by David Estes
So much is happening, I can’t keep up with it, my head swiveling back and forth. Wilde warriors are dying. Glassies are dying. Hunters are mostly dead. Not Skye or Lara, please not them, I plead with the sun goddess, who’s at war, too, her eye beating down upon us with fury at our mindless violence.
There’s a raucous shout from the south. Dozens of Glassy chariots growl over the dunes. The second wave.
There’re too many.
It’s over.
~~~
A hand grabs me from behind, twists me ’round.
I swing my bow at my attacker, catch him in the face, but still he holds on. “Siena, hold up, it’s me.” The warmest voice I’ve ever heard.
Through the tangle of our grappling arms, I see him. The Marked One. Feve.
The last person I expected to see. Or wanted to see.
“You!” I say, dropping my bow and swinging at him with clenched fists.
“Siena, stop,” he says, blocking my fists.
But I don’t stop, can’t stop. If it wasn’t for him, the Hunters woulda never found us—so many lives woulda been saved. “This is your fault!” I scream, kicking at him.
Cries of pain and death are all ’round, but I’m trapped in this weird place with a person I’d hoped to never see again. “Sie, I can explain…”
His words are grains of sand and I’m the wind, full of sandstorm fury. I wail on him and he doesn’t try to defend himself. “I can fix things!” he screams and I stop.
“Fix things! Look ’round you, Feve.” I wave my hand at the battle happening beyond us. “There’s no fixing this.”
His face seems to crumble when he sees what I mean—
BOOM!
A Hunter drops, his chest red—
A Glassy wanders aimlessly, a Hunter spear protruding from both his stomach and back—
A Wilde warrior strikes down a Glassy with a swift slash of her blade—
I spot Skye, graceful and powerful, hacking at half a dozen Glassies near her, who seem shocked by the intensity of her violence. One of them raises a fire stick.
I dive for my bow, snatching a pointer from my back in one swift motion, perhaps the most graceful moment of my life, my heart hammering outside of me, my eyes held open by determination…
I take aim.
The Glassy fires, a burst of red and black flame shooting from the end. Noo! No, Skye, no!
She doesn’t drop, doesn’t fill with red.
He missed! The searin’ Glassy missed!
Flames burst from the ground beyond Skye, as if his shot has rebounded and is coming for her. The flame quickly spreads, rippling orange and red, racing along the desert floor, devouring the scrubgrass and licking at the dead and injured bodies littering the durt. The wind changes, gusting north, and the fire turns with it, roaring toward the village.
A firestorm. Ten times worse’n a sandstorm.
Sun goddess save us all.
Chapter Thirty-Five
As I watch in horror at the spreading fire, I see a flash of movement from the corner of my eye. The Glassy, shocked at first by the fire he started, takes aim at Skye, who’s slashed down every blade-bearing opponent ’round her.
’Cept for him.
I raise my bow, trying not to quiver. Find my target. Steady, steady. Twang!
The sound is crisp and sharp and perfect. The Glassy clutches the shaft of the pointer in his neck as he falls.
Skye jerks ’round, her eyes wide, her face taut, sees me. Frowns when she sees the Marked One beside me. “They’ll be here any moment,” says the warm voice that I hate.
“They’re already here, you idiot!” I scream. “Are you blind!” The air is full of smoke and I cough, choking on the noxious gas. I gasp as the wind changes again and the fire winds a circle ’round us through the scrubgrass.
A horn sounds, surrounding us, as if it’s in league with the fire, making it impossible to figure out the direction of its origin. “Not them,” Feve says. “Them.” He motions to the west, where the dunes are suddenly filled with hundreds of brown bodies, their skin marked, a stampede of men and life.
The ground rumbles as they approach and I know I should be scared, ’cause they’re charging right toward me, but I can only watch in awe as, like a hurd, they move as one, brandishing strange black-handled weapons with dual blades. They dance ’round and jump through the snaking cords of fire.
