Umbertouched

by Livia Blackburne

  Alia leads the way back to the village. I glance at Zivah as we walk, and a fresh wave of frustration comes over me. I’d forgotten how naive she could be. If she thinks she can protect her sister by keeping her ignorant of swordplay...

  Though I have no reason to doubt Alia, I’m still surprised to see the big Rovenni man waiting for us. He seems unintimidated by the two scouts from Karu’s tribe escorting him, though he looks inexplicably smaller without his horses.

  “Nush.” I extend a hand in greeting. “How did you get here?”

  Nush looks me over as his Shidadi guards and Alia leave, taking special interest in my weapons on display. “We sell some of our horses to sea traders. There are a few that owe me favors, and I’ve been curious to see Monyar.” He shifts his gaze to Zivah, who has come to a stop several paces back. “And you are the healer whom the emperor seeks,” he says. “I must say, I’m impressed the two of you made it back.”

  “We owe it to your advice on which roads to follow,” says Zivah. “Have your people encountered any trouble since you left Taof?”

  “We know the continent better than the emperor himself. There are places we can go to avoid trouble. With the war coming, he does not concern himself with chasing us.” He looks at me. “We hear that the emperor is dispatching a fleet of warships and his most talented engineers to Monyar. You’d do well to watch the shore diligently. The empire’s engineers have won many a war for Ampara.”

  Indeed, I’ve heard the histories—generals who redirected rivers to starve out a town, troops who constructed walls or drained swamps overnight.

  “Thank you, we’ll be on our guard.”

  The Rovenni nods. “I didn’t come just to deliver a warning. We owe you our lives after Taof. Our elders have sent me to offer you what aid we can. We won’t raise arms against Ampara, but we travel far, and we can be your eyes and ears on the continent.”

  Zivah and I exchange a glance. Winds are indeed changing if the previously neutral Rovenni are taking active steps of rebellion. “Eyes and ears we can certainly use,” says Zivah. “Would you be willing to be our mouth as well?”

  “How so?” asks the Rovenni.

  “We learned things about the emperor while we were in the capital. First and foremost, we learned that Kiran ordered Baruva to poison a battalion of Amparan troops.”

  I’m surprised to hear Zivah bring this up, but I suppose there’s no reason to keep it secret.

  Nush scratches his beard. “Why would he hurt his own army?”

  “Think about it,” I say. “Kiran wants to expand the empire, but he needs to rally his people behind the cause in order to justify the expense and lives lost. If a battalion falls mysteriously ill in one of the outer territories, where it’s already known that there are unsubdued rebels, who would you suspect? Who would you blame?”

  “These are serious accusations. Do you have any proof?”

  “I trust the man who told me,” says Zivah, “but I can’t prove it to you. We had to flee the capital before we could find any evidence.”

  He squints in the direction of the strait. “Gods know the empire has done worse than that to her subjects. I take it you want me to spread word of Kiran’s misdeeds? Most won’t believe it.”

  “But some will,” says Zivah.

  Nush frowns. In the past, I would have thought him displeased, but now I realize he’s simply thinking. “Very well. We’ll see what comes of it.”

  “Thank you.” I look around for my crows and catch a flash of wing in a nearby stand of bamboo. When I whistle, Scrawny and Slicewing land on my shoulders while Preener comes to perch on my head.

  “Take Preener with you,” I tell Nush. “He can carry messages from the continent, though if you want a reply, you’ll have to stay in the same place and wait until he returns.” Preener gives me a perplexed look, and I pat his head. “Go with Nush. He’ll show you some interesting places.”

  Nush extends a skeptical hand to the bird, who steps gingerly onto his finger. The crow looks at him, and at me, and then starts picking through his wing feathers. The Rovenni man turns to me. “I will do my best to be of help,” he says. “Be careful. The road you go down, there’s no turning back.”

  Kaylah continues to visit me, though we don’t speak of Sehmar City or sacred vows after that first day. She brings the tablets I’d sent her on Amparan medicine and studies them while I read through Baruva’s journal. Occasionally she asks questions about what I’d written, and I answer to the best of my ability.

