Of Dreams and Rust

by Sarah Fine

  I could say so much more. I could tell him what Melik and I started to build together, and how the last year wore it away, how this morning destroyed it entirely. I could explain how Melik was gentle, how he protected me. I could admit that my desire to protect him and his people is the reason I am probably going to die. I could tell him how my heart is aching, and how Melik’s has turned to stone. All of those laments and confessions are on the tip of my tongue, but it does no good to say them aloud. It might even do harm. I blink and look at the soldier. “My name is Wen, and my father is a doctor. Let me bind the wound?”

  The soldier, with a lean body and eyes heavy with fatigue, says, “I’m Shimian.” He nods toward his fellows. “And that’s Yino, Mabian, Senza, and Lidim.”

  The others nod and mumble their hellos, devoid of the bravado and flirtation of this morning. “Do you have a family, Miss Wen?” asks the one named Mabian, who has a gash above his eyebrow and dried blood striping the right side of his face.

  “Just my father now.” And Bo. I have come to think of him and my father as the places I call home.

  “He will be missing you,” says Mabian.

  I swallow back the pain of missing them both and nearly choke on the sadness I know I have caused them. “If my father were here,” I say, my voice breaking, “he would tell me to get to work and take care of my patients.”

  I tilt Shimian’s head to the side and examine the abraded skin of his throat. It is brownish red with dust and grime.

  “Bajram?” I call, and our guard takes a step closer, his finger twitching toward the trigger of his rifle. I point to his canteen and say, “Please,” then pinch my fingers together. Just a little water is all I ask.

  He shakes his head.

  The soldier at the far end of the line of five, the one named Lidim, lets out a snort. “If you think that Noor is going to offer his precious water so that you can clean our Itanyai wounds, you are very naive.”

  I suppose I am. I glance at the knot of men with Commander Kudret. Melik is a shade taller than the others, easy to spot even when he is wearing a cap over his rust-colored hair. He is gesturing wildly, speaking loudly. His face is lit by the firelight, his smile bright as he entertains the group. He never once looks my way. I thought I understood him. I thought I knew who the Noor were. How wrong I was.

  Without water to clean the wounds and ointment to soothe them, there is little to do but cover them and hope the scraps of my dress will protect these boys’ necks from the merciless chafe of the rope. Shimian holds still while I gently wrap the fabric around his neck and tie it tight enough to remain in place, but not tight enough to hurt him. He thanks me.

  Next to him is Yino, whose eyebrows are thick, with little separation between them. “They’re going to kill us,” he whispers in my ear as I wrap the strip of cotton around his throat. “Your kindness is wasted on dead men.”

  I pause, looking into his eyes. The flames dance in his dark pupils. “Have some hope, brother.”

  “Hope is a luxury I cannot afford right now.” He shifts awkwardly, wincing as his wrists rub against the blood-spotted rope tightly wound around them.

  A familiar voice startles me, and the soldiers go still. Melik is standing next to Bajram, handing him his own canteen. Bajram grins and takes a long swig, then coughs while Melik laughs and slaps him on the back. Melik gestures at us and Bajram nods.

  For the first time since this morning Melik’s eyes meet mine, but only briefly, like I am exactly as interesting as one of the billions of pebbles and boulders that surround us. He strides over to us and drops a bag at Shimian’s feet. “Your rations,” he says. “You have a long hike ahead of you.”

  “How kind of you,” says Yino, his voice ragged with hate.

  “Would you be kind to me, soldier, if I were in your place?” Melik asks softly. He leans down to look into Yino’s eyes, but the soldier stares at the ground. Melik glares at the top of Yino’s bowed head. “Would you like me to answer that question for you?”

  Melik is close enough to touch, but I shrink away from him. I have heard this bright, overfriendly tone before. I have seen that fire in his eyes. This is how he looks when he wants to kill.

  “Thank you,” I say quietly. “We are all hungry.”

  His gaze snaps to mine, and I am paralyzed by its intensity. “You’re welcome.”

