Of Dreams and Rust

by Sarah Fine

  “He has very good reasons to mistrust the Itanyai government.”

  “We all do,” she says, her hands running down my legs. My toes curl at the intimacy of it, but she is not treating my body as if it is any different from a dish she must clean. “But we cannot let those reasons blind us from seeing things and people as they are.”

  “You believe what I have said about the war machines?” I ask.

  Her deep blue eyes glint with the fire in the hearth. “I do not want to. I want to believe that I will never witness such horror again.” Her words are strained with memory. “But I trust my son, and he trusts you.”

  “How can we be planning a . . . wedding . . . if everyone must prepare for an invasion?” It reminds me of what Dr. Yixa told me, about how Noor don’t plan for the future and live in the moment.

  She lifts one of my feet from the water and begins to scrub it. “That is a very Itanyai thing to say, cuz.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it assumes that there will be a better time to celebrate than right now. When hardship is a constant companion, joy is a welcome guest. We do not assume that things will get easier. We assume now is the easiest and best and happiest time we will ever have.” She presses her thumbs into the soles of my feet, and I lean back and sigh, forgetting to be shy. “Are you frightened?”

  “Of the war machines? Of course.” I’ve been closely acquainted with their small siblings—Bo’s spiders—and the damage of which they are capable.

  “No, cuz. Are you frightened about tonight?”

  “Oh.” I smooth my palms over my face, hiding my blush. I do not know what to say to her. Melik did not ask me if I wanted to marry him. He did not seek my consent. And my impression is that he claimed me as his bride because his village was about to trample me beneath their leather-wrapped feet. Will he expect me to behave like a wife? Will he expect to have all the rights of a husband?

  Suddenly my heart is beating very hard and fast. “I . . . would prefer not to talk about it.”

  Her lips curl into a knowing smile. “As you wish.” With brisk movements she finishes scrubbing me, then washes my hair and massages my scalp with some sort of fragrant oil. She rubs my skin with a thick cream made from mare’s milk. I let her move me this way and that, offering no objection because I am too busy thinking of what will happen tonight.

  Anni helps me from the tub and makes me stand on a rug of coarse wool. Then she opens a wooden trunk and pulls out a dark red garment, which she holds up in front of me. “I wore this the day I married Melik’s father,” she says.

  I stare at the dress, buttoned at the throat, with a wide, cream-colored sash for the waist. Itanyai wedding dresses are made of plain fabric in plain colors. Deep red is the worst of luck—the color of blood. “It is . . . lovely,” I say quietly. And it is. But if my mother saw it, she would shriek with outrage.

  “It will swallow you,” she says with a laugh, looking at my skinny limbs. “You are the size of a child.”

  I press my lips together.

  “You do not look like a child,” she amends. “But we will have to tie this sash very tightly and fold the excess fabric in the back.” She helps me pull it over my head. I feel like a little girl trying on her mother’s clothes when I look down at myself, the gown hanging from my narrow shoulders and puffing over my chest, which is substantially smaller than Anni’s. The sleeves extend to my fingertips and the skirt pools on the ground at my feet, several inches too long. “Hmmm. Perhaps we will need more than the sash.” She walks to her door and peeks out, hollering something in Noor.

  An old Noor woman, her sagging bosom resting on her belly, and her mouth pursed with lack of teeth, bustles into the cottage a few minutes later. She laughs when she sees me standing in front of the fire, drowning in Anni’s dress, and begins to chatter in Noor with my new mother. Together they pull the dress tight and arrange the sash, wrapping it twice around my waist before tying it at the back. While Anni fusses with the fit of the bodice and rolls up my sleeves, the old lady pulls out a needle made of bone and some red thread. She hems the gown, her stitches tiny and quick and sure. She works almost as fast as my mother used to.

  A male voice calls from the outside, and the women shout back. Anni turns to me. “The wedding tent has been erected in the village center,” she says. “Melik is waiting for you there.”

