Cress

by Marissa Meyer

  She was shaking, watching as the animal fell and rolled the rest of the way, gathering clumps of sand on its hide. She wanted to scream, but any noise was paralyzed inside her, and she could think of nothing but that the animal had wanted to say something to her and now the world was tilting and fading and she was going to be sick and there was blood in the sand and she didn’t know what had happened and—

  “Cress! Cress!”

  Thorne’s hands were on her, searching, and she realized dully that he thought she had been shot. She grabbed his wrists, holding them tight and trying to convey the truth through her grip when words wouldn’t come to her.

  “I’m—I’m all—”

  She paused. They both heard it. Panting, along with the slip and scramble of footsteps.

  Cress cowered, pressing into Thorne’s embrace as terror washed over her. A man appeared at the top of the dune, carrying a shotgun.

  He saw the animal first, dying or dead, but then spotted Cress and Thorne from the corner of his eye. He yelped, barely keeping his balance, and gaped at them. His eyebrows disappeared beneath a gauzy headdress. His brown eyes and the bridge of his nose were all she could see of his face, the rest of him covered in a robe that draped nearly to his ankles, protecting him from the harsh desert elements. Beneath the robe peeked a pair of denim pants and boots that had long been sun bleached and caked with sand.

  He finished his own inspection of Cress and Thorne and lowered the gun. He began to speak and for a moment Cress thought that the sun and exhaustion had driven her mad after all—she didn’t understand a word he said.

  Thorne’s grip tightened on her arms.

  For a moment, the man stared at them in silence. Then he shifted, his eyebrows lowering and revealing flecks of gray in them.

  “Universal, then?” he said, in a thick accent that still made it a struggle to capture the words. He scanned their ragged clothes and sheets. “You are not from here.”

  “Yes—sir,” said Thorne, his voice rusty. “We need help. My … my wife and I were attacked and robbed two days ago. We have no more water. Please, can you help us?”

  The man squinted. “Your eyes?”

  Thorne’s lips puckered. He’d been trying to hide his new disability, but his eyes still looked unfocused. “The thieves gave me a good blow to the head,” he said, “and my sight’s been gone ever since. And my wife has a fever.”

  The man nodded. “Of course. My—” He stumbled over the language. “My friends are not far. There is an oasis near here. We have a … a camp.”

  Cress swooned. An oasis. A camp.

  “I must bring the animal,” the man said, tilting his head toward the fallen creature. “Can you walk? Maybe … ten minutes?”

  Thorne rubbed Cress’s arms. “We can walk.”

  The ten minutes seemed like an hour to Cress as they followed the man through the desert, treading in the wake carved out by the animal’s carcass. Cress tried not to look at the poor beast, keeping her thoughts instead on the promise of safety.

  When she spotted the oasis, like paradise before them, a sudden burst of joy clawed up and out of her throat.

  They’d made it.

  “Describe,” Thorne murmured, gripping her elbow.

  “There’s a lake,” she said, knowing that this one was real and not sure how she ever could have confused that vague mirage with something so stark and vibrant. “Blue as the sky, and surrounded by grasses and maybe a few dozen trees … palm trees, I think. They’re tall and skinny and—”

  “The people, Cress. Describe the people.”

  “Oh.” She counted. “I can see seven people … I can’t tell their genders from here. Everyone is wearing pale-colored robes over their heads. And there are—I think, camels? Tied up near the water. And there’s a fire, and some people are setting out mats and tents. And there’s so much shade!”

  The man with his kill stopped at the bottom of the slope.

  “The man is waiting for us,” Cress said.

  Thorne bent near to her and placed a kiss against her cheek. Cress froze. “Looks like we made it, Mrs. Smith.”

  As they got closer to the camp, the people stood. Two members of the group walked out into the sand to greet them. Though they wore their cloaks over their heads, they’d pulled the covers down around their chins and Cress could see that one of them was a woman. The hunter spoke to them in his other language, and a mixture of sympathy and curiosity entered the faces of these strangers, but not without a touch of suspicion.

