My mother walks ahead and stops to pick something off the ground. She frowns at it and then tucks it into her apron.
“What is it?” I ask.
She waves her hand. “Nothing important. Why don’t you see how your cottage looks on the inside?”
I push open the door to my cottage, steeling myself for the worst, but it’s not as bad as I’d feared. Cobwebs decorate the corners, and everything is covered in a thick layer of dust. A small animal has chewed through one of the legs of my cot, leaving some droppings on the floor next to it. I find my broom still in its old place. As I sweep the floor, Alia, my mother, and my father gather leaves to weave new thatching for my roof.
Leora comes to my door to keep me company as I sweep. She’s careful not to lean against the frame. “Tal told us about the truth of your mission. It was very brave of you.”
It’s a relief to no longer lie to them, though I’m ashamed that they know I did. “I certainly didn’t feel brave when I was doing it.”
She smiles as she rubs her belly. “I suspect most heroines of history don’t.”
“I didn’t want to keep it from you, but it was safer that way.”
“I understand why you did it. We all do.” She hesitates just a moment. “What you wrote to me about Dineas. That was true, wasn’t it? At least the part about his memory loss in the capital, and what it was like to relate to him.”
I slow in my sweeping. “Yes,” I say carefully. Somehow, it was easier to speak with Leora about Dineas when I was an empire away. “It was a strange experience for both of us.”
Leora moves out of the way as I sweep the dust out the door. “Would you say you know him well now? The real him?”
“He’s harder to get to know. More guarded.”
“And more human, I suspect,” says Leora. “Are you still friends?”
“Allies for certain. Friends? Perhaps, though we don’t always see eye to eye.”
Leora tilts her head. “You’ve changed,” says Leora. “You act more sure of yourself now.”
I pause for a moment and consider her words. How indeed have I changed? I arrived in Sehmar City a healer, and I left a spy. What would Leora think if she knew that I’ve thrown scorpions into the face of a prison guard, or threatened a soldier with my blood? In the past year, I’ve helped people, and I’ve killed people. I’ve saved lives, and I’ve narrowly escaped death. But I am still rosemarked. I will still die. That has not changed.
I shouldn’t have left Zivah so abruptly, but it was too hard to stay. Even now, there’s a pit in my chest. It’s strange to see her go back to her family. Of course I’ve always known our mission would end and we would head our separate ways, should we survive. It just takes some getting used to, after watching each other’s back for so long.
Seeing Zivah with her family reminds me that I have none of my own to return to. My father’s been gone for years, and my mother died in battle the first time I was imprisoned by the Amparans. I’m far from the only orphan in the tribe, and for the most part, we act as family for each other. But still, there’s something about having your own mother and father, to be one of three siblings instead of a hundred.
Slicewing comes soaring down, chattering happily.
“Did you find the others?” I ask.
She hops onto a nearby stalk of bamboo and caws at me. Our tribe cycles through several campsites nearby, and she’s likely found one of them to be inhabited.
“Give me a moment,” I say, striking off in a random direction and ignoring Slicewing’s caws. Preener and Scrawny fly in circles, clearly confused about what I’m doing.
I need more time before facing my people. Facing the knowledge that I’d killed my own kin in battle, thinking they were my enemies. And facing the memory of my Shidadi warlord Gatha stabbing my Amparan comrade Naudar. I’d hated her at that moment, wanted nothing more than to put a sword through her throat. Hate like this doesn’t disappear when you get your memory back. It’s an ember underneath my rib cage, and I fear that it will burn everything down.
But what did I really expect? That I’d live and fight alongside the Amparans, then come back and continue on as before? Truth is, before I left Monyar I hadn’t thought much about what would happen after I came back. Perhaps I didn’t really think I would.
Slicewing’s chatter gets more and more insistent, and I give in. “Fine, lead me.”
The bird flies off with an air of relief, stopping every so often to make sure I’m following. Preener makes a game of landing in the exact same place Slicewing does. At first he touches down before Slicewing leaves each perch, but after a few squabbles, he settles for diving in right after. I haven’t gone far when a familiar voice calls out to me.
