Rosemarked

by Livia Blackburne

  The path starts out wide enough for four men to walk abreast. As we climb, it gets steeper and narrower. Gray granite rises around us on both sides. The trail is rocky, and I’m constantly dodging pebbles dislodged by the men in front of me. I find myself gasping for breath, even though we’re not going quickly.

  “It’s the mountain air,” says Masista when he sees me wheezing. “Makes it harder to breathe.”

  Halfway through the morning, we start seeing snow on the peaks around us, and we’re commanded to march in complete silence so we don’t trigger an avalanche. The entire march becomes quite ghostly, just the whistle of wind and the crunch of our feet. Kiran marches a few rows in front of me, and sometimes I catch a glimpse of scouts coming back and forth.

  Suddenly the column slows. A message is passed back. One of the scouts has not returned. Be vigilant. I feel for my sword at my side, though it’s hard for me to see how much fighting I could really do out here. The path is ridiculously narrow, with the mountain rising up on one side and a steep drop on the other. At least my limbs are warm from all our marching.

  Suddenly, I catch a movement on the cliffs above us. I turn to look, but all I see are rocks. I squint for a better view. It could simply be my imagination, but the hairs on the back of my neck are standing on end.

  A crack rends the air.

  At the front of the line, Arxa stiffens and then raises a red flag above his head. March faster.

  A second crack sounds, so loud as to make my ears hurt. And then the whole mountain comes down on us.

  A sheet of rocks and dirty snow dislodges itself from the crag above. As dust explodes around me, I lunge for a steeper section of the cliff wall and press myself against it. I can’t see a thing, and the ground vibrates from falling stones.

  When the dust finally clears, I feel as if I’ve been thrown inside a drum and rattled around. My ears ring, every part of me is covered with dust, and I can barely see straight. Coughing, I finally push away from the wall. It seems our section of the trail escaped the worst of the landslide. Rocks and snow cover the ground, but we’re all standing. When I turn though, my heart sinks. The trail behind us has been completely buried. The dirt is piled higher than my head, and there’s no sign of the soldiers who’d marched behind me.

  Ahead of me, Arxa coughs and pulls Prince Kiran to his feet.

  “Dineas,” Arxa says. “Is the trail completely blocked?”

  “Completely, sir.” I’m frantically trying to remember who was marching behind me. Naudar and Walgash are in front near Kiran. But where had Masista been?

  Then a battle cry splits the air. Armed men and women rush at us, some from the trail ahead, and some falling on us from above. It’s my first look at the rebels. They’re wild looking. Their clothes are mismatched, but there’s something in their eyes that chills my blood. I know, in my bones, that they’re kindred spirits, born fighters like me. But we’re on different sides.

  Two of them attack me. I barely manage to get my sword up in time to avoid getting my head sliced off, and the force of impact nearly knocks me down. Thankfully the wall of dirt behind me catches my fall. I cut down the first man when he loses his balance, and then his comrade as he looks at his dying friend.

  “To Pisinah!” Arxa shouts.

  He means Kiran. Where is he? It’s hard to spot him since he’s dressed like the rest of us, but finally I see him on the steep slope below the trail. He’s fighting back-to-back with his two bodyguards, surrounded by attackers. As I watch, one of his bodyguards falls to the ground. Arxa’s trying to make his way down to the prince, but two rebels cut him off. Farther up the hill, Walgash is exchanging blows with a wickedly fast swordsman.

  I run toward Walgash, though he dispatches his opponent before I reach him. We look at each other, and then both of us sprint toward the heir, running, sliding, and jumping down the mountainside. The thought crosses my mind that I’ll tumble a long way if I lose my footing. Kiran’s other bodyguard has fallen now, and the prince is backed up against a bush, fending off two men. I run one through from behind as Walgash gets the other. The heir looks at us with recognition, and then we both turn at the sound of someone running toward us. It’s Arxa, with several Shidadi in pursuit.

  The commander points toward a spot where two giant boulders form a crevice. “Over there!”