  Though the woman’s eyes were the sharpest of the group, she was the first to smile. “What a trial you’ve been through,” she said, with an accent not quite as heavy as the hunter’s. “My name is Jina, and this is my husband, Niels. Welcome to our caravan. Come, we have plenty of food and water. Niels, assist the man with his bag.”

  Her husband came forward to take the makeshift sack off Thorne’s shoulder. Though it had become lighter as their water had disappeared, Thorne’s face was one of relief to have the weight gone. “We have some food in there,” he said. “Preserved nutrition packs, mostly. It’s not much, but it’s yours, if you’ll help us.”

  “Thank you for the offer,” said Jina, “but this is not a negotiation, young man. We will help you.”

  Cress was grateful that no questions were asked as she and Thorne were led to the fire. The people shifted, eyeing them curiously as they made room on thickly woven mats. The hunter left them, dragging the animal’s carcass to some other corner of the camp.

  “What kind of animal was that?” Cress asked, eyes stuck to the path left by its body.

  “Desert addax,” said Niels, handing her and Thorne each a canteen full of water.

  “It was beautiful.”

  “It will also be delicious. Now drink.”

  She wanted to mourn the animal, but the water was a blessed distraction. She dragged her attention to the canteen and did as she was told, drinking until her stomach ached from fullness.

  The people remained largely silent, and Cress felt the presence of their curiosity and stares closing in around her. She avoided meeting their eyes, and unconsciously crept closer and closer against Thorne, until he had no choice but to put an arm around her.

  “We’re deeply grateful to you,” he said, offering an easy smile to no one in particular.

  “It was very lucky that you found us, or that Kwende found you,” said Jina. “The desert is not a kind place. You must have a very lucky star.”

  Cress’s lips tugged into a smile.

  “You’re very young.” The words sounded accusatory to Cress’s ears, but the woman’s face was kind. “How long have you been married?”

  “Newlyweds,” said Thorne, giving Cress a squeeze. “This was supposed to be our honeymoon. So much for that lucky star, I guess.”

  “And I’m not as young as I look,” Cress added, feeling like she had to offer something to the act—but her voice squeaked and she quickly regretted speaking.

  Jina winked. “You’ll be grateful for that youthfulness someday.”

  Cress lowered her gaze again, and was glad when a wide spoon and a bowl of steaming food was set before her, smelling exotic and spicy and rich.

  She hesitated, and risked a sideways glance at the woman who had handed it to her, not sure if she was supposed to share or pass it to the next person or eat very slow and delicately or—

  But within moments, everyone around the fire was enjoying their own food with relish. Flushing with hunger, Cress pulled the bowl onto her lap. She nibbled slowly at first, trying to identify the Earthen foods. Peas she easily recognized—they had those on Luna too—but there were some other sorts of vegetables that she didn’t know, mixed with rice and covered in a thick, aromatic sauce.

  She scooped out a chunk of something yellowish and firm. She bit into it, and discovered it was tender and steaming on the inside.

  “Don’t they have potatoes where you come from?”

  Cress jerked her head up, and s
aw Jina watching her curiously. She gulped. “This sauce,” she said quietly, hoping Jina wouldn’t notice her evading the question. Potatoes, of course! Luna’s potatoes were a darker color, with a flakier texture. “What is it?”

  “Just a simple curry. Do you like it?”

  She nodded enthusiastically. “Very much. Thank you.”

  Realizing that all eyes had turned to her again, she hastily shoveled the rest of the potato into her mouth, though the spices were making her cheeks flush. As she ate, a plate of dried meats was passed to her—she did not ask from what animal—and then a bowl filled with a juicy orange fruit and sweet, green-tinted nuts that were full of so many more flavors than the protein-nuts Sybil had often brought for her.

  “Are you traders?” Thorne asked, accepting the handful of shelled nuts that Cress pressed into his palm.

  “We are,” said Jina. “We make this trek four times a year. I am upset by the threat of thieves. We haven’t had such trouble in ages.”