The moment they reach us, Feve lets out a guttural cry and melts into them, heading for the Glassies, who have stopped fighting, as stunned as me. The Marked collide with the first of the enemy, cutting them down ’fore they can even consider retreating. A few Glassies start shooting their fire sticks, but it’s like throwing a pebble at a watering hole to try to empty it. All you get is a ripple when what you need is a wave.
With renewed vigor the remaining Hunters and Wilde warriors start fighting, chasing after the Glassies, who finally have the sense to retreat. They cut them down, not stopping until they’re all dead, badly injured, or racing away on their chariots.
Only then, with my heart pounding, my throat dry, my hands shaking, do I let myself believe that we’ve won.
I crouch down in a circle of unburnt land, hug my knees, and, amidst a fiery inferno, thank the sun goddess.
~~~
“He wants to burnin’ talk to you,” Skye says. “But I tol’ ’im he could shove it up his blaze shooter.”
Normally my sister’s antics and uncouth way of speaking would make me smile, but not after the blood I’ve seen spilt today. Brione’s dead. Crya, too. Lara pulled through although I’m told I can’t see her yet, ’cause she’s being attended to by a few of the Marked, whose healing skills are coming in handy considering MedMa’s the only one in the village who can help.
So when I hear Skye’s words today, I can only sigh.
“I’ll talk to him,” I say, wondering why I say it. I reach a hand into the smoky air, batting at the wisps of gray as if they’re something tangible I can knock away. My fingers go right through the haze. The village was spared, barely, whether by the sun goddess’s will or Mother Nature’s fickle sense of pity. The wind’s changed, pushed the brush fires far, far away, off into the desert. Those who are least injured and not attending to the wounded are busily chopping away the tufts of grass and foliage closest to the village, just in case the fire returns.
“Just let ’im die,” she says.
My head jerks up and my eyes meet Skye’s. “He’s dying?”
“Searin’ right.”
I hesitate. My stomach feels light as a raft of emotions tumble through it. Relief is definitely there. A tang of celebration for sure. But, to my horror, there’s a touch of sadness, too. Why I should be sad ’bout the death of the man who ruined my life—who ruined all our lives—I do not know. I guess ’cause I still have the memories of the good times, ’fore he became a monster, ’fore he turned his back on everyone and everything but himself.
“I’m going,” I say. I should be helping the cleanup efforts, but this is something I hafta do.
I hafta.
Skye shrugs. “Yer call. Want some company?”
I shake my head. “I hafta do this on my own.”
I feel numb as she leads me through the village, past cries of pain as fire stick pellets are pried outta Hunters’ skin with hot pokers, past hobbling Wildes, who are both bleeding and grinning, just like my sisters should. The Marked are everywhere, dark and menacing and serious, and I look for Feve—I’m not sure why—but I don’t see him. Questions flash through my mind. Why did he come? Why did he bring his people? Why did they save us?
I shudder when I realize where Skye’s taking me. We enter the section of Greynote huts, following a route that’s as familiar to me as my own bellybutton. She pushes through the door of our old hut. Inside, darkness awaits.
The first thing I see is my mother’s bed, where she lay dying the night of my Call. The bed she dragged herself out of, to help me, to save me, to kill for me. I i
magine her still there, not stricken, but healthy, alive. The image vanishes when I hear a groan.
“Go, Skye,” I say. She touches my shoulder briefly, and then leaves. Behind his curtain, my father cries out again. A voice murmurs something to him. “Who’s there?” I ask.
Feve steps out.
“You!” I say.
“Me,” he replies calmly.
“How dare you? Get out!” I have so many questions I wanna ask him, but none of them spring to mind. All I can think of is getting as far away from him as possible.
“Siena, please,” he says.
“What are you doing here? Plotting and scheming with my father even on his death bed? You’re a real baggard.”
