There’s a note tied to his leg. As I reach for it, I get a senseless jolt of panic. This will be the first I’ve heard from another human in who knows how long. What if the words send me spiraling into confusion again? Or worse, what if the note blows away before I can read it?
Gingerly, I hold Preener’s foot still with one hand while I untie and unravel the note. It’s short.
We’ve learned that Emperor Kiran secretly set sail months ago on his private ship toward Monyar. I believe he wanted to take closer control over the attack.—Nush
Kiran’s here? That information might prove useful, or at least it would be useful if it actually gets to my kinsmen. But it was sent to me, and I’m alone in the heart of the mountains with no way to pass this on to my people. Do I even want to? It’s too much to think about now. I memorize the note and scrape off the top layer. Since I have no ink, I carve a “thank you” into the parchment and rub black dirt into the furrows.
“Thank you, Preener,” I say to the crow.
I feel a bittersweet pang as the bird flies off toward Central Ampara. Then my stomach growls. It feels empty in a way I’m not used to, and that’s saying a lot. I need to find more food before I grow too weak to fend for myself. Slowly, painfully, I gather my things. I still have all my weapons and my cloak, which is a miracle in and of itself. If the gods grant me several more, I just might survive this.
Slicewing flies circles over my head as I pick my way through the bamboo. I find a few tender shoots and chew on them as I go. Not the most filling, but better than nothing. I’m swallowing a particularly bland mouthful when Slicewing gives another warning call.
I freeze. The crow circles back and lands on my shoulder. Not for the first time, I wish she could tell me what she saw. Based on the direction she’d called from, I’d guess that she’s seen Amparan soldiers. She looks pretty calm, so it’s probably not a large group. Still, I don’t have anyone to patch me up if I get wounded. Better to retreat to safety. On the other hand, they might have some supplies I could steal.
My stomach voices its opinion in a very loud way.
I move in the direction Slicewing came from. It’s a relief, at least, that I can still move somewhat quietly without falling on my face. I’ve gone fifty paces when I hear voices up ahead. Amparan colors flash between the leaves.
Four soldiers are setting up camp for the night, laying out bedrolls and taking food out of their bags. They each carry a hefty pack, but they’re keeping them close. I circle around to get a better look.
“Strange story.” The words float over from the camp. “Do you think the forests are haunted?”
Haunted? That’s usually a sign of Shidadi scouts. I creep closer and listen.
“Arshama from the second battalion wandered into camp some days ago,” says a soldier.
“Arshama’s alive?” asks another. “I thought the fleas got him in that ambush.”
Fleas indeed. The Amparans call us that because we turn up everywhere. But fleas bite. They should know that firsthand by now.
“We all thought so,” says the first. “But he came stumbling into camp, talking and breathing. Says he woke up in the forest and his wounds were bandaged. He also says he remembers a woman tending his wounds. Claims it was the goddess Hefana herself.”
The other man snorts. “I think Arshama’s wounds got the better of his brain.”
“But it’s strange, isn’t it? None of our healers are out there, and the Shidadi wouldn’t do us any favors. Who could it have been? If the gods really are looking out for us, then I’ll say an extra prayer or two.”
A tingle goes up my spine. In my mind’s eye, I see a woman weaving through the trees, bending over the wounded and dressing their injuries with skilled, gloved hands.
I travel another two days, putting as much distance as I can between myself and my comatose attackers. Finally, I find another cave. This one is the size of my cottage, and the entrance is a crevice sheltered by an outjutting in the rock. There are vines growing above the crevice, and I pull some down to disguise the opening. Then I place the soulstealer snake among the vines.
I am far from alone in this part of the mountain. Injured and dead soldiers are a common sight when I forage for food. I bind what wounds I can and take the worst cases back to my cave. Though it’s dangerous, the presence of so much fighting also gives me hope. It means the Shidadi are close. If I can find a way to make myself known to them, they can lead me to their camp. A few times, I hear the clash of swords, but the battle is over by the time I arrive. The Shidadi have fled, and the Amparans are bandaging their wounded. It’s only by the grace of the Goddess that they don’t see me.