  We converge in front of the rock, and Arxa pushes Kiran into the crevice as Walgash and I turn to face our attackers. We’re shoulder to shoulder, two sides of a triangle. I’m aware of the clash of his weapon next to me as my world shrinks to the simple acts of blocking and striking. The ring of steel echoes in my ears, and my arms move of their own accord. One man falls at my blade, and then another.

  “Ampara!” Naudar’s battle cry drifts down.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Naudar inching his way down the hill. He’s locked in combat against a muscular Shidadi woman. She’s shorter than him, and much older, but she drives him farther and farther back. I don’t dare take more than a few passing glimpses in his direction—I have my own enemies to fight. But I do see when the woman snakes her blade past Naudar’s guard and into his chest. I see the spray of blood, and I see Naudar stumble and fall onto one knee.

  A roaring sound fills my ears. “Naudar!”

  The Shidadi woman straightens and looks right at me.

  A rebel tries to strike me down while I’m distracted, but I parry and run him through. No one steps into his place, and Walgash and I look around, panting. The closest rebel is the ­Shidadi woman who’d been fighting Naudar. She’s still watching me, and my vision clouds over with rage.

  “Rebel scum!” I charge up the hill, forgetting my orders to protect the prince, forgetting everything but revenge.

  “Dineas!” Walgash shouts behind me. “Dineas, fall back!”

  I ignore him. The Shidadi braces herself for my charge, and then our swords clash. It’s like striking a rock. I attack furiously, looking for some opening, but she doesn’t leave any. Then our swords lock, and the woman’s boot connects squarely with my ribs, sending me flying.

  I roll head over heels twice before skidding to a stop. I can’t breathe, and I feel the throbbing imprint of sharp rocks on every limb.

  Someone drags me up by the collar.

  “You imbecile!” Walgash shouts in my ear. He points up toward the ridge, and I see more rebels coming down the hill. “Help me get Naudar to safety.”

  Naudar’s just a few paces away, pale and clutching his wound. Walgash and I grab him under his arms and drag him down toward the others.

  “Watch out,” Naudar whispers, his eyes on the soldiers coming down. His feet leave trails in the dust. All this jostling can’t possibly be good for his wound. We’ve barely laid Naudar down by the boulder when we’re set upon again. I turn to fight, but I can tell I’m weakening. My muscles feel heavy, and I’m slow to react. When I lock blades with one man, my feet slip out from under me. The rebel’s sword comes down, and all I can do is hold my breath.

  Another blade stops its descent with a clang, and then the rebel drops. I scramble backward as Arxa takes my place.

  “Tend to Naudar,” he shouts as another rebel moves in. “Now, soldier!” he adds when I hesitate.

  I climb to my feet and look at Naudar. He’s even paler than before, and there’s a puddle of blood underneath him. He barely reacts when I pull him further into the crevice.

  “Stay with me, Naudar. We’ll get you bound up.”

  Kiran is there, though I don’t have the time or the desire to pay him the proper respect. I’m too busy cutting Naudar’s tunic away, trying to get at the wound. There’s too much blood, and all my bandages are with my bags, somewhere on the side of the mountain.

  Naudar’s eyes drift closed, and I slap his cheeks to keep him awake. “Don’t you dare sleep, you lazy bastard.” It’s hard to speak over the lump in my throat. “Don’t you dare.”

  Kiran thrusts something under my nose. It’s a stack of handkerchiefs, ex
pensive ones. I stare for a moment before mumbling, “Thank you, Your Highness,” and pressing them to the wound. If only Zivah were here right now. She would have some magical herb or poultice to stitch Naudar back together. I reach into my pocket, hoping for some leftover puzta flower, but all I find is dirt.

  “Dineas,” says Walgash softly behind me.

  I shift to make room for him. He’s dusty and uncharacteristically grim, and he reaches out to grip Naudar’s hand. “Well, Naudar, that rebel really sliced you open, didn’t she?”

  Naudar smiles, though it turns into a grimace. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but then seems to change his mind. Walgash and I exchange another glance. It doesn’t look good, and we both know it. I stop fussing with the bandages and squeeze Naudar’s arm. There’s nothing more I can do. My eyes burn, and I don’t bother to wipe away my tears.