“I know,” he says. “I screwed up. Your father…he was very convincing. He offered me a lot in return for watching you the night of your Call, following you if you escaped—skins and food and wood—things we desperately needed. We’ve been working together with the Greynotes for a long time, trading our services in exchange for goods that only your father can get from the Icers.”
Although I’m surprised to hear that the Greynotes have a secret agreement with the Marked, I don’t wanna hear ’bout it now. “And all you hadta give him was your soul,” I say coldly.
“I didn’t know, Siena. I swear!”
“Are you so daft as to not realize what he’d do the moment he knew where the Wilde Ones were? He tried to kill us!”
“I thought he just wanted you back. To bring you home. To keep you safe. I believed him.”
“Then you’re dumber’n a tug stuck in the mud,” I say.
“I’ll make this right,” he says, touching my hand as he passes. I pull away sharply, wiping my hand on my clothes.
“There’s nothing you can do to make it right,” I say.
Head down, he leaves.
~~~
When I pull the curtain away, I gasp. It’s my father on the bed, but not how I remember him. His eyes are closed, hiding his dark and brooding eyes. Dried flecks of blood are crusted on his lips and cheeks. His face is broken with pain.
“Sienaaaah,” he murmurs.
“I came here for me, not for you,” I say, keeping my distance.
His eyes creep open to slits, and then widen slightly when he sees me. “You’ve changed,” he says. “You look different.”
“I’m better for having left this place,” I say.
“I’ve made mistakes,” he says, his voice weak and unsteady.
“Name ’em!” I demand, dead set on hearing him admit what he’s done.
“I should’ve listened to you—to what you wanted,” he croaks.
“Searin’ right,” I mutter.
“I thought Bearing was the right path for you, for all the women…” He almost sounds penitent, but I ain’t about to let him feel better ’bout himself.
“Bearing’s fine,” I say, “but you can’t force it. And you can’t force who we do it with!” My voice is rising.
“I don’t know why the Icers are keeping us out,” he rasps, his voice fading.
“’Cause they’re afraid of catching the Fire,” I say.
“Don’t make sense,” he gasps. “They have a cure. Why would they be scared?”
His question stops me. I’d never really thought ’bout that. Why indeed. But that’s a question for another time. Now, he’s just ducking all the mistakes he’s made.
“You killed Mother,” I say.
“No, I didn’t help her. There’s a difference.”
“No there’s not!” I scream, rushing forward. I grab him by the throat, squeeze. My hand is shaking, not with fear or uncertainty, but with power, with strength. This is the moment I been waiting for. Vengeance’ll be mine.
“Wait,” he rasps. “Circ…”
I release him slightly, maintaining a firm grip. “Don’t you speak of him. You got no right. You killed him, too.” My head’s throbbing with rage. This man has taken everything from me.
Everything.
“No. I’m sorry, I never should have…” His voice falters and he gasps.
I let go, my shoulders slumping. I can’t kill a man who’s already dying. “You never shoulda what?” I say. “I wanna hear you say it.”
He licks his chapped lips, wheezes, says, “I never should have fooled you, Siena.”
“What? You’re not making no sense. You NEVER fooled me. I found out everything, Father, did you know that? I snuck outta my cage in Confinement, saw the lifers—the innocent people you framed—slaving away. All for what? So you could get your precious cure for the Fire and outlive us all? You’re disgusting.”
“Not…what I…meant,” he slurs, fading fast.
“Get to the point then, Father. What the scorch are you trying to say?”
“Circ,” he moans. “All fake. Not really dead.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
I don’t know what to believe anymore. Father’s dead, and the meaning behind his words with him. If he was trying to give me hope that Circ’s out there somewhere, living, breathing, waiting to sweep me off my feet, he failed. There’s no hope left for me, ’specially by my father’s lies.
Circ would never fool me into thinking he’s dead. Never. I only know it ’cause I’d never do that to him. It’d be the cruelest act of all. I saw him, watched him dying, pierced and broken. He gave me his searin’ charm for tug’s sake!
Burn it, burn it, burn it all to searin’ scorch!
