I think I’ve kept my experiments secret, until one day Jesmin walks past me as I’m reading and looks pointedly at my latest attempt—a poultice-soaked bandage that I’ve wrapped around my arm.
“There are several schools of thought regarding self-experimentation,” he says. “Some say it is the noblest of endeavors. Others say it’s brash, foolhardy, and a good way to kill yourself.” The mildness of his voice makes it hard to know which particular school Jesmin subscribes to, though I suspect it’s the latter.
“I was reading about Baruva’s theory of rose plague settling in the skin,” I say. “I thought the right poultice might draw it out. It seemed harmless enough.” At least I’m not vomiting up my breakfast.
Jesmin lifts the corner of my bandage to reveal angry red streaks on my skin, darker and bolder than my rosemarks. “Are you sure?”
As if on cue, my skin starts to itch and burn. I exhale my frustration and retreat to the water basin. The bandage comes off in pieces, and the poultice leaves a chalky residue on my skin. The itch is maddening, and I have to fight the urge to scratch as I rinse off. Finally, everything’s clean, and I smear some spineleaf sap on my abused skin. As a cool numbness spreads over my arm, I breathe out one more time. At least by now, I’ve had so many failures that I no longer feel any great disappointment.
Jesmin looks up from his desk when I return. He doesn’t speak, and I walk quietly to the table where I’d been reading. Just as I think he will let the incident go without comment, I hear his voice.
“Perhaps searching for a cure is too great a leap,” Jesmin says gently. “Perhaps it would make more sense to pick a more tractable goal first.”
The words on the scroll blur in front of me. It’s easy for Jesmin to say so. He’s not the one whose days are numbered. The instinct to argue with him is overwhelming, but he’s right about one thing. As loath as I am to admit it, my cures are based more on leaps of reasoning than any real knowledge or experience.
“And what do you recommend?” I ask.
“We could focus on the spread of the disease. There, at least, we have a body of knowledge to work off of. You’ve told me that the Dara keep their rosemarked under far less isolation. We could pool our knowledge and try and codify a better way to treat the afflicted.”
My mind goes back to the boy abandoned at the compound a few days ago, and his mother’s grief. Jesmin and I could indeed make his last years more bearable for both him and his mother. It wouldn’t take much effort to come up with ideas, and they’d likely be much more successful than my cure attempts.
“Very well,” I say, though I add a silent “for now” at the end of it. I roll up my scroll and turn my chair to face Jesmin. “Shall we start with the terms of quarantine, then? I’ve already told you the limitations that were placed on me at Dara. I could still receive visitors, as long as we were careful about what they touched.”
He nods, acknowledging my easy acquiescence. “Yes, I remember. And I see how that might work in Dara, but in Sehmar City and the rest of Central Ampara, we have a problem of scale. In your village, the people are spread out and there are simply fewer rosemarked. The likelihood of a mistake, and the cost of any one outbreak, would be much smaller than here. Could we trust all thousand rosemarked within this compound to be as careful with their disease as you were?”
His words make sense, but I refuse to be so easily discouraged. “Perhaps some of Baruva’s reports would help. He’s listed many ways to minimize the spread of the disease. A distance of five paces when speaking, bright sunlight…Even if visits could only be conducted occasionally, under the strict supervision of soldiers who could make sure that the healthy stayed a good distance away from the sick…and all water drawn from near the rosemarked colony should be boiled thoroughly, of course.”
“Most Amparan citizens already boil their water,” says Jesmin. “Everyone at court is required to, as is the army.”
“The army?” I ask. This surprises me, though I don’t immediately comprehend why.
“Yes. Every soldiers boils his water when on a mission. It’s deemed the best way of keeping the soldiers safe.”
Still, that doesn’t sound right. “Every single one?”
“It is a universal practice of the Amparan army. I helped draft the recommendation myself.”
My mind is spinning. I’d not yet come up with a completely satisfactory theory for how the Dara battalion had been infected with rose plague, but part of me had always assumed it was through their water. I simply didn’t see any other plausible way to infect so many soldiers at the same time. I suppose it could be done through food, but rose plague essence thrives on moisture. Once it dries, its potency decreases manyfold.