  He stands up, pivots on his heel, and strides back toward the other raiders, pausing only to wave away Bajram when he tries to return Melik’s canteen. Bajram grins and lifts the canteen in Melik’s direction before taking another long drink. I watch Melik, the Red One by default, the warrior by choice, return to his commander and comrades, and then focus my attention on the bag he left us, opening it to see that there are several hard biscuits and sticks of dried beef inside.

  “We can eat after I bandage you,” I say, trying to infuse my voice with a bit of cheerfulness.

  “Do you know where we are?” whispers Lidim as I move to Mabian, the one who badly needs his head wound stitched. If I had the right tools, I could sew him up, good as new.

  “The Red One said it was three days of hiking, and we’ve just completed one,” says Senza. “When we derailed, we were about to descend into the Vuda valley, and we’ve been walking on a southwest path as opposed to due west in order to get to this part of the canyon.” He squints as if he’s doing calculations in his head. “I suspect we are perhaps three or four days hiking from the Ring.”

  Lidim leans away from Senza, scowling. “You say it like it is nothing at all.”

  “No, I state it as a fact,” says Senza, still keeping his voice barely above a whisper. “And here is another—these pigs are feeding us and keeping us alive because they want to do two things. One, to drag us in humiliation through the streets of Kegu, to tout their victory over the army. And two, to torture us for information. Once they’ve done that, whether we break or not, they will kill us.”

  “Those are not facts,” I say.

  Mabian raises his bound hands. “Here are some for you, sister. These Noor destroyed a railcar full of helpless women and children without a wisp of remorse. They slaughtered all our soldiers. They shot the wounded. They let the survivors believe they would be spared, only to execute them moments later.”

  And Melik was part of all of it, the lie, the betrayal, the slaughter. I sit back, the fire heating my skin as I take in each Itanyai face, dark eyes full of fear, ankles and wrists bound. Mabian and Senza are probably right. These boys will not be allowed to live—and they will not be allowed to die until they have suffered greatly. As Melik pointed out, though, if he were in their place, they would, I have no doubt, be happy to offer him and his comrades the same fate.

  Who deserves my loyalty? The Noor I came here to protect or the Itanyai who are now at their mercy?

  Right now I will let neither rule my heart. Instead I will be led by something deeper and dearer to me than those labels, this war, and my own fear: conscience.

  My hand creeps into my pocket and closes around the cloth-wrapped scalpel. “If you had the chance to escape, however risky and remote,” I whisper, “would you take it?”

  Mabian watches the movement of my hand in my pocket. “We will face death again and again if there is a chance to live.”

  The others nod. No hesitation.

  I look toward Bajram, who is busy eating his rations, his jaw working furiously to grind the dried meat. He takes another sip from Melik’s canteen to wash the food down. He is not paying us any mind at the moment. I shift my attention to the nearest rebels, who are gathered around their fire. Melik is giving a speech, his voice echoing off the stones above us, and the rebels’ gazes are fixed on him. I pull the cloth-wrapped scalpel from my pocket and pull at the fabric until the mercilessly sharp blade pokes through. “Hold your wrists close to your neck,” I tell Mabian.

  He obeys, and I lean over him, pretending to wrap his neck while I saw through the ropes instead. I work as quickly as I can without slicing
his fingers off or jabbing his throat. The others huddle closer, forming a semicircle around me.

  A few minutes later Mabian, Senza, and Lidim have wrapped throats and free hands. They keep the ropes looped over their wrists, though, so it looks like they are still bound.

  “We’ll leave when they’re asleep,” Mabian whispers. “If we can get down the slope and into the canyon, it will be hard for them to find us.”

  “They know the hills better than we do,” says Senza.

  “That is true,” I say. “Some of them are from a village at the western mouth of the canyon. They grew up climbing these peaks and passes.”

  “Which is why we must get a few hours’ start on them,” says Lidim. He nods at the bag of rations. “That stupid Noor may have given us enough food to survive until we get home.”

  “Cuz,” barks Bajram, startling all of us. “Muraye. Come.” When I look over my shoulder, he is beckoning me away from the soldiers.

  I press the scalpel into Lidim’s hand. His fingers close around mine. “Come with us,” he breathes.

  Confusion floods my thoughts. Do I want to escape? Do I still want to tell the Noor about the war machines and betray my people? Can I do any good at all if I stay? Isn’t that the only reason I came? “I’d slow you down,” I whisper.

