Rosemarked

by Livia Blackburne

  And she’s so maddeningly calm. It drives me crazy that she can wear such a mask when I’ve basically thrown myself at her feet these past weeks.

  I surge to my feet. “I’m tired of being your plaything.”

  She takes a cautious step back. Neju’s sword, she’s hard to read.

  “Look, Zivah, I know it’s hard to be rosemarked. It must be. And maybe it’s too tempting to have the other Dineas throwing himself at you, playing out your fantasies of a normal life, but—”

  The blood drains completely from her face and she makes a faint choking sound. She takes another weak step backward.

  I walk toward her, but she stops me with a word. “Stay away from me.” The raw emotion in her voice throws me back.

  “Zivah, I didn’t mean—”

  “You have no idea,” she whispers. “You have no idea how it feels to be locked in here like a living corpse. To be cut off, reviled, unable to touch another human being unless it’s someone who’s also slated to die.”

  I open my mouth to speak, but she silences me with a look of pure steel. “I won’t deny it,” she says. “I’ve enjoyed the moments I shared with y—with him. And there have indeed been times when I was tempted to let it go further than it should. Times when I couldn’t be as distant as I needed to be.” She shakes her head. “But don’t you dare mock me, or paint me as some manipulative, self-serving temptress. I’ve given up too much, and I’ve suffered too much to take any more abuse from you. I may not have much dignity left, but may my Goddess strike me down now if I let you be the one to trample what’s left to me.”

  She throws a pen and a piece of parchment at my feet. “Your memory will fade away soon. Write your report for Gatha.” And then she turns deliberately away from me and sits down at her herb table.

  Her words fade away, but the tension stays in the air. I scoop the implements off the floor. I do have things to report, but I can’t concentrate. Instead, I keep sneaking glances at Zivah. I can sense every breath she takes, the rigid strain of her muscles. Her back is straight as a spear, and her face has been smoothed of all emotion. But though she’s gazing at the herbs in front of her, I know that she’s not truly seeing them. In fact, I know many things. I know the truth of what she’s said, the extent of her loneliness and pain. I know because Dineas knows. The other Dineas, who’s taken the time to look. And he won’t let me ignore it.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  The glare she shoots me could light kindling, but I continue.

  “You say you have no dignity left, but that’s not how he sees you. Not how I see you.” The words are hard to get out, but I’m rewarded by a flash of puzzlement across her face. “He admires you for the things you’ve done, for your kindness and your strength. He thinks highly of you for good reason, and it isn’t because you’ve been making false promises. I know this. I was just too much of a horse’s ass to admit it.”

  She searches my face, and I’m not sure what she sees there.

  “I would never toy with him,” she says.

  “I know.”

  The silence between us is a bowstring about to snap.

  “I should go to the feast,” she says.

  I let out a long breath. “I know.”

  Another silence, and then she looks away. “Finish writing your report.”

  Mehtap goes into a whirlwind for the equinox celebration. She takes out all her dresses and implores me to try them on. At first I do so because it’s easier than refusing, but her enthusiasm is contagious. At times, she reminds me of Alia, the way she exclaims over a particularly lovely gown or giggles over one that doesn’t fit quite right. When she tries on her dresses for me, she poses like officials’ wives she knows, or dances across the room. After we’ve chosen our clothes, we try different ways of braiding our hair and experimenting with rouge and kohl. Here too, there’s a good deal of laughter when one of us employs too heavy of a hand or lines the other’s eyebrows in red. It’s been a long time since I’ve had such a chance to be carefree, and it does help to distract me from everything else surrounding the festival.

  On the day of the equinox, we spend the morning getting ready. When we’re done, Mehtap pirouettes in front of her polished bronze mirror and smiles in delight. I’ve braided a fat strand of her dark blond hair into a crown on the top of her head, while the rest hangs loose. A single green jewel adorns her forehead, matching the green embroidery of her white silk gown.

  “I’ve done well, don’t you think?” I tell her.

  She beams at me and then pushes me toward the mirror. “Your turn.”