  My heart is choking me. “What am I supposed to do?”

  She begins to brush my hair and braid it, her skilled fingers making quick work of my straight black locks. “Speak to him. Tell him what is in your heart.”

  The same heart that is doing its best to escape my chest right now? “I will try.”

  Because none of their shoes will fit me, they slide my legs into wool stockings before allowing me to put on my traveling boots. My hair is in seven braids down my back. The toothless old lady places a square, embroidered red cap on the top of my head. She chuckles and mutters something under her breath, and Anni slaps her arm in a good-natured way.

  “Is she making fun of me?”

  Anni shakes her head. “She was merely commenting on how briefly you will be wearing these garments after all this time we’ve spent preparing you.”

  I am sorry I asked. I want to sink through the floor.

  Anni takes my hand. “Are you ready?”

  Not remotely. “I suppose.”

  She smiles and leads me from the cottage. Night has fallen, and torches and a few oil lanterns light the way. We are greeted by nearly the whole village, and they clap and cheer and stomp their feet as we walk down the lane toward a large tent made of bleached cloth that has been erected in a large, open area in the middle of the village. Tables have been brought outside and laden with round, flat loaves of bread and several platters of meat. I wonder how much these Noor are sacrificing so we can celebrate tonight. Judging by their sunken cheeks and lean frames, it’s clear they do not normally feast like this. To show my gratitude, I smile and accept the white mountain flowers from the children who come running up. They press the blossoms into my hands and hug my legs before fleeing back to their annis. I am stunned by the happy faces around me, the villagers’ willingness to accept me into their midst after the looks I received when I first arrived.

  All because Melik chose me.

  It gives me courage as I round the tent and reach the entrance. Sinan steps out, wearing a dark brown tunic with a cream-colored belt around his narrow waist. “We were starting to wonder if you had tried to escape,” he says, and his mother gives him a look of warning. He raises his eyebrows. “I think Melik is nervous.”

  Anni puts her hands on my shoulders. “He has nothing to be nervous about.”

  I can barely breathe. But I can smile, and so I do. Sinan lifts the tent flap and gestures inside while the crowd whoops. I duck beneath the thick fabric and it falls shut behind me.

  The space is lit by a single lantern hanging from the central tent pole. Melik is sitting on a large pallet of fur and wool, but he leaps to his feet when I enter, nearly hitting his head on the angled frame that holds up the roof of the tent. He has shaved his beard and bathed. His rust-colored hair is neatly tied back from his face. His tunic is a bleached wool, and his belt is red like my gown. There is a decorative knife tucked into it. He is stunningly handsome, but his jade eyes glitter with apprehension. “How are you?” he asks.

  “Your mother has treated me like her daughter,” I reply.

  He gives me a flickering smile. “I’m glad, but that’s not what I meant.”

  “What did you mean, then?”

  He approaches slowly, and he lightly touches my cap. “All afternoon my head has been filled with your fears.”

  I swallow hard as he takes my hand. “How do you know my fears?”

  He tips my chin up. “You are afraid I will take things from you that you are not ready to give.”

  I look at his strong, not-quite-perfect face. “I do not think you would do that.”

  He bows his hea
d over mine. “You are afraid I will keep you here. That I will not let you leave if you want to.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “I wouldn’t.” He slides a finger down one of my braids. “If you like, once it is safe, I will escort you back to the east, into the arms of your father.”

  “You know we cannot do that. I am a traitor—”

  “Not to those Itanyai soldiers. To them you are a savior.”

  “But you are also a traitor. They think you are the Red One.”

  He touches his forehead to mine. “I would wear a disguise.”

  I chuckle. “You could try. But you, Melik, are a person people notice.”

  “I would figure out a way, Wen. I do not want you to think you are a prisoner here.”

  I put my hand on his chest, warm through the fabric of his tunic. “I have a question.”

  “Now is the time to ask.” He looks toward the tent flap. “If we leave this tent together, we are married.”