  “We would not leave you behind, sister,” says Mabian. “We would take care of you.”

  “The rations will last longer if there are five, not six,” I murmur.

  “Cuz!” snaps Bajram. His footsteps crunch on the rocks beneath his soles.

  I stand up and meet Mabian’s eyes. “It’s all right. Go,” I mouth as Bajram grabs my arm and yanks me away from the soldiers, who bow their heads and look properly cowed. Shimian lifts his bound wrists so that they are clearly visible in the light, as if to show Bajram that the soldiers are still helpless.

  Bajram drags me away from the fire and dumps me onto a rock near where he was sitting, then plops down next to me and sets his rifle at his side before returning to his rations and drink. He’s probably quite frustrated at being singled out to guard the prisoners while his friends talk and laugh and discuss strategy, or whatever it is they are babbling about with the commander. Melik probably took pity on him and brought him food and drink as consolation.

  Bajram ignores me while I shiver, but when I inch closer to the fire, he barks at me again. I tuck my hands into my coat and curl on my side. On the other side of the fire the Itanyai soldiers stare back at me. They are still and steady, but I know that they are probably only waiting for the rebels to fall asleep so they can saw the ropes around their ankles.

  Bajram leans his head back against a boulder and sighs. He upends the canteen, pouring the last few drops of liquid onto his tongue. I blow into my cupped fingers, shuddering with cold, wondering if I’ll be able to creep closer to the fire if Bajram falls asleep. Voices drift toward me on the frosty breeze, and one of them is Melik’s, powerful and riveting. No matter what language he speaks, it makes people want to listen.

  I close my eyes and remember the last time I was this cold.

  I was in his arms. He was whispering in my ear, in Itanyai, in Noor, and it didn’t matter which because I believed I understood. It was a moment both impossibly dire and unbearably sweet. The memory rises up and coils around my throat, choking me. The pain seeps into my chest, squeezing the breath from my lungs in a low sob. I pull my knees even tighter to my body, trying to hold in the noise, the sorrow. I quake with the loss of all my grand ideas, of all my faith in the Noor and their goodness, of all my belief in Melik and his promises . . . and his affection for me. I try to grab ahold of the reasons I’m here, allegiances that go beyond two simple extremes, principles that are strong enough to get me through this, but I’m too weak to catch and keep them close.

  The drift from consciousness into dreams is seamless and painless. I slowly go numb, and my head begins to buzz, and then I am in Bo’s metal world, my face reflected a thousand times in the hammered metal panels and in his steel mask. “You are the only thing to me,” he says.

  He reaches up to remove his mask. But when it falls away and reveals the other half of his face, it isn’t his at all. The eye is jade, and the jaw is squared and rough with red gold stubble.

  I startle awake, foggy and half delirious, and see that I am much closer to the fire. My head is resting on a folded cap. A thick jacket that smells of sweat and smoke has been laid over me. Bajram is behind me, staring at the fire, his eyelids drooping. The Itanyai soldiers are still sitting on the other side of it. Mabian nods at me and gives me a small smile. Weighed down with fatigue and the relief of warmth, my head sinks onto the cap, and my dreams claim me once again.

  The next time I am jolted awake, it is with a fierce kick in my side. I cry out and open my eyes. The sky is purple with the slow ooze of dawn. The fire is out.

  And Bajram is pressing the muzzle of his rifle to my forehead.

  He shouts at me in Noor and his finger contracts over the trigger.

  I close my eyes and prepare to dream forever.

  There’s a yelp and the thud of one body colliding with another. The pressure of the rifle disappears and I bolt upright, my heart beating heavy and frantic against my ribs.

  The Itanyai soldiers are gone.

  The Noor are shouting among themselves and pointing down the slope.

  And Melik is wrestling with Bajram a few feet away from where I sit. Several other Noor sprint over and grab the two of them, separating them. Melik is yelling. He’s no longer wearing his cap, and his rust-colored hair flies around his face as he struggles to free himself. After a minute Bajram raises his arms in surrender, and he and Melik are released. Bajram promptly leans against a boulder and vomits all over the stones.