“If the army boils their water,” I ask, “then how did the Dara battalion get infected in such great numbers?”
“That,” says Jesmin, “is the question we’ve all been asking.”
Mehtap looks radiant when she comes down to dinner a week later, and it takes me a while to figure out what it is. She smiles at me, a mischievous gleam in her eye, and I finally see it.
“Your rosemarks!”
Her skin is smooth and unblemished, and I can hardly believe my eyes. Only when she steps closer can I see the chalky finish of whatever ointment she’s smeared on her skin.
“It’s pretty convincing, isn’t it?” she says. “At least from a distance. I mixed it with clays from the garden.”
“You’re not planning to go out like this, are you?” She knows as well as I do that it’s a capital crime to cover up rosemarks. Not even Arxa’s status would protect her.
“I won’t leave the house with it. I just wanted to be able to look into the mirror and not see the marks for a while.” Mehtap looks at me and scowls. “Oh, don’t look so stricken, Zivah. I just wanted to look healthy for an evening. And I won’t let Father see me like this. He’s a man. He wouldn’t understand.”
I relax a little. “You do look very nice.”
“I can make some for you too,” she says. “I’d have to adjust the clays a bit, but our complexions aren’t so different.”
“It’s all right,” I say. “It looks like it’d be hard to wash off.”
She grimaces. “That it is. But I have plenty of free time. Probably too much, since all I’ve done this past day is worry about Father’s mission tomorrow.”
“It’s just accompanying the prince to some northern cities, isn’t it? Surely it’s not as dangerous as other trips that your father has undertaken.”
“Yes, that’s true.” But her voice falls away, and she doesn’t meet my eyes.
I wait, hoping she’ll say more.
She heaves a sigh. “Why can’t I be useful like you, Zivah? I just sit here in my house all day, alone with my thoughts.”
“Nobody’s useless by nature. It’s just a matter of finding something to do.”
Mehtap purses her lips as a servant fills her plate. “So what can I do? If I were out of the compound, I’d be married to some official’s son. And then I’d have children. Perhaps, if I’m extra energetic, I’d pick some fashionable cause to work on with some of the other wives. Providing scarves for beggars or whatnot,” she says wryly.
“There are beggars here too,” I point out.
“You’re right. It’s far worse in here than in the poorest parts of the city. It almost seems too much to tackle.”
“It does seem overwhelming,” I say. “But I wonder if things could be better if the rules were a just a little different. If the emperor assigned just a few more soldiers to guard the place, for example…”
She looks at me thoughtfully. “Or if they allowed everyone to send letters out instead of just those who can afford their own messengers. Things would be so much better if they just treated us like people. The sickness here runs deeper than our marks. It’s a sickness of spirit.”
I’m impressed at her insight, though perhaps it’s unfair of me to underestimate her so. “I’ve been speaking with Jesmin
about the quarantine. I’m not convinced it has to be so strict.”
Her smile fades a bit. “Do you think it could be changed? But that would be much more complicated than simply handing out scarves in the city. If we want to change rules, we’d need to get the ear of the emperor, or at least the imperial advisers. If I were healthy I could try to get to know some of their wives, but I’m in here….”
Her words give me an idea. “There are those within the compound who have some influence, don’t they? Utana, the former minister of health, is in the compound. Do you know him?”
“I’ve met him once or twice. He’s always been very kind.” Mehtap thinks for another moment, then gives a deliberate nod. “Very well, then. I’ll request an audience with him for the two of us.”
That went so easily I feel almost guilty. She’s cheery for the rest of the meal, and we spend the remaining time talking about some volumes of harp music Arxa had ordered for her from the Eastern Provinces. As we finish up though, Mehtap once again drifts into contemplation.
“You’re from Monyar, Zivah,” she says. “Have you seen the Shidadi before?”
It’s a rather jarring change in topic. “I’ve seen them from a distance,” I say carefully. “They stay hidden mostly.”