  Outside the villagers have begun to sing. Through the tent walls I see the glow of a large fire. “There is no ceremony?”

  “This is our ceremony,” he says quietly. “We say what needs to be said, and we walk out together or separately. So ask me your question and I will give you all my honesty.”

  “Was there another way? Could your mother have claimed me as her daughter? Could you have claimed me as a sister instead of a bride?”

  The anxiety returns to his eyes. He looks down at himself, his red belt and his clean trousers. “No other way,” he says.

  “So you only did it to protect me?”

  “I did do it to protect you.” He raises his head. “But I also did it because I wanted to.”

  “Marriage among the Itanyai is for life. It means the woman belongs to the man.” I watch his expression carefully, and I see it harden.

  “But that is not what it means to us,” Melik replies. “In a Noor marriage the man offers himself to the woman. He takes her into his family, not to own her, but to nurture her. Body and heart, health and happiness. A Noor man respects his woman’s freedom to choose him, and because she has a choice, he knows it is a gift when she accepts his offer.”

  “You did not give me a choice.”

  “You have more than you realize.”

  “This feels big,” I say suddenly, barely sure of what I mean. It is just the way it is, uncontainable, stretching at the boundaries of everything I know.

  His fingertips caress my face. “It feels that way to me, too,” he murmurs. “This is more than an arrangement of convenience to me.”

  I’m glad. I don’t want to be alone in this. I’ve felt alone for a very long time. “Melik, we don’t know each other well. And this is the most perilous of times. We have no idea what the future holds for us.”

  He nods. “Would you like to hear my vow to you, then?”

  I blink at him, startled. “I suppose?”

  He sinks to his knees on the pallet and takes my hands. “I promise, Wen, that I will give you shelter and food and all that you need. I will protect you with my body and give my life for yours if necessary. I will give you all that is due a wife. And in return I will ask you to consider choosing me.”

  “But isn’t that what I’m doing now?”

  “No. You are accepting my protection now because you must. I want you to choose me when you don’t have to. And until you do, this marriage will be the armor that covers you and the food in your belly. Nothing more.”

  “What about . . .” My gaze darts to his mouth.

  His smile is a slow, seductive thing that I feel low in my belly. “Are you asking if I want to take you to my bed?”

  I press my lips together and nod.

  His thumb strokes over the back of my hand. “Wanting and doing are different creatures,” he says. “So I will tell you about the one that matters. I will not touch you until you ask me to. It is as simple as that.”

  I see nothing but his eyes as I whisper, “And if I ask?”

  He arches his eyebrow. “I think you will find me eager to fulfill your request.”

  Again, the way he speaks the intimate secrets of his heart and body leaves me breathless. He is on his knees before me, and I can see the pulse beating in a vein in his scarred throat. “What if you decide you don’t want me, though?” I say, the pressure in my chest making my voice thin.

  His hand tightens over mine. “However it goes between us, you can trust me to be honorable.”

  I should be reassured by that, but it makes me ache. On the one hand, I want everything, and on the other, I’m afraid of giving in, of giving up this piece of myself to become something Melik and I can only be together. It seems too fast, too huge, too fragile. I could offer my heart, but what if I end up wanting to take it back? What if he ends up not wanting it? Wouldn’t that hurt us both?

  But in one thing I do trust. Melik will not forsake me. He could have, several times. If he had, I would be dead, but he would be safer. He is frightening to me, and foreign, and he fills me with confusion and desire. But he is a brave man. A strong one. A leader who draws people to him, a treasured son and brother.

  He is worth having, worth fighting for, worth risking for.

  “Here is my vow to you, Melik,” I say, my voice trembling as I twine my fingers with his. I kneel in front of him on the pallet, so we are both on our knees. “You have my trust and faith. You have my hands and my mind. I want to be your helper. I want to do good for the people you love. And I want us to grow together.” I bring our hands up, so we are palm to palm and face to face. He folds his fingers over mine, and mine fold over his, and our hands lock together, a bond made weak by flesh but strong by loyalty and respect. “When we get through this war, we will make a decision together. But right now I will be proud to walk out of this tent by your side.”

