The truth of my illness is a familiar ache in my gut, but to my surprise, I find my biggest worry is how it will affect Dineas. He’s so childlike in this state. I feel like I’m taking away his innocence.

  “I’m a healer,” I say carefully. “But I’m also a patient.”

  He nods slowly. “You told me that only patients whose marks turn brown will survive the plague.”

  I give myself time to take one breath before answering. “You were very fortunate, Dineas, to be able to beat the disease. I was not.”

  His eyes cloud over at this. “I’m sorry,” he says.

  I give him a small smile. “It’s all right,” I say. “I’ve had time to grow used to it.” But the words sound empty, even to me.

  I come home to the sound of harp music. It’s beautiful—delicate and plaintive—yet I see no sign of instrument or player in the sitting room. The sound seems to be coming from upstairs, and I follow it until I arrive at Mehtap’s open door.

  Mehtap sits in the center of her chamber, a harp cradled in her lap. She’s beautiful to watch, the way her arms bend delicately over the strings, and her marred skin doesn’t take away from the grace of the act. As she plays, she tilts her head toward the instrument, her gaze in the distance as if she can see the music’s path. Her face radiates joy.

  Her father sits nearby, his hands folded and his eyes peaceful. There is genuine love in his eyes. I’ve seen how he comes to visit Mehtap several times a week, and I’ve seen how he spares no expense on her care. I’d wondered why he was so kind to me, and I think it is because I remind him in some way of his daughter.

  The commander is as good a father as anyone can ask for. Yet, I look at his hands, and they are calloused from wielding a sword. His sandals are scuffed from long marches, and there are bloodstains on the straps. I’ve seen the scars on his body from previous battles, and I’ve heard of the honors he’s received for his swift and thorough defeat of rebellious states. It makes me wonder if it’s possible for two different men to reside in the same body.

  Mehtap’s song ends. For a moment, the music hangs in the air. Arxa stirs, as does Mehtap, and then they both look at me.

  I realize I might have wandered in where I’m not welcome. “I’m sorry. I heard the music and—”

  “Nonsense,” says Mehtap. “Come in. We’re having tea.”

  Cakes have been laid out on a small carved table. The smell of saffron tea floats overhead. I fill my own cup, then refresh Mehtap’s and the commander’s.

  “I trust things at the hospital are well?” says Arxa.

  “Quite well,” I say. “In fact, one young man, a boy really, was brought in fevered from outside the walls. He’s become umbermarked.”

  Arxa’s eyes widen over his cup. “Good work. I understand that’s quite rare. Jesmin can help him leave the compound when he’s ready.”

  I drink my tea, more to fortify my courage than out of thirst. “It’s not that simple, I’m afraid. He doesn’t remember anything of his past.”

  Mehtap tilts her head. “How curious,” she says. “If his memory’s been burned away, and he’s been abandoned with no sign of where he’s from…”

  “He’s tried to remember,” I say, “but there’s nothing.”

  “Absolutely nothing at all?” asks Arxa.

  “We only have two clues,” I say. “He has a brand on his wrist. His body is also greatly scarred. I would guess he’s a soldier of some sort.”

  There is a glint of interest in Arxa’s eye. “A mystery patient,” he says. “That is very intriguing indeed.”

  Please, Goddess, show me favor. “If the commander is willing, perhaps you might help us see if he has any skill with weapons. Learned skills are usually the least affected by fever amnesia, and anything you could tell us would help us decide how to proceed with him. I know nothing of these things, and neither does Jesmin.”

  The commander nods thoughtfully. “Umbertouched fighters are a rare thing, if he is indeed one. Let’s have a look at him tomorrow.”

  Zivah is nervous this morning. She hardly says a word as she unwraps the bandages around my wrist.

  “The burn is uneven,” she says, and she sounds unusually annoyed about it. “Parts of this will scar more heavily than the rest.” Her eyes flicker irritably to my face, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think she’s blaming me for the burn. It’s not like her to be this jumpy.