“Dineas.” Gatha steps out of the foliage, looking much as she had before. Strong, and sturdy, the force of her personality showing through her stance.
“Gatha.” This is the warlord I’ve followed from birth. A brave and fair leader, and a Shidadi warrior of the truest kind. I should be happy to see her.
Gatha looks me over with pride and squeezes my shoulder. “I was starting to worry you were waylaid.”
It’s a relief, at least, that I don’t flinch at her touch.
“You did well,” she says. “Very well.”
“Feels like I just brought the Amparan army here earlier.” I’m embarrassed as soon as the words leave my mouth. This is something only a green soldier in need of assurance would say.
“It was not an easy mission you had,” says Gatha. “But now we have warning of the invasion, and we have your insider’s knowledge of their tactics.”
Gatha’s praise had always been enough to make me stand straighter. For the most part, it still does.
She gestures behind her. “Your fellow fighters are eager to greet you.”
Other Shidadi emerge from the forest, calling my name, slapping me on the back. “Dineas!” “You made it!” “Quite the mission, was it?”
Hands guide me to a small fire circle, where one of the older fighters hands me a rack of goat that sets my mouth watering. “Sit! Eat!”
My stomach reminds me that I haven’t had a hot meal since we left Sehmar City. The bone is hot enough to burn my fingers. The meat is unseasoned but juicy, with an aftertaste of smoke.
Gaumit sits down on a log across from me. He and Frada must have just returned from their scouting rounds at the beach. “Tell me about Sehmar.”
He doesn’t make any effort to hide his envy as I tell him of the giant city, the marketplaces with all kinds of foods, and the palace with its carved facades and beautiful gardens. From Gatha’s letters, I know that Gaumit fell ill with the rose plague shortly after I arrived in Sehmar City. It was a freak case of illness. No one else in our tribe caught it, and Gaumit still doesn’t know where he picked it up. I wonder if he wishes he’d gotten his umbermarks earlier, so he could have been sent instead.
At least Gaumit will talk to me. More than one person quietly leaves the campfire as I speak. Then Mansha, a woman from our tribe, comes to sit down. At the sight of her, an image flashes through my mind.
I’m fighting next to my Amparan comrade Walgash. Mansha charges at me. I block her blow and slice my sword across the side of her face. She clutches at her bloody ear.
Mansha’s long hair is tied in a loose ponytail that obscures her ear. I’m sure, though, that it’s at least half gone. I look Mansha in the eye. “I’m sorry.”
She raises a hand halfway to her head before dropping it. “You were doing your duty,” she says. But she doesn’t look me in the eye.
Frada steps between us at that moment, cutting across the campfire to sit a few paces from me. He eyes me with the same air of obnoxious challenge that he’d sported at the beach. “I’m intrigued by what this healer did to your memory,” he says. “Did you really remember nothing of what you were?”
I tear off a bite of meat and chew it well. “Nothing. It was uncanny.”
“Must have been hard to be amo
ng the Amparans and not want to kill every last one of them.”
“It wasn’t,” I say steadily. “I couldn’t remember anything.”
He flicks a piece of gristle back into the fire. “Any news of Tus?”
The circle goes silent. I chew deliberately, aware of all the eyes on me waiting for an answer. The meat takes a few swallows to get down my throat. “Tus is dead.”
I could say more—that the Amparans had tortured him beyond saving, that I’d given him my dagger so he could end his own life. That I’d been the one to capture him in the first place, convinced he was the enemy because I didn’t remember who I was....Only later did I realize Tus had held back in that fight, and for that he’d paid.
Of course, everyone here knows I’d captured Tus. Half of them had been there when it happened.
“Dineas!” All eyes go to Gatha as she approaches the campfire. “Are you eating your fill?”
“Getting there,” I say.