  His eyes shine with emotions I can’t read. “But will you be happy?”

  I release one of his hands and touch his face. “I will be scared. But I will also be happy.”

  “I will be scared too,” he admits.

  “But that only means something important is at stake.”

  He smiles as I repeat his own words back to him. “So important,” he says, stroking my cheek.

  The songs and laughter outside are interrupted by the clatter of gunfire. I startle, but Melik chuckles. “They are celebrating. And probably getting impatient.”

  “Should we go?” I start to rise, but his arm coils around my waist.

  “In a moment.” He kisses me, intoxicating me with the heat of his mouth and the musky scent of his skin. I slide my arms around his neck and surrender to the moment and to him. Pressed together from knees to chest as we are, I feel every inch of him against me, powerful and vibrating with want and need and hope. His mouth is possessive and fierce over mine, not playful like his kisses from last year. As more gunfire erupts outside, Melik strokes the sash at my waist as if he wishes he could pull it off, and soon I begin to wish he would. But that is when he pulls away and wipes his thumb over my lip.

  He takes my face in his hands. “To have more, you must ask. And you must be very clear. I know that is foreign for an Itanyai, but that is what I need from you.” I open my mouth, and he shakes his head. “But not now. Now we must—”

  Screams and shouts drown out whatever he says next. More gunfire clatters just outside the tent. Sinan rips the tent flap open, his eyes wide. “Icin baze murabirse!” he yells, his voice cracking.

  Melik fires back a question, but Sinan disappears, the fabric fluttering shut once more.

  Melik’s brows shoot up and he jumps to his feet, pulling me to mine. “He said something has come for us.”

  “The army?”

  “I don’t know. Stay here.”

  I squeeze his hand. “No. We leave together.”

  His fingertips are tender on my throat as he leans down and kisses my lips, like he thinks it might be the last time. Then he peers out of the tent and tugs me behind him. P
eople are pointing down the lane, back toward the Line. The men have clustered at the edge of the open area, their rifles aimed. They are calling back and forth to one another as Melik leads me into the crowd toward Anni, who is standing next to Sinan right behind the line of men, peering into the darkness. Melik pushes me behind him. “They said that something is circling the village.”

  “A war machine?”

  He looks over his shoulder at me. “Some people think that’s what it is, but it hasn’t fired on us. And some of them say it is too small to be a war machine.”

  My breath catches as a shadow passes through the torchlight. The men freeze, their guns aimed into the night. There is a distant metal creak, and they fire at the noise.

  Something lands with a thundering crunch, right in front of the crowd. The ground vibrates beneath our feet. The men stumble back, but before they get their rifles raised again, I scream, “Stop!”

  Metal scrapes against metal, accompanied by the hum of circuitry. The thing is covered in a cloak of rich velvet with silver clasps, a garment for a fine gentleman, but it is dusty and the hem is frayed. Nevertheless, the cloth conceals a machine. But it’s not a war machine. It’s shaped like a man, and as it rises from its crouch and throws its hood back, my heart squeezes tight. His full-metal face glints with fire, and his glass eyes are glowing with piercing light.

  I step forward, pushing my way through the men, who are too stunned to hold me back. “Bo?”

  The metal monster’s eyes wink out, becoming dead and black. His steel hands, one thicker, covering his flesh, reach up and slide half of his faceplate aside, revealing the man beneath. His brown eye focuses on me. “Hello, Wen. I’ve come to take you home.”

  Chapter

  Thirteen

  THE MEN GIVE Melik anxious sidelong glances as they aim their rifles at Bo. At this range I don’t see how bullets wouldn’t penetrate his armor. Sinan is staring at Bo with his mouth hanging open. Melik turns to me, betrayal etched into his furrowed brow. “You didn’t tell me he survived.”