  I expect Melik to dust himself off. To take a breath. To walk away. Instead he comes straight for me. He yanks me up by the arms and shakes me. “How could you be this stupid?” His voice is choked, half growl, half plea. “Tell me!” he roars in my face.

  “Did they get away?” I manage to ask, trying to catch my breath.

  He makes an agonized sound in his throat. “Why did you do this?”

  “I had to try,” I say, hissing with pain as he squeezes my arms. “I couldn’t sit back and let them die.”

  He pulls me onto my toes and leans so close that our noses touch. “Why didn’t you go with them?” he whispers, pressing his forehead to mine hard enough to hurt.

  “What?” I squeak.

  His eyes are bright and bloodshot, filled with betrayal. “Why didn’t you escape when you had the chance?”

  That question is far too confusing to answer, as is the fact that he is asking it at all. “Did your commander order you to interrogate me, Melik?”

  He grinds his teeth. “You have no idea what you’ve done. The commander has ordered us to recapture the prisoners by noon. And if we do not, we are proceeding to Kegu without them.”

  So the five Itanyai boys have a fighting chance. Maybe they can make it. Maybe they won’t starve or freeze or fall prey to bandits. Maybe they will make it back to the Ring. Even if they don’t, though, they have escaped being dragged through the streets of Kegu, being tortured by the Noor, being executed. With my help they have chosen their fate.

  Melik must see the spark of defiant hope in my eyes, because he shakes me again. “You still don’t understand.” He lets me go abruptly, panting. His gaze is bottomless and unreadable. He scoops his cap from the ground and jams it onto his head, then grabs his coat. For a bare moment I feel the pang of knowing that his cap was my pillow and his coat was my blanket, and perhaps he was the one who moved me closer to the fire.

  But then he yanks the jacket on, snatches a rifle from atop a rock ledge, and slings it over his shoulder. “If we don’t recapture the prisoners, the commander says you will take their place.”

  He beckons for Baris to follow him and strides away, headed for the trail that leads into the canyon.

  Chapter
/>   Eight

  I HUDDLE NEAR the dying embers of the fire while Bajram and two other Noor guard me. Melik and Baris disappeared into the canyon hours ago, along with several other pairs of rebels, all in search of the escaped prisoners. But now that the sun is rising high, the searchers are trickling back into camp, dusty and grim. Each time a pair of them returns empty-handed, I twist in a storm of terror and defiance. If the Itanyai are found, I might be spared. If they are not, I am doomed.

  I don’t have it in me to wish for their death, though. Like them, I made my choice.

  Commander Kudret orders his men to pack up the camp, and all along the ridge there is bustling activity as the rebels prepare to continue the march to the west. I shiver in fear every time he comes near, knowing he is the one who ordered the cold-blooded murder of the injured Itanyai soldiers. So when he comes over to me, I cower and stare at the ground. He squats in front of me and waits for me to raise my head. His mud-colored eyes are brimming with hatred and promise when I do.

  “Icin buna apacekye,” he says in a low voice, then draws his finger across his throat. Bajram and the others laugh, but the commander jumps to his feet and draws his revolver. He points it at Bajram’s head. The blood drains from Bajram’s cheeks as the older man speaks. I get the sense that Kudret is reminding him that he fell asleep on the job. Bajram does not smile after that. He glances nervously at the brilliant sun, perhaps willing it to move slowly and give his comrades more time to recapture the escaped Itanyai.

  The sun is directly overhead when the shout comes from the edge of the canyon. Several raiders jog over and immediately let out a cheer. My stomach turns as Melik and Baris stalk into camp, blood smeared on their brown trousers. I search the crowd around them for prisoners and see not a single Itanyai face, and for a moment I feel an irrational surge of hope.

  Then Melik breaks loose from the pack and approaches Kudret. He hands his commander a cloth sack stained with more red brown blood. Commander Kudret does not look happy, but he listens to whatever story Melik has to tell, and then he nods. He asks Baris a few questions, and Melik’s companion makes quick gestures with his meaty hands as he responds. The commander smiles and shakes Baris by the shoulder, then hands Melik the bloody sack and points to me. Melik hesitates, but the commander shoves him toward me.