  I’m nervous as I approach the mirror, but the woman that stares back still looks like me, just grander and more refined. My dark blue gown is similar in style to Mehtap’s—loose fitting with gathers at one hip and the opposite shoulder. Rather than a jewel though, Mehtap has woven ribbons through my hair and pinned up the braids. My eyes linger on the skin of my face and my arms, on my ever-present rosemarks. They make me look older than I am, wiser to the world. It’s hard to remember what I looked like without them.

  We meet our umbertouched soldier escorts at the door of the villa. There’s laughter and chatter in the streets as we make our way toward the gates. People have put up bright-colored cloths in their windows, and mill around outside, talking with their neighbors. At one corner, an acrobat does flips and somersaults to the applause of an appreciative crowd. I pull at Mehtap’s sleeve to point him out, and she smiles. “Just wait until we get to the palace.”

  Even the soldiers guarding the compound stand up straighter today as they wave us through. Outside, there is a palanquin waiting, lavishly decorated with red-and-gold cloth. Our escorts bow and motion us inside, and the litter jerks as they lift us onto their shoulders. The soldiers bear us at a leisurely pace. The roof of the palanquin shades us from the afternoon sun, and Mehtap pulls open one of the curtains to let in a breeze. It’s the perfect spring day, crisp and not too warm.

  “We must make the most of this night,” she says, gazing out over the horizon. “Who knows if we’ll ever have an opportunity like this again.”

  As the walls of Sehmar City loom near, one of the soldiers bearing our litter calls out to us. “Now is the time to lower the curtain, Lady Mehtap.” She doesn’t seem surprised, and quickly undoes the ribbon securing the drapes. We’re suddenly illuminated in reddish light. It makes sense, as we enter the city, that we would be kept from view. Still, I feel a bit of regret that I won’t be able to see it.

  “I think we can peek out,” Mehtap says. “As long as they don’t see us.”

  That’s all it takes to convince me, and I lift a corner of the curtain. The first thing that hits me is how crowded it is. Shacks and sheds stand shoulder to shoulder along the street. Slaves in rags weave between free servants wearing household uniforms. The occasional carriage or palanquin lumbers down the street, parting the crowd as it passes. The crowd gives our own litter a wide berth, though I don’t know if it’s because they know what it carries, or if they simply fear the soldiers.

  I watch the mix of humanity until we leave the noisy outer sectors behind. As we’re carried uphill, the sheds give way to giant stone temples and mansions, walled gardens with cypress trees arching over the stone. The palace, as we approach, is unmistakable with its gleaming white alabaster walls and gold inlaid gates. Instead of going down the main promenade though, our bearers take us along the perimeter walls until we finally pass through a side entrance.

  The fragrance of flowers and fresh green leaves flows through the curtains as soon as we turn in. Compared to the busy city outside, the gardens are an oasis. Elegant women stroll the paths escorted by men in tall hats and grand court robes. Servants weave among them, bearing platters of delicacies, and the mouth­watering scent of cardamom and mint wafts over to us. Our litter bearers carry us away from the main crowd into a quiet corner of the garden, where we’re finally lowered to the ground. One of the soldiers pulls aside the curtain, and we climb eagerl
y out.

  It’s every bit the paradise Mehtap had promised. We’re on a raised level separated from the rest of the grounds by a low hedgerow. There are polished stones under our feet, and flowering trees to provide shade. From here we also have an unhindered view of the geometric squares and rectangles that make up the gardens, as well as the dozens of small pools among the foliage. Our enclosure is still a cage, I know, but it’s a beautiful one.

  A fragrant steam drifts by me, and I turn to see umbertouched servants laying out trays of flavored rice, rabbit pudding, spiced squash, and lamb skewers on a low table. Moments later, they set up reclining chairs. I lean over the food, overwhelmed by the selection laid out before me. Mehtap comes up behind me and reaches for a plate.

  “Better not wait too long,” she says, “or I will eat it all.”

  I consider that fair warning and dig in. The lamb bursts with fragrant juice, and the pudding is creamy and smooth on my tongue. It’s by far the most delicious food I’ve ever had, and yet I find myself thinking about my mother’s goat milk stew.