  “I survived the plague,” I say. “An uneven scar is the least of my worries.”

  Her expression softens, and a grudging smile touches her lips. “I suppose that’s true.” She dips her washcloth in some strange-smelling salve and wipes at the pink scar tissue.

  “What’s bothering you?” I ask.

  She wraps fresh bandages around my wound and tucks the ends snugly. “I suppose you should know sooner than later. You know we’ve talked about your past, and how I think you might have been a fighter of some sort, maybe from one of the nearby tribes.”

  My hand goes absentmindedly to my calf, where there’s the raised impression of a scar. That’s the most pronounced one, but I have others all over the rest of my body. Then there are my puffy ears, which Zivah tells me only happens if I’ve taken blows to the head.

  “I remember.”

  “You’ll get a visitor today. Commander Arxa of the Amparan army. He’ll know more about these things.”

  The commander arrives later that afternoon, led by Zivah and flanked by four umbertouched soldiers. Even if he hadn’t been the oldest of the soldiers, there would have been no mistaking him. Up until now, I haven’t met anyone who truly intimidated me. Zivah, of course, has always been on my side. But even Jesmin, who rushes around giving orders all day, is focused but mild. This man though, there’s nothing mild about him. His very presence changes the air in a room. I’m on my feet before I know it, standing straight and ready.

  The guards around him are closer to my age, and I can’t help measuring myself against them. The closest one is big, though his slow lumbering steps makes me think he’d be heavy on his feet. The man behind him is smaller, but his eyes are sharp, and he looks at me with something like eagerness. If I really am a soldier, he’ll be one I have to watch out for.

  “They call you Dineas, do they?”

  “Yes, Commander.” I stay perfectly still as he walks a circle around me.

  “I doubt you’re from our army,” he says. “Our barracks report all outbreaks of rose plague. You remember nothing of your past?”

  “No, sir. I remember nothing since the fever.”

  He takes my left arm by the wrist and pulls up my sleeve. I fight the urge to wince when he pats the bandage. “Does it still pain you?”

  “No, sir.”

  Arxa glances at Zivah, who carefully unwraps the bandage from my wrist. The commander contemplates my burn. “It’s a livestock-trader mark. We can make some inquiries there.” His eyes drop to the muscles of my forearm. “Are you left-handed?”

  It takes me a moment to come up with my answer. “I’ve been eating with my right hand.”

  He raises his eyebrows and rolls up the sleeve of my right arm. I feel like a hunting dog presented for inspection, which then makes me wonder if I’ve ever owned a hunting dog. When the commander raises his head, he looks cautiously pleased. “You just might be a swordsman.” He runs his thumb over the pads
of my fingers. “An archer as well. And,” he says, eyeing my face, “you’ve seen some close combat.”

  He backs up, dusting off his hands. “Let’s see what you can do.”

  He spins on his heel, leaving the room as decisively as he’d entered it. The other soldiers follow him. I look at Zivah and raise my eyebrows—the man’s used to giving orders. Zivah just gives me an encouraging smile and motions for me to follow. She falls in step after me.

  It’s my first time outside, and the dirty streets and rundown houses look even shabbier up close. I peer curiously at the rosemarked people all around, but most of them seem to be keeping their distance from us.

  To my surprise, the commander takes us to the compound gates. “We’re looking for some extra space,” he tells the posted guards. “We’ll stay close.”

  It’s disorienting, stepping outside of the walls. Sand and brush stretch out around me in all directions. After the small hospital rooms, I hardly know what to make of such openness. The sun, too, is something fierce, sharp on my bare skin and heavy on my tunic. Sweat beads on my forehead.