The work of tending to patients takes its toll. My headaches, which used to come every few days, now come daily and linger for hours. During those times, I hole up in the cave and close my eyes. It’s impossible now to see these headaches as anything but my rose plague returning.
As the disease slowly takes ahold of my body, I get the old urge to fight it, to try once again to find a cure. I’m harvesting syeb flower one morning, when a familiar scent wafts through the air. It’s sharp, the kind of smell that goes straight to the top of your nose. At first, I don’t know why this is important, only that some instinct urges me to pay attention. Finally I realize where I’ve encountered that scent before—Baruva’s suona pollen. I bring the white petals to my nose. It has a faint floral smell, but that’s all. Then on a hunch I pluck the yellow stem from the middle of the flower and crush it between my fingers. The scent comes out, sharp as that jar in Baruva’s garden, and sets my mind racing. Scents are signposts from the Goddess about an herb’s function. Could syeb flower also counter the rose plague essence? I pluck all the flowers I can find.
As I get sicker, Scrawny gets better. After a couple weeks, his wing looks sturdy enough that I leave it unwrapped. He still prefers to travel in his sling, but when we’re back at the cave, I take him out and he attempts small flutters around. I pray that I’ve set his wing correctly.
There’s no shortage of wounded. One day I find an older Amparan soldier with an infected leg. Red streaks radiate from a wound in his upper thigh, and it gives off a putrid smell. I wash the cut with hot water and treat it with infusions of nadat root, but his chances of survival are slim.
Once, as I’m replacing the leaves I use as bandages, the man groggily opens his eyes and looks at me. “They said Hefana was wandering the battlefields. I didn’t believe them.”
More and more of the soldiers have been mistaking me for one of their goddesses, and I’ve not become any more accustomed to it. “I’m not Hefana,” I tell him. “I don’t even have the power to heal myself.”
His eyes latch onto me as he takes in my words. “I suppose I don’t know why a goddess would wear such wrinkled clothes.”
A smile pulls at my lips. “Your mind is sharp, at least.” Truth is, sometimes I do feel like a god, or at least, a mortal playing with the gods’ powers. Every day, I decide whether to treat someone or to let him die, to let him return to his comrades or to hold him in quarantine. It’s not a responsibility any mortal should have.
“Perhaps you are not Hefana,” says the soldier. “Or perhaps you are lying. Either way, I thank the gods for you.”
That evening, I hear more fighting very close by. I creep closer to find a lone Shidadi woman facing off against an Amparan scout. Her right arm hangs limply at her side, and she’s fencing with her left hand as the scout drives her backward. I fit a dart to my blowgun, but I must make some noise, because the Shidadi’s eyes flicker toward me. In that moment, the Amparan’s sword flashes in a circular arc, and the Shidadi’s sword flies out of her hand. She jumps back to dodge a killing blow. I shoot my dart, but it glances off the Amparan’s padded vest. It’s enough to make him look my way, though, and in that moment, the Shidadi directs a kick at his stomach. As he doubles over, a knife flashes in her hand, and then he falls lifeless to the ground.
The Shidadi staggers and
almost trips over her fallen opponent before reaching out to a bamboo stalk for balance. She lifts her head and blinks at me, confused. “Who are—” She takes a tenuous step toward me and collapses.
I rush to her side. Up close, I see her injuries are more serious than I thought. In addition to her broken arm, there’s a gash on her head and a cut on her chest. I work quickly, washing her wounds with an infusion of spineleaf sap and binding them as best I can. Briefly, I consider dragging her closer to the soldier I’m already tending, but it seems that putting the two together would just invite trouble. I shelter her instead under an overhang of a nearby rock.
The next day is spent running back and forth between the two. Both of my patients are delirious from their injuries, and both cry out during their more active moments. I can’t help but notice how pain sounds the same no matter whom it’s coming from. The Shidadi’s rants in her native tongue bring back raw memories of Dineas and Sarsine. Perhaps, though I could not save my friends, I can save her.