  A few moments later, Naudar lets out a rattling breath, and then he falls still.

  My chest caves in on itself.

  Walgash reaches over and closes Naudar’s eyes. “We’ll get them back for you,” he says. Then he lays a heavy hand on my shoulder as I struggle to breathe. “We’ll get them,” he says, this time to me.

  And that’s when I realize—if Walgash is here, who is defending the entrance?

  I turn toward the opening, but Walgash speaks. “There are no more rebels. Arxa’s watching the entrance.”

  And indeed, I see Arxa at the mouth of the crevice, his back toward us. At the sound of his name, he calls over his shoulder. “Walgash, report.”

  “Naudar is dead, sir. The prince is unharmed. Dineas and I have minor scrapes.”

  Arxa’s shoulders tighten. “Lay him to rest,” he says. “The rebels have pulled back, but we can’t stay long.”

  It kills me to leave Naudar’s body here in the middle of nowhere, but there’s nothing to be done. We fold his arms over his chest and make our way out.

  Wind hits my face as soon as I step into the open. We survey the damage. Bodies litter the hillside, and their blood stains the ground.

  “Rebel dogs,” Walgash growls under his breath.

  Arxa turns to Kiran. “I don’t think that was a natural landslide, Your Highness,” he says. “It was too small. There’s a good chance we have soldiers alive on the other side. I advise that we try to find our way to them.”

  Kiran nods his assent. He steps out and looks over the bodies and raises his hand high. “May Neju guide you into Zenagua’s arms and grant you your rich reward,” he says. We bow our heads.

  Arxa takes the lead when we head off again, while I bring up the rear. The entire mountainside is steep, and we end up using our hands as often as our feet to keep from sliding down. Thankfully, Arxa proves right about the landslide. The trail soon emerges above us, and we climb back up to it. There are signs of fighting here as well. The ground is red and trampled by many feet. There are bodies, but only a handful.

  “It looks like the fighting moved that way,” says Arxa. “Be on your guard.”

  An enemy archer materializes on the hillside below us.

  “Commander, watch out!”

  I act out of instinct, grabbing the closest rock and hurling it at the archer as hard as I can. It knocks him in the shoulder, and the arrow goes awry. I sprint down the cliffside again, thinking only to get to him before he can let off another shot. We collide and fall in an explosion of painfully jagged pebbles, skidding down the mountainside, snapping branches and bouncing off rocks along the way. I splay my limbs out, trying to stop our fall, but I have to pull in my arms to fend off the man’s blows. Finally, we come to a firm stop with him on top of me. He pins my arms with his knees. Through the spots dancing before my eyes, I see him pull a knife out of its sheath. He’s an ugly man, with one eye missing. I struggle to throw him off, but he’s got me pinned solid.

  He raises the blade. I grit my teeth.

  Arxa’s boot connects with the man’s head, and he falls off me. I push myself onto my elbows, grimacing, and Arxa offers me a hand up.

  “Thank you, sir,” I say.

  “Don’t thank me yet,” he says.

  As if by magic, more rebels appear on the cliff below us.

  “Back up to the trail,” Arxa says. “Regroup with Pisinah and Walgash.”

  I do my best to scramble up the mountainside, but going up is much harder than coming down, and my feet can find no purchase. It’s like I’m running in place.

  Suddenly, shouts sound from above. My heart lifts to see twenty—no, thirty or forty—of Neju’s Guard coming up the trail.

  “For Ampara!” comes the battle cry. The rebels turn to flee. A volley of arrows chases them, followed by our troops. When the dust settles, the only remaining rebels are the ones who are too wounded to get away.

  Arxa scans our surroundings, then slowly turns to address the troops. “Check the fallen,” he says.

  The troops around me rush to work, bandaging our injured. We check the surviving rebels as well. The only one in good enough shape to take prisoner is the archer I tackled. Everyone else, we finish off.

  It’s gruesome work. Arxa points to a young fighter on the ground who’d been hobbled by an arrow to the hamstring. “Dineas, take care of that one.”