“Are they really as dangerous as they say?” she says.
“They do have a fierce reputation, but I wouldn’t know.”
She nods, as if that was the best she could have expected, and then she stands abruptly. “Well, I should get to bed.” She smiles apologetically. “It’s been a long day.”
Later in my room, I think about her cryptic question about the Shidadi. It could have been simply idle curiosity, but that combined with her worry about her father…A frightening possibility occurs to me. Could Dineas have been wrong about where Neju’s Guard was headed? Perhaps they mean to cross the strait after all. I have nothing to back up my suspicions, but Mehtap’s discomfiture stays with me.
What would happen if they crossed the strait? What would Gatha’s forces do if they knew that the emperor’s heir was with them? Would they attack the Amparan forces, knowing Dineas was in their ranks?
I pace the length of my room until Diadem starts to get restless. It’s only a suspicion, but what if it’s true? Finally, I whistle for the crows and write a brief message to Gatha and Tal, emphasizing that I have no evidence to back it up, but suggesting that they should keep an eye out. I pause once or twice in my writing, well aware that if I’m right, I could well be handing Arxa and Dineas right over to their enemies.
“Forgive me,” I whisper, and I’m not sure whether I’m speaking to Dineas or Mehtap. It saddens me how often I say those words now that I’m here.
The ride north with Neju’s Guard is exhilarating. The scenery’s always changing, and I can’t get enough of it. First we ride across desert, our horses kicking up dust and pebbles, flattening patches of brown grasses as we go up and down the hills. Gradually the air gets cooler and the grass gets longer and greener. The hills flatten out. All along the way, we stop at outposts and strongholds so Kiran can meet with the local rulers. I’m always glad for those stops, because it means we can sleep in the great hall instead of our tents.
I keep an eye out for the prince during the early days of our trip, mostly because I’m curious about royalty. Kiran is older than me but younger than Arxa, with sharp eyes and a fighter’s build. He doesn’t pay us common soldiers much mind, but he gets along well with the commander. They confer often as they ride, and whenever we visit an outpost or stronghold, the commander goes with the prince as he tours the grounds. Kiran’s two bodyguards are also always at his side.
“The prince seems to favor the commander,” I say to Walgash one evening.
Walgash nods sagely. “Kiran served under Arxa during his military service and holds him in high esteem. Certainly thinks more highly of him than the emperor does.”
As we move deeper into grassland, I start seeing little orange flowers dotting the landscape. It’s the puzta flower, the same herb Zivah gave me as a keepsake for my trials. Except instead of the tiny patch in Zivah’s garden, these flowers paint giant swaths of color on the hillsides. The pounding of our horses’ hooves release their fragrance into the air.
I pick a few blossoms to amuse myself, and then I remember what Zivah had said about not having much of this plant to spare. It occurs to me that I could easily gather up a bunch to dry and take back. Once I decide to gather the flowers, it’s very easy to do. Every time we stop, I simply reach down and pluck a handful. Nobody comments on my impromptu herb collecting until Cas sees me laying them out on the ground that night to dry.
“Flowers, Dineas?” he says. “You are a sensitive soul, aren’t you?”
I’m not in a mood to respond.
“Oh, I see,” Cas says. “These flowers aren’t for you, are they?” When I still say nothing, he snorts. “Maybe you’re onto something, bedding someone like that healer. No complications, no trouble. You have your fun, and she’ll remove herself from the picture in a few years.”
The flowers scatter across the floor as I lunge for him. Cas barely has time to widen his eyes, and then my fist meets his cheek in a painful but satisfying crack. Before he can recover, I sit on his chest and follow up with more. Chaos erupts around us. Some men are shouting my name, some are shouting Cas’s, but I pay them no mind. The world shrinks down to the two of us, throwing punches and getting a few in return.
Suddenly, arms drag me backward. “It’s not worth it,” Masista hisses in my ear. I strain against his grip, but he’s remarkably strong for his small size. I see that someone else has Cas pinned as well, and he’s about as happy about it as I am.