She’s holding a knife in her hand. Her hair is tied in a stub of a ponytail, and she pulls at it now and cuts a lock loose. The crowd goes silent as she draws the knife across her palm and sprinkles the blood on the strands before twisting them into a quick braid.
“On behalf of the tribe,” she says, presenting the lock to me.
I stare at her. Blood and hair from a warlord is given only for the highest examples of bravery and sacrifice. I haven’t yet saved any Shidadi lives, have I? If anything, I’ve taken more lives than I’ve saved. If Gatha is trying to send a message, I’m not sure how it’s being taken. Looking around, I see some nods of approval while others stare at me with open hostility.
Then it happens. Gatha’s face shifts and lengthens. The jawbone becomes more pronounced. Stubble appears, and I’m looking at Arxa.
Arxa is dressed for training like the rest of us, in a short tunic and light leather armor that goes to his knees. “Don’t be afraid to fight your best,” he says to me. “Sometimes the new recruits think I want them to throw the fight.”
“Not many men can claim the privilege of sparring with you, sir. I won’t squander the opportunity.”
“Take your stance, then.”
I feel a thrill down my spine as I raise my sword.
Arxa is not nearly as aggressive a fencer as I expected. He’s conservative, blocking and parrying rather than coming on strong. He’s calm, though, and quick enough to block everything I throw at him. The few times I try to feint or surprise him, he doesn’t fall for it.
We continue back and forth for a while, with no clear advantage on each side. What’s frustrating is that thus far, he’s just responding, and I can’t get a good sense for his style. Little by little, I scale up my attack. My arms burn, and we both breathe heavily. The sun is still high, and I’m absolutely drenched with sweat, so much so that I worry about my grip on my swords.
Finally, I catch signs of him tiring. His sword is just a little slower to meet mine each time, and gives just a little more. I press him, knowing that I have to beat him before I tire as well. He takes a step back under my attack, and then another.
My foot catches on uneven ground. As I stumble, Arxa swings at my head, and my desperate attempt to block makes me lose what balance remains. The ground comes up, and Arxa’s sword grazes my throat.
“You’re younger,” says Arxa. “You’re faster and stronger than a man my age. Because of that, you rely too much on your skill and your strength. That will only get you so far in war. There’s a reason I chose to spar with you when I knew the ground would be trampled from riding exercises.”
He helps me to my feet. “In battle, you must use all the advantages at your disposal. Don’t ever face your enemy on equal footing if you can help it. Pick terrain that favors you. Do you have greater numbers than your enemy? Use them. Do they lack cavalry? Deploy yours wisely. Our army’s might does not simply lie in the skill of its soldiers. Do not discount our engineers, our supply trains, and our tent makers.
“Know your enemy. Know how much he’s willing to sacrifice. Know yourself. Know when you’re beaten, when you need to take risks, and when to be safe. Learn these lessons well, and you’ll easily become one of Ampara’s best.”
The memory fades away. Sweat erupts all over my skin, and a fist squeezes my lungs. But when I look back at Arxa, he’s no longer there. It’s Gatha again, still holding out the lock of hair.
“Thank you, Warlord.” I manage to loop it to my belt without dropping it.
Gatha studies my face, and I wonder how long that vision had lasted. “Come, it’s time for us to go to the village.”
I don’t look anyone in the eye as I leave.
Gatha doesn’t say anything else until the others have dropped out of earshot. When she draws breath to speak, I steel myself.
“Some trouble from the others is unavoidable after a mission like yours,” she says. “But it’ll only come from a few. In time, most of your brothers and sisters will understand what you did.”
If they do, then they will know me better than I know myself.
Dara looks about the same as it did before I left on my mission. It’s a sprawling, messy network of trails and bamboo cottages that stretches down the length of the valley, interspersed with terraced fields. We pass the occasional villager on the narrow grassy trails, and others gathered around wells and clearings. We also run across Shidadi, but they’re always hurrying through, and they’re never talking to the Dara. As Gatha and I pass one well, a Dara man glares at us with unmistakable venom.
“Are we not welcome here?” I ask Gatha after we’ve passed him.