  “Desperate times,” said Thorne with a shrug. “If you don’t mind my asking, why camels? It makes your way of life seem very … second era.”

  “Not at all. We make our living serving many of the smaller communities in the Sahara, many of which don’t even have magnets on their own streets, much less on the trade routes between them.”

  Cress noticed Thorne’s hand tightening around his bowl. The Sahara. So her stargazing had been correct. But his expression remained impassive and she forced hers to do the same.

  “Why not use wheeled vehicles then?”

  “We do occasionally,” said one of the men, “for special circumstances. But the desert does harsh things to machinery. They’re not as reliable as the camels.”

  Jina took a few slices of the sticky sweet fruit and added it to the top of her curry. “This may not be a luxurious life, but we stay busy. Our towns rely on us.”

  Cress listened attentively, but kept her attention on the food. Now that they were safe, sheltered, and fed, she was developing a new fear: that at any moment, one of these men or women might look at her and see something different, something not quite … Earthen.

  Or that they would recognize Thorne, one of the most-wanted fugitives on the planet.

  Whenever she dared to look up, she found their focus pinned on her and Thorne. She hunkered over her bowl of food, trying to fend off their prying eyes, and hoped that no one spoke to her. She became certain that any word she said would mark her as different, that simply by meeting their gazes she would give herself away.

  “Not many tourists come through here,” said Jina’s husband, Niels. “Any foreigners are usually just here for mining, or archeology. This side of the desert’s been almost forgotten since the outbreaks started.”

  “We heard the outbreaks aren’t half as bad as rumored,” said Thorne, lying with an ease that astonished Cress.

  “You heard wrong. The plague outbreak is as bad as they think. Worse.”

  “Which town were you traveling to?” asked Jina.

  “Oh—whichever one you’re going to,” Thorne said, not missing a beat. “We don’t want to burden you. We’ll take our leave in any town with a netscreen. Er … you wouldn’t happen to have any portscreens on hand, would you?”

  “We do,” said the oldest woman, perhaps in her fifties. “But net access is fickle here. We won’t have a good connection until we get to Kufra.”

  “Kufra?”

  “The next trading town,” said Niels. “It will take us another day to get there, but you should be able to find whatever you need.”

  “We’ll rest today and tonight and set out tomorrow,” said Jina. “You need to replenish yourself, and we want to avoid the high sun.”

  Thorne flashed a most grateful smile. “We can’t thank you enough.”

  A bout of dizziness spun through Cress’s head, forcing her to set down the bowl.

  “You don’t look well,” someone said, she wasn’t sure who.

  “My wife was feeling ill earlier.”

  “You should have said. She could have heat sickness.” Jina stood, setting aside her food. “Come, you should not be so near the fire. You can use Kwende’s tent tonight, but you should drink more before you sleep. Jamal, bring me some damp blankets.”

  Cress accepted the hand that pulled her to her feet. She turned to Thorne and gathered her courage to give him a small, non-theatrical kiss on the cheek, but as soon as she bent toward him, blood rushed to her head. The world flipped over. White spots pricked at her eyesight, and she collapsed into the sand.

  Twenty-Five

  Cinder pulled back the drapes and stepped into the shop, holding the curtain for Jacin as she surveyed the shelves around her. Jars were filled with assorted herbs and liquids, many of them labeled in a language she didn’t know, although if she stared at them for too long her netlink would begin searching for a translation. These exotic ingredients were scattered among boxes of drugs and bottles of pills that she recognized from pharmacies in the Commonwealth, along with bundles of gauze and bandages, pasty ointments, portscreen accessories designed for taking various vital stats, massage oils, candles, and anatomical models. Flecks of dust caught on a few streams of light that filtered in from dirty windows, and a fan spun lazily in the corner, doing little to dispel the dry heat. In the corner, a holograph displayed the progression of internal bleeding due to a side injury, occasionally flickering.

  Jacin meandered toward the back of the shop, still walking with a slight limp.

  “Hello?” Cinder called. Another curtain hung over a doorway on the far wall, alongside an old mirror and a standing sink that was overgrown with a potted plant.