  One of Arxa’s soldiers comes forward with a light leather chest guard, as well as arm and shin covers. After I strap them on, Arxa hands me a wooden practice sword. The names of the parts come up easily: scabbard, blade. I wrap my hand around the hilt. It does feel natural there. But when I try to think what to do with it, my mind comes up blank. In the corner of my eye, I see Zivah hide her fidgeting hands in the folds of her apron.

  Arxa looks at his soldiers, wearing the same expression Zivah does when she’s trying to choose between jars of herbs. “Cas,” he says.

  The small man comes out, the one with the sharp eyes, and picks up his own practice sword. He raises it in front of him, and I imitate his posture.

  “Go,” says Arxa.

  Just like that? It’s on my lips to protest, but Cas is already coming at me with an overhead swing, his sword whistling through the air. I barely get my own sword up in time to block. He’s not fooling around. A crack rings over the sand, and the vibration from the clash numbs my palm. Cas doesn’t stop. Before I know it, he’s brought his sword around to my exposed side. Again, I block just in time, but again, I’m slow. The blow knocks me sideways, and I stumble.

  A smile starts forming at the corners of my opponent’s lips—smug, and I don’t like the glint in his eye. He keeps attacking, one blow after another. His sword comes from above, from the side, and below. He’s toying with me, and it’s all I can do to keep up. I feel awkward and off-balance, like I have too many limbs and they don’t work together. The worst thing is, Cas is holding back. I can tell.

  “Halt,” calls Arxa, and Cas lowers his weapon. I follow suit and lean over my knees, panting. He’s barely winded, yet my lungs feel like they’re going to explode.

  I finally gather the courage to glance at the commander. He doesn’t look impressed.

  “Remember, Commander,” says Zivah. “He’s not yet recovered his full strength and balance.” My insides shrivel with shame.

  Commander Arxa makes a noncommittal grunt. “One more round.”

  Cas takes up his fighting position, and I force myself to match him. I don’t dare look at Zivah—I don’t want to see the expression on her face.

  “Now that we’re warmed up,” says Cas, “we can really get started.” His voice has an oily sheen.

  Delightful fellow, this Cas.

  He comes at me again. Strike, parry, strike. I may not know much, but I know I can’t keep up with him. I’m so caught up in blocking his attacks that I have no chance to counter. When the sun shines right into my eyes, I realize he’s maneuvered me to face it.

  Scars, I should have known better than this.

  I’m squinting now, and my eyes water from the glare. His sword comes down once, twice, and then connects soundly with my forearm. I cry out and drop my sword just as he knocks the wind from my ribs. I collapse on the ground, gasping.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Cas wipe the dust off his sword. And I steel myself for the commander’s reaction.

  “You have some training,” Arxa says. “We’ll see if we can find anything about your origins. If we can’t find anything, perhaps you could enlist as a foot soldier.”

  I’m not sure quite what it is—the soft grind of a footstep maybe, or a subtle change in where Arxa’s looking. But before I know it, I’ve spun and ducked just in time to avoid getting my skull caved in by another practice sword—this one held by the big soldier. Shock runs through me, followed by a wave of rage. The man could have killed me! My body moves of its own accord. I close the distance between us and drive my fist into his rib cage. As he doubles over, I wrap his arm under my armpit and bear down on his wrist until he gives up his sword. I back away, holding his weapon at the ready.

  I sneak a quick glance at the commander. His expression is inscrutable, and I don’t waste any more time puzzling him out, because now there’s heat pumping through my veins. I relax into a guard stance—not the same one I copied off Cas earlier. My feet want to be wider apart, my legs want more coil. Cas is watching me, his eyes wary. I give a quick nod, an invitation.

  This time, when he comes at me, I know what to do. I parry his first strike and then drive back, concentrating my attack on his right. He takes one step in retreat, and then another. When he takes two more steps back, I don’t follow. Instead, I back up until I’m standing over my fallen practice blade. Without lowering my eyes, I scoop it up with my free hand, and then I charge. My right blade cuts down and across, and the left one follows an eyeblink later. He deflects my first two blows, and the return blow after that as well. But my fourth strike catches him in the ribs and he falls.