  Though I’ve turned up no evidence against Baruva or Kiran, his notes still contain valuable medical knowledge. He has a theory of rose plague as a disease that starts in the blood and settles in the skin, and he’s written many lengths of parchment dedicated to the search for new ways to fight the illness. There are no cures here, but plenty of methods to ease a patient’s suffering. There are potions for treating the plague’s initial symptoms: managing the high fever and improving clarity of mind in the throes of the illness. A second section is dedicated to alleviating the headaches, tremors, low-grade fever, and blurring of vision that signal the fever’s return in the rosemarked.

  I have to admit the man’s genius. He’s thorough, observant, and insightful, and I can’t help but wonder if this is why the plague patients at Taof had seemed better off than the ones I’d previously treated.

  I’m reading through lists of esoteric treatments when something catches my eye: The suona flower grows only in the mountains of the Mishikan Empire, above the snow line. Its pollen, red with a hint of yellow and iridescent in the sunlight, is rumored to extend the life of the rosemarked.

  I have to read the line over several times to make sure I’m reading it correctly. A treatment for extending the life of the rosemarked is far different from the palliatives he’d written about up to now. Was this what Baruva meant when he said he was my last chance at life? I glance up at Kaylah, fighting the absurd feeling that I’m looking at something I shouldn’t. She’s engrossed in her own studies.

  The most credible report comes from the story of Nia, brother of the previous king of Mishikan, who became rosemarked in his thirtieth year. To save his brother, the king instituted a modified tribute system. People living in the mountain regions were required to submit a basketful of suona flowers as part of their yearly tithe. Nia took a pinch of pollen in his tea every morning and lived rosemarked for fifteen years before finally succumbing to the fever.

  The rarity of these flowers may render interest in this herb to be purely theoretical, as only someone with a monarch’s resources could gather the amount of pollen needed to keep even one person alive. Attempts to grow the flower in other climates and soils have failed, though it’s rumored that Mishikan royalty have started storing suona pollen in case another member of the royal house falls ill.

  A bitter taste forms in my mouth. So that was why I hadn’t heard of it. Because it’s a plant found outside of the empire, rare enough to be used only for kings. There’s a note in the margin of the scroll. It’s Baruva’s handwriting but written very small.

  Slow dysentery, plague incubation length.

  Does he mean that the suona pollen would slow dysentery? But dysentery is not a common symptom of rose plague. And what does that have to do with plague incubation length? I wonder if this was simply an unrelated note, a scrawled thought to be remembered later. But Baruva has always been so meticulous.

  “Did you find anything interesting?” asks Kaylah.

  I glance up with a start. “Nothing important,” I say, and I move on to the next section of notes.

  Naudar is impeccably dressed, as always. His belt buckle shines like a mirror, there’s no trace of stubble on his chin, and his tunic is as wrinkle-free as a statue’s. He’s also surprisingly cheerful, considering that he’s dead and wandering the camp of the people who killed him.

  He steps carefully over sleeping bodies, looking curiously at the faces of my kinsmen. They don’t stir, which I suppose makes sense.
Though when I follow in Naudar’s footsteps, my progress isn’t nearly as smooth, as I trip over blankets and kick dirt into snoring faces. More than once, someone stirs and panic grips my chest, but no one wakes.

  “I’m disappointed in you, Dineas. You should at least press your tunics,” Naudar calls over his shoulder. “Especially with all these maidens fighting alongside you.” He pauses. “Isn’t that distracting?”

  “It only seems like it’d be distracting because you’re not used to it. I mean, there’s less facial hair and sweat, I suppose. And you have to look around before undressing or taking a piss. Otherwise, it’s about the same.”

  “People shouldn’t be answering nature’s call in the open anyways. It reflects badly on the empire. Where is your warlord, by the way? I didn’t get a good look at her in the battle.”

  There are all kinds of reasons why I shouldn’t lead him there, but this is a dream, and ghosts do what they will. We cross the camp, stepping over body after body.