  The curtain swished and a woman ducked through, pulling an apron on over plain jeans and a brightly patterned top. “Coming, com—” She spotted Cinder. Her eyes widened, followed by an enormous smile as she yanked the apron strings behind her. “Welcome!” she said in the thick accent that Cinder was becoming familiar with.

  “Hi, thank you.” Cinder set a portscreen down on the counter between them, pulling up the list that Dr. Erland had recorded for her. “I’m here for some supplies. I was told you would have these things?”

  “Cinder Linh.”

  She raised her head. The woman was still beaming. “Yes?”

  “You are brave and beautiful.”

  She tensed, feeling more like the woman had threatened her than complimented her. In the moments following the unexpected statement, she waited for her lie detector to come on, but it never did. Brave, maybe. At least, she could comprehend why someone would say that after they’d heard the stories about the ball.

  But beautiful?

  The woman kept smiling.

  “Um. Thank you?” She nudged the portscreen toward her. “My friend gave me this list—”

  The woman grabbed her hands and squeezed. Cinder gulped, surprised not only by the sudden touch, but at how the woman didn’t flinch when she took her metal hand.

  Jacin leaned over the counter and slid the portscreen toward the woman so suddenly that she had to release Cinder’s hand in order to catch it. “We need these things,” he said, pointing at the screen.

  The woman’s smile vanished as her gaze swept over Jacin, who was wearing the shirt from his guard uniform, freshly cleaned and patched so that the bloodstains hardly showed on the maroon fabric. “My son was also conscripted to become a guard for Levana.” Her eyes narrowed. “But he was not so rude.”

  Jacin shrugged. “Some of us have things to do.”

  “Wait,” said Cinder. “You’re Lunar?”

  Her expression softened when she focused on Cinder again. “Yes. Like you.”

  She buried the discomfort that came with such an open admission. “And your son is a royal guard?”

  “No, no. He chose to kill himself, rather than become one of her puppets.” She flashed a glare at Jacin, and stood a little taller.

  “Oh. I’m so sorry,” said Cinder.

  Jacin rolled his eye
s. “I guess he must not have cared about you very much.”

  Cinder gasped. “Jacin!”

  Shaking his head, he snatched the portscreen back from the woman. “I’ll start looking,” he said, shouldering past Cinder. “Why don’t you ask her what happened next?”

  Cinder glared at his back until he had disappeared down one of the rows. “Sorry about that,” she said, searching for some excuse. “He’s … you know. Also Lunar.”

  “He is one of hers.”

  Cinder turned back to the woman, who looked offended at Jacin’s words. “Not anymore.”

  Grunting, the woman turned to reposition the fan so Cinder could catch most of the gentle breeze. “Courage comes in many forms. You know about that.” Pride flickered over the woman’s face.

  “I guess so.”

  “Perhaps your friend was brave enough to join her guard. My son was brave enough not to.”

  Rubbing absently at her wrist, Cinder leaned against the counter. “Did something happen? Afterward?”

  “Of course.” There was still pride on her face, but also anger, and also sadness. “Three days after my son died, two men came to our house. They took my husband out into the street and forced him to beg the queen’s forgiveness for raising such a disloyal child. And then they killed him anyway, as punishment. And as a warning to any other conscripts who were thinking of disobeying the crown.” Her eyes were beginning to water, but she held on to a pained smile. “It took me almost four years to find a ship that was coming to Earth and willing to accept me as a stowaway. Four years of pretending that I didn’t hate her. Of pretending to be one more loyal citizen.”

  Cinder gulped. “I’m so sorry.”

  Reaching forward, the woman cupped Cinder’s cheek. “Thank you for defying her in a way that I never could.” Her voice turned to steel. “I hope you kill her.”

  “Do you carry fentanyl-ten?” asked Jacin, returning to the counter and dropping three small boxes onto it.

  Pressing her lips, the woman took the portscreen out of his hand. “I will do this,” she said, slipping around the counter and heading toward the front corner of the store.