  “Yes, sir.” The Shidadi looks up at me with pure desperation, and he starts to hyperventilate. A chill goes through me. It’s one thing to cut down an enemy in battle, but to kill someone who’s been rendered helpless…

  “Quickly, Dineas,” says Arxa.

  I grip my sword and drive it through his heart. The rebel shudders, and falls still. I wipe my blade off on his tunic and back away. Thankfully, Arxa doesn’t call on me to take care of any others.

  After all is done, Arxa calls for the troops. “Fall in tight. Weapons at the ready. We march back the way we came.”

  Mehtap knocks on my door as I’m getting into bed. She looks fragile in her sleeping gown. Some of her hair’s escaped her nighttime braid, and candlelight illuminates the stray strands so they glow. “There’s been news,” she says. My heart stutters at her words. Panic, guilt, worry, and fear hit me all at once.

  “They’re alive,” Mehtap hurriedly adds. “My father, Dineas, Prince Kiran, they’re all alive. At least they were when my father wrote this letter, but the prince’s trip was cut short. They were ambushed and lost a number of their men.”

  “Ambushed? Where?”

  She hesitates a split second. “Southern Monyar. In the mountains.”

  And now the guilt settles in thick around me. An ambush in the southern Monyar mountains. The attackers would have needed time to prepare, make plans. They could only have done it if they’d had warning….

  Mehtap wipes hurriedly at her eyes. “I’m going down to the shrine to burn some incense. I know you don’t have the same gods, but will you come with me? I don’t want to be alone.”

  “Of course.” I grab a robe to drape over my nightgown.

  The shrine is a simple alcove tucked into the downstairs courtyard. On the wall hang images of the seven High Gods of Ampara. Neju, god of war, and Hefana, goddess of healing, take the honored center spots in this household, and it is in front of these two that Mehtap kneels in turn, mouthing silent prayers. She lights incense sticks and places one in front of each as I stand a respectful distance away.

  When she finishes, she comes to stand next to me. In the orange glow of the incense sticks, she looks nothing more than a frightened child. I could almost convince myself that we’re sisters in our worry and grief, that I’m not the cause of her current troubles.

  Mehtap dusts the residual incense from her fingers. “To be honest, I don’t concern myself much with the gods unless something goes wrong,” she says. “They don’t seem all that real to me, though it seems unlucky to say so right in front of the shrine.”

  “I’m sure the gods forgive a bit of doubt,” I say.

  Mehtap looks at me. “And what about your Goddess? Are you devoted to her?”

  It’s on my lips to
reply with a simple yes, but something stops me. Perhaps because I’m so far from home, or because Mehtap herself has been so honest.

  “I used to think I was touched by the Goddess,” I say. “She has a special place for healers. We’re not priests exactly, but we’re in her service nonetheless.” A wind blows, and the incense sticks flare brighter for a moment. One blows out. “I was a very good healer. My teachers always said I would save many lives.”

  “But now you’re rosemarked,” says Mehtap. “And you don’t know why your Goddess has let this happen, if you were one of her chosen.” I can tell by the way she speaks that she’s asked similar questions. We all wonder the same things. Of course we must.

  “Perhaps the Goddess’s plan will become more clear with time,” I say. Or perhaps I wasn’t chosen at all. Perhaps the ­Goddess doesn’t care.

  In the distance, somewhere at the other side of the compound, people are shouting. It’s a fight, or a celebration, or both. Just another of the senseless things that happen in this compound.

  I wonder if the people out there have made their peace with the gods. I wonder if the healing priestesses of Hefana feel betrayed, as I did, when they fall ill. The Amparan gods don’t seem to be very concerned with mere mortals. From the tales I hear, they’re often preoccupied with their own divine politics. With the ­Goddess though, it’s different. We’re taught that her spirit permeates the world, that she’s everywhere, and always watching. Which makes it all the more perplexing when she turns away.

  After a while, the shouting dies down, and Mehtap and I are once again alone with the gods. For a brief moment I think about what the afterlife might be like. Will Mehtap and I end up in the same place? Will it be quiet, like now, or will it be crowded with the cries of those who went before us? The questions send a shiver over my skin, and I shrink away from them.