  “We had some good times in Neju’s Guard, didn’t we?” he calls over his shoulder. “Remember that time they tied us naked to the rooftop?”

  “I wouldn’t really call that a good time.”

  “Let’s just say you gain some perspective when you die.”

  He comes to a stop by Gatha’s bedroll. My warlord is sound asleep, even though she usually wakes up at the slightest sound.

  Naudar furrows his brow. “She’s a decent commander. I’ll allow that. And I can’t fault her fighting skill. But why follow her when you can fight under Arxa?” He gestures toward the hills around me. “Why this, when you can serve the glory of Ampara?”

  I shift uncomfortably. “I’m Shidadi. I always have been.”

  Naudar’s eyes narrow. “Really? Because you didn’t seem very Shidadi in Sehmar City.”

  “That was different. I lost my memory—”

  He cuts me off. “You know what really makes me angry? It’s that I expected so much better from you. You seem like such a soldier’s soldier. Live by the sword, die by the sword, and all that. Sure, the emperor has assassins and spies, and all those slippery types, but I wouldn’t have expected that of you.”

  “I—”

  “No excuses, Dineas. You took that potion. No one forced it down your throat. Walgash, Masista, and I, we took you in, showed you Sehmar City and made sure you were successful in the army. And then you come around and stab us all in the back.”

  Suddenly he’s holding a knife.

  “Naudar, what are you—”

  He looks straight at me. “Kind of like this.”

  And then he plunges the knife into Gatha’s chest.

  My scream wakes me up. I’m on my feet, reaching for my knives, before my eyes have completely opened. My breathing is ragged and coarse as my bedroll falls away and the predawn breeze brushes my skin. I look around, trying to see if I’ve awakened anyone, but it seems I haven’t. I’ve been sleeping away from the others, because this is not my first nightmare.

  There’s something about waking up in a Shidadi camp after dreaming of your Amparan comrades that makes the morning feel extra cold. I have an urge to find Gatha and make sure she’s alive. It’s a foolish thought, I know, and I wouldn’t be able to find her anyways. She sleeps in a different part of the camp every night, makes sure she spends time with everyone in the tribe. Plus, she’s up before dawn, tending to the day’s business.

  Why her when you can serve under Arxa?

  Arxa was good to his men. He had a keen eye for skill and pushed us to be the best of our ability. But when Neju’s Guard traveled, Arxa slept in a tent in the middle of the camp, surrounded by the men but separate from them. That distance was part of his power. He had a mantle of authority, of someone who knew more and climbed to greater heights.

  With Gatha, there’s no distance. She’s in the mud with us, living and fighting day to day. Arxa might give educated speeches, but I’ve seen Gatha lay a hand on a boy’s shoulder, say two words, and make him burst into tears. They’re often painful, uncontrollable tears, but he’ll sleep better that night and hold his head higher the next day.

  I wonder, if I told this to Naudar, whether he would understand why I’m loyal to Gatha. I wonder if he would forgive me.

  I make my way toward a small campfire where Frada and Gaumit sit warming their hands. Next to them, a young woman from Karu’s tribe plucks a tune on an Iyal finger harp, so quietly I can hardly hear it over the fire’s crackling. Rounding out the circle are two fighters I don’t recognize, playing some game involving hand gestures and a lot of grimacing. Our campfires tend to segregate by age rather than tribe, a habit from the old days when we still traveled the central continent. Whenever tribes crossed paths, we’d camp together for a while. There’d be tournaments, songs, and performances around the campfire. Couples would meet, flirt, and fall in love, though I was never old enough to join in any of the festivities. By the time I came of age, we’d already fled into Monyar.

  “Morning,” Gaumit says. His umbermarks dance in the flickering firelight. “Water?” He passes me a hot mug. It burns my tongue, but the warmth is worth it.

  “Any plans this morning?” I ask.

  Frada shrugs. “This and that.” I don’t care enough to coax more out of him. I catch a glimpse of the lock of my hair that he wears on his belt. Why is it always the jackasses that save your life?