“What is this?” Arxa’s shout cuts across the din. Everyone falls silent. I stop struggling, and Masista lets me go. I touch my lip as I straighten, and my finger comes away damp. I can feel my eye swelling.
The crowd parts for the commander, who strides in like an avenging god. He rakes his gaze over us both. There’s bits of dried flowers on my shirt.
“What do you have to say for yourselves?” Arxa’s voice is a low growl.
I stare straight ahead. “No excuse, sir.”
Cas says the same.
“I expected better from both of you,” Arxa says. “You’re both on equipment duty for the rest of the mission.”
“Yes, sir.”
Nobody moves until Arxa is back inside his own tent. Then the crowd slowly disperses. Cas shoots me one last dirty look before someone urges him away. Slowly, I bend down and clean up the flower remains. They’re dirty and crushed beyond use. I sweep them together and stare blankly at the pile. And I can’t help but think how easy it is for a thing of this world to be destroyed, and how quickly something beautiful can disappear.
The aches and pains that greet me the next morning are almost enough to make me regret last night’s fight. Almost.
“Your eye is blue, Dineas,” says Walgash as we shiver over mugs of hot water.
I grunt in reply.
We saddle up as usual, but around midmorning, Walgash starts sniffing the air.
“Salt water,” he says.
“What?” asks Masista.
But Walgash just falls silent, deep in thought.
A short while later, the hills in front of us fall away to reveal a rippling, gray body of water that stretches as far as I can see. The ocean.
“Looks like we have a change of plan,” Walgash says cryptically.
“By Neju’s snot rag,” says Masista, “just tell us what you’re thinking.”
But Walgash looks to Arxa, who’s ridden forward to address the group.
“As some of you may have guessed, we are deviating from our announced plan for the tour. We’ll leave our horses at the docks and cross over to Monyar Peninsula, where Prince Kiran wishes to get a closer look at the terrain. As you know, this is dangerous territory. The Shidadi tribes are not to be underestimated. The prince will dress as one of the soldiers and march
in our midst. From here on out, you will refer to him as Pisinah. It’s your job to keep him safe.”
There’s a buzz of excitement among the men as we all dismount and repack our bags for the journey ahead.
Masista frowns as he tucks a clay tablet into his bags. “Would have mailed this at our last stop if I’d known,” he says.
I look over his shoulder. “Letter home?”
“Boy stops minding his mother if I’m away for long. He takes too much after me.” Masista shrugs. “Let’s just hope we can do what we need to and get out of there quick.”
I squint across the water. “What they say about the Shidadi, are they really that dangerous?”
“They’re better than your everyday foot soldier,” he says. “But Neju’s Guard is more than a match for them.”
I flex my fingers, trying to imagine what such fierce tribesmen would be like.
By afternoon, we’re loaded into longboats and rowing across the strait. The wind across the water is bitterly cold, and the boats lurch on the waves. My fingers are frozen into claws by the time we get to the other side. We take off our shoes and roll up our trousers before wading onto the opposite shore. The water on my bare skin sends jolts through my bones, but it’s better than marching on in wet clothes.
Arxa has us hide the boats in a sea cave, and then we continue into the forest. I see signs of settlement once in a while—well-worn paths, some wells…Walgash tells me there are peaceful villages in the lowlands, though it looks like we’re avoiding them. I wouldn’t say we’re marching in secret—there’s far too many of us to not be noticed—but we’re not announcing our presence either. Kiran confers with Arxa about everything—the layout of the land, the consistency of the ground we march on, the edible vegetation on the mountainside, the flooding patterns of the waterways.
After a few days, we start marching uphill, making for the mountain pass that connects this valley with the rest of the continent beyond. According to the commander, this section of road is the most dangerous by far. The narrow path, with its bottlenecks, provides plenty of ambush opportunities. Also, there’s the constant threat of landslide. Because of that, Arxa takes every precaution. He sends a constant rotation of scouts ahead, with one reporting back every quarter hour.
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