Late in the afternoon, the Shidadi opens her eyes and looks around. “Where am I?”
“On the battlefield,” I say.
“I almost died.”
“Yes.”
She seems to have trouble focusing her eyes. “Who are you?”
“A friend.”
She makes as if to get up, but I stop her. “You need more rest.” I offer her a cup of sleeping potion, and she drinks in long, thirsty gulps. “Can you find your way back to the others?” I ask.
“I think so,” she says. “If they haven’t moved.”
“Do you know Dineas from Gatha’s tribe?”
She groans. Her eyes roll with the effort of keeping them open.
“Dineas. Is he alive?”
Her eyelids sag closed. She doesn’t respond to anything else I say.
The Shidadi woman grows better by the day. Part of me is eager for her to recover so I can follow her home. I thirst for news of my family, and I want to know what happened to Dineas, even if the truth may bring me grief.
As the woman begins to have more moments of clarity, though, I start to have doubts. How will the Dara and Shidadi receive me, after I’ve run away like this? How would I explain my long absence? What if someone’s seen me treating Amparan soldiers? And there remains the biggest question: What will they ask me to do once I’m back? Can I say no to them if I no longer have Dineas to support my side? That last question is bitter to contemplate. Dineas and I disagreed on so many things, for so much of the time we spent together. And now that we finally understand each other, it’s too late.
The Amparan with the infected leg improves as well. Against all odds, the red streaks subside and his wound closes up. He progresses quickly, which is good because he’ll need to fend for himself when I leave with my Shidadi patient.
He’s remarkably good-natured for a man in his state. Several times, he murmurs a thank-you when I change his bandages. Once, after I rouse him to drink, he stays awake.
“What is your name, Not-Goddess?” he asks.
I’ve grown accustomed to working alone, and his voice, gravelly from disuse, startles me. “It’s better if you do not know.”
“I suppose Not-Goddess will have to do, then. What are your plans for me?”
“You should gain strength steadily from here on out. I’ve been careful to keep from touching you directly, but you will still need to wait some days to be sure you do not have rose plague. And then you will be free to leave.”
After that archer’s response to my mention of rose plague, I’m worried how this man will react. But he simply purses his lips. “And I shall tell my comrades that I was tended by a rosemarked woman without a name?”
“I would prefer if you don’t tell them anything at all.”
He gives a wan smile, though there’s the hint of a brighter smile behind it. “A mystery. I love mysteries.”
This soldier spends more time awake than my other patients. Perhaps it’s his constitution, or perhaps it’s because I give him less sleeping potion than the others after that conversation. I’ve no doubt things would be different if we met out on the mountainside, but in the world of my cave, he is good company.
Meanwhile, the Shidadi’s wounds knit together. When she gains the ability to sit up, I leave food and water next to her and let her care for herself. Every day, I check on her, expecting to reveal myself to her now that she’s coherent. But every day, I decide to wait.
It’s hard to guess a patient’s recovery time accurately, but both the Amparan and the Shidadi progress at a predictable pace. I estimate that the Shidadi and I will leave a few days before the Amparan fully recovers. It should be no trouble, though, because he’s already strong and able to feed himself.
“I may have to leave you alone for the last part of your recovery,” I tell him.
“Returning to the land of the gods?”
I roll my eyes. “You can stay in the cave as long as you need to, and there are enough provisions here to keep you well fed.”
“Or returning to a suitor perhaps. Do you have a young man who awaits you?”
The pang that shoots through me at those words is harder to brush off. “No. No young man.”
“I’ve offended you,” he says.
“You haven’t.”
He reaches up to scratch his brow. “I would like to know your name at least,” he says. “Shall we trade, my name for yours?”
“A name by itself means very little. Just call me—” I stop, because something on his skin catches my eye.
Faint red markings.
A pit opens in my stomach. It can’t be.