  Gatha’s voice drifts over from the edge of the camp. “She should take more care where she steps. Something was bound to happen.” She and Vidarna walk into view, and her eyes land on the campfire. I double-check for a knife wound on her chest.

  “Do I see idle swords?” she says to us. “Mansha sprained her ankle crossing a creek. I need a replacement for her scouting round.”

  “I’ll do it,” Frada says too quickly.

  “Go now, then. Her watch starts in a quarter hour.” She turns and yells at a cluster of children throwing knives at a tree. “Stop cheating, Riyo. I saw you step over that line.”

  As they walk off, I hear her consulting with Vidarna on the best combat formations to use on the Monyar mountainside. The two are always discussing strategy, both with each other and with the rest of the fighters. Karu rarely joins in. She talks a lot with those of her own tribe, but I hardly ever see her with the other two leaders.

  After Frada leaves, Gaumit hunches over, seemingly preoccupied with the fire.

  “Didn’t know Frada was so fond of scout duty,” I say. Almost as if he didn’t trust me to do it.

  “He’s probably restless, needs to walk it off,” Gaumit says. Though he still doesn’t look at me.

  I’ve had enough. “Thanks for the water.” I stand to hand the cup back to him, but it slips out of my hand. I lunge, barely catching it before it hits the dirt. Gaumit throws his arm over his head.

  “Sorry, Gaumit.” I straighten myself and hand him the cup. Only then do I realize that he’s reached reflexively for his knife.

  He drops his hand. “Good catch.”

  I’m careful not to make any more sudden movements as I step away.

  I take a trail into the forest, walking quickly as if faster steps would trample my frustration. Frada doesn’t trust me to scout. Gaumit doesn’t trust me to sit next to him without killing him. My own kinsmen see me as an enemy.

  Every so often, a rustling in the leaves alerts me to some creature scared away by my approach. The early morning breeze filters right through my tunic, but I don’t feel it. The mission’s over. I’m back with my people. Why am I still haunted by ghosts?

  When I step on the trail leading to Zivah’s cottage, I stop pretending that I hadn’t been headed this way all along. Zivah’s up already and seated outside her front door. I’m not surprised to see her up early, since this is her favorite time of day. She likes to watch the sunrise and reflect on the day to come. The other me had learned this in Sehmar City.

  Zivah’s incredibly still as she studies a scroll in front of her. Occasionally, she wrinkles her br
ow or brushes a strand of hair from her eyes, but otherwise, she might as well be a statue. She cuts a regal profile in the morning light. It’s such a peaceful scene that I wonder if I should turn back.

  But then she looks up. “Dineas. You’re out early.”

  “Are you busy?” I ask, like the lumbering ox I am.

  “No. Just looking at Baruva’s notes again.” She motions me toward a chair.

  I sit, but the chair is far too restrictive and I stand again. “Find anything?”

  “No.”

  If it had been the other me dropping by, there wouldn’t be any of these stunted exchanges. She would have brightened to see me and found some way to slip away from her hospital duties. We would have gone for a walk, talked of everything and anything, and the time would have gone by too quickly. The other Dineas wouldn’t have stood here wondering how much to say, how much to reveal before she fears me like all the others, before she realizes, truly realizes, that I am nothing like that bright-eyed soldier in Sehmar City.

  “I dreamed about Ampara last night,” I say.

  “Who did you dream about?” Not what did you dream about, but who. That one word gives me the courage to continue.

  “Naudar.” Poor, dead Naudar. His loss feels fresh again after that dream. “I can’t come back from there.”

  Her eyes soften. “I’m sorry.”

  Once the words come out, it’s hard to stop. “Maybe it would have been different if I’d been a normal spy, if I’d known I was lying from the beginning. But I can’t simply cast off a whole other life that I lived.” I stop. “And it’s not just me. I can see it in their eyes too.”

  “Who?”

  “The others of my tribe. They remember how I spilled Shidadi blood. They say they forgive me, but they don’t.” I wave my hand disgustedly. “They don’t trust me, and who’s to say they’re wrong? When I go into battle, I might see Arxa again. I might see Walgash or Masista. Can I kill them when the time comes?”