“Some of them blame us for bringing the war to them,” says Gatha. “It’s not all of them, or even most of them.”
“Seems unwise of them to make enemies of us at this point,” I say.
“There are all types of people in a tribe or a village,” says Gatha. “You soon learn which opinions matter and which don’t.”
Gatha leads me to an open field away from the houses. Not a usual meeting place, I gather, but Zivah’s not allowed in the village proper. There are four people waiting for us, and Zivah’s seated on a mat set off from the other three. A plague veil lies folded next to her, along with a hat. Of the others, I recognize the Dara leader, Tal, but the remaining two are unknown to me.
“Dineas,” Gatha says. “Let me introduce you to Vidarna and Karu.” She gestures toward a tall, muscular Shidadi slightly older than herself. “Vidarna is the warlord of the tribe in the northern wetlands.”
The man looks familiar.
“You may have met Vidarna when you were a child,” says Gatha. “Our tribes used to cross paths in Southern Ampara. Vidarna and I fought side by side more than once in our youth.”
Vidarna extends a hand. “From all accounts, I hear you do our bloodline proud.”
A caw sounds, and Preener dives out of the sky right at Vidarna.
“Preener!”
A black-and-white pigeon launches itself off Vidarna’s shoulder and flies into the trees. Preener follows, still chattering loudly.
I’m going to roast that crow for dinner. “I’m so sorry.”
Vidarna looks like he’s trying not to smile. “I’m sure Whiteclaw can fend for herself.”
Gatha raises her eyebrows at me, then indicates the woman next to Vidarna. She’s very young for a warlord, about thirty years old, handsome, with long dark hair tied back. One of her eyes is covered by a patch, and she’s umbertouched. “Karu is warlord of a tribe on Iyal Island,” says Gatha.
Karu nods a greeting. There’s something about the way she looks me over that gives me the acute sense she’s looking for faults. She doesn’t speak.
Two tribes came to our aid, then. Gatha had contacted four. “Any word from other tribes?” I ask.
“Our messenger wasn’t able to find our tribe in the Eastern Provinces.” That was bad news. I’ve never met anyone from the group that fled east fifteen years ago, but they’d numbered almost seven hundred.
&nbs
p; “And our kin in Mishikan?”
Gatha presses her lips together and shakes her head. They’d said no, then. I want to blame them but can’t muster up the energy. Maybe they have their own troubles.
Tal looks at all assembled. “Emperor Kiran is sending armies our way. He accuses us of infecting a battalion of Amparan soldiers with rose plague, but we know that it was he who actually ordered the troops infected.”
“It’s a foolhardy move that could spread panic through his troops,” says Gatha. “Does he command the respect of his soldiers? Will they follow him into battle against an enemy who supposedly wields the plague?”
“I think they will,” I say. “The troops respect Kiran because he trains with them. They call him the warrior prince. We see him on the training fields, and he can hold his own. Also doesn’t hurt that he’s generous to the army out of his coffers.”
Karu leans forward. “You say Kiran deliberately sickened the troops. Do you know how he did it?”
“I have some ideas,” says Zivah. The council turns toward her. “He wrote that mixing the blood of the sick with weak vinegar strengthens the disease essence, perhaps enough so that it could be added to a battalion’s food stores and not dissipate. We took possession of some of Baruva’s notes and journals on our journey back, and I will do my best to find more clues.”
“Do you know enough to sicken the troops yourself?” asks Karu.
Zivah freezes. “That would be an inappropriate use of healing knowledge.”
“Do not be alarmed by my question,” says Karu. “It’s simply wise in these times to know all our options.”
Gatha clears her throat. “What do you know of the army headed our way?”
“My best guess is that the army started marching two weeks after we left,” I say. “They could get here within days. Ten thousand troops at least, maybe more.”
A long silence follows my words.
“We have three thousand fighters at most,” says Karu. “And that’s counting the Dara villagers, who will be of questionable usefulness.”
Umbertouched Page 5