I comb through every moment of the past days, trying to remember what I’d done. I’d been so careful not to touch him. Where had I slipped up?
By now, he’s seen my expression. He looks at his hand, and his eyes cloud over. “Oh,” he says.
Why this one? Why him of all people?
“Call me Zenagua.” The name of the goddess of death scalds my tongue. “I have failed you.”
Zivah’s alive. She’s alive, and she’s in these mountains. I bet my sword on it.
The news fills me with hope. These mountains are vast, but I can find her. It’ll just take some time. That is, assuming neither of us manage to get ourselves killed.
Though, why is she treating Amparan soldiers in the forest? Is she lost? Is she injured? And what of Sarsine?
Stewing on these questions would be enough to drive me back into madness. I’ll find her first, then worry about the rest. Based on what the Amparans said, she must be south of me. If she’s treating people’s wounds, she must be near water, and she may have looked for a cave to sleep in. It’s not much to go on, but it’s enough for a basic plan. I’ll work my way south, looking near rivers and caves.
It’s funny how having a goal can make the day go by so much easier. I’m still tired, half-starved, and confused, alone in a forest full of enemy soldiers, but now it feels as if I’m on another mission. The terrain is steep, and there are plenty of Amparans to avoid. I get spotted once by a sharp-eyed scout, and I dive into a clump of underbrush to escape his comrades. As they run past, one man’s profile blurs into Sarsine’s. My heart jumps at the sight, but I’m getting better at knowing what’s real and what is not.
Early one morning Slicewing gives another warning call, but it’s the higher-pitched chirp reserved for friends. I stop in my tracks. Shidadi.
Do I hide from them like the Amparans? Do I spit in their direction? I don’t think they’ll ever fully understand what they’ve done to me by cutting me off. Still, I can’t bring myself to walk away.
“Lead me to them,” I tell Slicewing.
She flits ahead, silently hopping from stalk to stalk. I follow her until a crow—not Slicewing—gives the friend call in the distance, and I know I’ve been spotted. Someone in a brown tunic comes toward me. I make sure my weapons are in reach.
Frada takes an abrupt step back when he sees me. I can almost imagine
his hair standing on end like a cat’s, but he recovers admirably. “Dineas,” he says. He’s carefully neutral in the way he says it, though I can see him sizing me up. I meet his gaze, daring him to say something about the state of my clothes and the scabs on my arms. He’s no longer wearing my hair and blood on his belt.
“I don’t mean to surprise you,” I say.
“You didn’t.”
“Fair enough.”
Slicewing and the other crow start chasing each other through the leaves.
“Is Gatha recovering?” I ask.
“Admirably.” Though I get the impression that he would say the same even if Gatha were dead. “She’s sent us on some extended scouting rounds.”
There’s no reason for him to tell me about the scouting rounds. No reason he’d want to tell me, which means he’s lying.
“Neju guide your eyes,” I say.
He nods curtly. “I appreciate it.”
It’d be a bad idea to follow him. It would just make things worse. My kinsmen might not trust me enough right now to tell me their plans, but neither will they attack me. If I’m caught spying on them, though, that would change.
I fall behind him just before he disappears from view. His crow doesn’t make a sound—must think I’ve joined the group. Twenty fighters wait for Frada a short distance away—ten from our tribe, plus an older woman from Vidarna’s camp, a seventeen-year-old girl under Karu who moves like a cat, and eight more that I don’t recognize. Then the woman from Vidarna’s camp—Taja, I think is her name—gives a command and they start walking.
If this is a scouting party, then my sword’s an embroidery needle. There are too many of them, and everyone’s too heavily armed. They’ll be attacking someone before the day is out.
After a while, Taja signals for everyone to stop and sends the Karu girl ahead. I follow in her wake. She’s good—almost catches onto me several times as she goes up over a hill and across a small creek. Finally, she climbs a stalk of bamboo. I watch carefully as she draws her bow, lets loose one arrow, then slides down and runs back the way we came.
Umbertouched Page 19