  Something moves in my peripheral vision and I spin around as a new soldier runs at me with a spear. I step right, trapping the spear with my crossed swords and deflecting it to the side. When the soldier stumbles, I help him along with the flat of my blade. Then I lift my sword again, scanning in all directions, but no one else attacks me.

  A slow clapping rings through the air, and I turn to see Arxa watching with appreciation. “I had a hunch you were thinking too much the first time around,” he says. “That was an impressive performance. Quite impressive.”

  From the exuberance in Dineas’s face, you’d think he’d just stumbled upon a pot of gold, not beat three men into submission. He’s covered with dirt, and the fresh scratches on his hands and arms have me itching to grab a washcloth. He’s also limping like an old man, but he’s beaming. I’ve never seen him so happy.

  My palms are still damp from seeing him fail, entertaining the sinking feeling that my potions might have erased more of his skills than I’d thought. I’d feared our quest was ended before it even really began.

  As the party heads inside the compound, Dineas falls back next to me and breaks into a wide grin. “What do you think, Zivah? Not bad for someone who can’t remember his own name.”

  His elation is infectious, and I smile in return. Back in Dara, I’d believed him cocky when he boasted he’d be able to beat Ampara’s best. But now that I’ve seen him fight, I understand. And though I had nothing to do with his skill or training, I feel a surge of pride at his victory.

  Arxa walks with us to the door of Dineas’s room. “You gave us a good demonstration today, Dineas.” He doesn’t seem to recognize Dineas from his visit to Khaygal outpost. We didn’t think he would remember one prisoner’s face out of hundreds, but I’d worried nonetheless. I wait for him to say something about Dineas joining the army, but he doesn’t. Instead, he turns to me. “Zivah, I’d like a word with you.”

  “Of course, Commander.” I try to ignore the tingling in my stomach as I lead him to a sitting area in the back. There’s only a small window in this room, and a shaft of light falls between our two chairs. I put my hands in my lap to keep from fidgeting. “Is there anything in particular you wished to discuss, Commander?”

  He leans his weight back into his chair. “Tell me eve
rything you know about Dineas,” he says. “Every detail, no matter how insignificant.”

  The worst thing I can do right now is to let my nerves give me away. “I’m afraid I don’t know much. He was brought in by the gate guards one morning, and he was delirious with fever. When he woke, he remembered nothing. He wore a bracelet carved with the words ‘For my Dineas.’”

  “Do you still have this bracelet?”

  “It was burned, along with the rest of his clothes.”

  “In his fever, did he talk about anything? Ramble about anything that might give a clue?”

  I remember the time Dineas almost said my name in front of Jesmin, before his memory had fully faded away. “He talked of battles, mostly. He called after fallen friends, or cried out that he was being attacked.”

  Arxa leans forward. “Any names that you remember?”

  Of course he’d ask for names. “I’m sorry, Commander. At that time he was simply one of many patients. I had no reason to think he’d warrant special attention.”

  “Of course. I don’t blame you.” He falls silent a long moment. “A fighter with his talents is a rare find. And for him to just show up like this, abandoned at the colony. It’s strange.” He looks up at me. “You’ve had experience with amnesic patients, Zivah. Do they ever recover their memory? If I offer him a place in my army, I need to be sure of his allegiance.”

  I shake my head. “The rose plague fever burns hot. I don’t know if anyone has ever regained his past.” Then I see an opportunity. “There’s one thing I’d like to try. Rose plague fever, when it hits the mind, has lingering subtle effects. Dineas likely has not retained his full fighting ability, and he may have trouble making sense of the world. While I think it’s a lost cause to recover his past, I do have some potions in mind that might restore his physical skills and ease his transition back into everyday life. This will allow me to watch him carefully as well, and if he surprises us by remembering more of his old life, I can inform you right away.”