I’m full of rage so deep and controlling that I don’t leave the hut for a long time. At my father. At his lies. At the hope that creeps into me even as I’m denying that it’s there.
I break down. Right there on the floor. Curl up into a ball and cry my eyes out.
I don’t stop until Skye and Lara arrive and wrap themselves ’round me.The two people who mean the most to me. They don’t ask questions, just hold me.
My mind cleansed by my tears, a thought takes hold. At first it’s just a wild idea, but then hope and imagination grab onto it, expand it, turn it into something that feels real, more real’n anything else that’s happened to me over the last year.
I have no choice.
“I hafta go to Confinement,” I say.
~~~
I wanna go alone, but Skye and Lara make the trek with me. It’s the first time I’ve done it as a non-prisoner. If my father was telling the truth, and somehow forced Circ to tell the worst lie of his life to me, the only place he’d be able to hide him away would be in a cage.
“So yer friend Raja’ll be ’ere?” Skye says when we’re partway there. I told them we were coming to free the prisoners, which we are. They don’t need to know what else I’m thinking. Plus, even if I wanted to tell them, I don’t think I’ll be able to speak what I won’t allow my heart to hope.
“Yeah,” I say. “If he’s still alive.” I don’t dare to hope that either.
“I still can’t believe your father confined innocent people,” Lara says.
“He did a lot of wooloo things,” I say.
“I’m glad he’s dead,” Skye says. I am, too, but I won’t say it out loud, not after what he told me.
Confinement rears up in the distance, like the skeletons of massive beasts, frozen in time, the moment ’fore they were killed by a monster even bigger’n they. Will I find my heart between the ribs of one of the beasts? Or did my father manage to hurt me again, even with his last breath, giving me hope when there was none? Either way, exhilaration and anticipation swirl through me like the winds from earlier, gusting the fires this way and that.
Without a word, our steps quicken.
When we reach the edge of the prison, I say, “I’m gonna check every cage for survivors, you start digging them out.”
Grim-faced, Skye and Lara nod.
Each of the cages contains a body. They look dead, but I can tell they’re not, ’cause of the slight rise and fall of chests and shoulders as they sleep the day away. They don’t know ’bout the Glassies or the wildfire, nor woul
d they much care. For their lives are forfeit, stripped away by an evil leader who’d cage them to guarantee his own longevity.
I start running, pausing only momentarily at each cage to confirm the body inside ain’t his. When I get to my old cage, I stop for an eternity, gazing in every nook and cranny, trying to locate the prisoner. If the world has any sense of irony, he’ll be here. My old cage is empty. Perry confirms it. No one’s been here since you, he says. And then: Nice haircut.
I manage to ignore him.
Next to my old cage, Raja lays utterly still, stiller’n my father’s body had been when he passed on. Tears bubble up, drip down my cheeks. More blood on my father’s hands, even after he’s dead. “Oh, Raja,” I say through the bars. I start to dig away the stone and rock blocking the cage entrance.
“Siena?” a voice says.
My eyes light up and I cry out, as Raja rolls over, his face thin and gaunt and perfect. A smile creases his mouth. “I knew you’d come,” he says.
“I thought you were dead,” I say, wiping away the tears just as more well up.
“Me? Nah, I’m a fighter. Like you.”
I’m blubbering and digging and talking nonstop, telling Raja everything between gasps of air. I probably sound—and look—like a wooloo person, but I don’t stop until I’ve dug through and crawled in. I don’t even bother to stand, just squirm over, elbows and knees and hands, fighting my way to a friend I’ve never touched, never been this close to. When I get to him, I tackle him, forgetting how thin and withered away his malnourished body is.
“Ow—hurts,” he groans.
“Sorry, Raja, I’m sorry, I’m just so happy you’re here and alive. I’ve missed you.” I kiss his durty forehead, hug him more gently, feel his emaciated ribs poking into me.
“I missed you, too,” he says, hugging me back.