  A flute melody drifts over as we eat, and we look down into the garden to see a group of minstrels playing. A crowd gathers to listen, swaying along to the music in colorful gowns and sparkling jewels.

  Finally Mehtap tugs at my arm. “It’s time,” she says.

  Indeed, the musicians are putting down their instruments, and I see Arxa, Dineas, and the soldier Walgash step in front of them. They’re led by two men in rich purple-and-gold robes that can only be Emperor Kurosh and Prince Kiran.

  The crowd quiets as Kiran starts to speak. We’re too far away to hear everything, but I catch bits and pieces. “Quick thinking…skilled and dedicated soldiers…”

  Mehtap glows with pride, eyes fixed on her father. As for me, my gaze keeps drifting to Dineas. His dark brown hair is washed and trimmed, and his crisp, ankle-length robe almost makes him look like nobility, though it doesn’t hide his strong arms and broad shoulders. As I look on, Kiran places large purple sashes over Arxa’s, Dineas’s, and Walgash’s shoulders. The crowd cheers, and then a lute player starts a lively tune.

  As the sun begins to set, servants light paper lanterns along the paths. It gives the entire place a magical feel, especially where the pools reflect their glow. In the garden, a flute and dulcimer begin a duet, and I take in a deep breath of night air.

  Mehtap raises her hands in a lazy stretch. “That was perfect,” she says. “I’m going to rest a while inside the palanquin.”

  “Are you unwell?” I wouldn’t have expected her to retreat on a night such as this.

  “I’m quite well, just tired.” She glances toward the festivities, then gives me a conspiratorial wink. “Don’t come with me. You wouldn’t want to miss any visitors while you’re gone.”

  Our palanquin is just outside our enclosure, along the path. Mehtap steps around the hedge, and I can hear her telling the soldier outside that she’d like to rest. I’m wondering if I should follow her, when I see a familiar figure walking toward our corner of the garden. The guards salute Dineas as he enters. He smiles when he sees me, and clasps my hands.

  “I’m glad you came,” he says. He looks even more handsome up close, and he smells faintly of cedar.

  “I am grateful for the invitation,” I say. “This whole night has been wonderful.”

  “You look beautiful.” He says it without guile, and the look in his eyes sends a pleasant tingling through my chest.

  Though I’d worried about seeing him here, he’s so genuine that it’s hard to put up walls. “It’s very sweet of you to say so.”

  “May I join you in whatever you were doing?”

  “I was simply enjoying the sights.”

  “That sounds delightful,” he says.

  “Shouldn’t you be holding court among the adoring crowds?”

  “I find I don’t care for their company.”

  I shouldn’t encourage such sentiments from him, but I gesture toward a chair. “Sit, then.” There’s a pitcher of wine on the table, and I pour a cup for each of us. Down in the garden, three young men start an elaborate dance that involves the juggling of lit torches. The flames rise and fall in hypnotizing

  patterns.

  “I almost forgot,” he says. He presents me with a handful of berries wrapped in a linen handkerchief. “These grow in the garden, and they’re delicious.”

  I tilt my head. “Are you sure they’re safe to eat? I’m not sure I trust your herb lore.”

  “Ha! Well, I haven’t dropped dead yet, have I? Here, I’ll eat one with you. Then we can be poisoned together.”

  We each take one. The juice is rich and sweet, and my eyes widen with delight.

  He smiles and pushes the rest toward me. “Have your fill. I’ve been sneaking bites all afternoon.”

  I don’t need any more encouragement. When I’ve finished a handful, he looks at me and grins. “You have berry stains on your face,” he says, and he wipes the corner of my mouth with his thumb. His hand is gone before I’ve even fully registered what he’s doing. Still, his touch leaves a tingle on my skin.

  “We might make a forager of you yet,” I say.

  “At least now I’ve brought you some useful plants,” he says. “I did try to gather some puzta flowers for you on my trip north, but they spilled.”

  I laugh. “I can forgive you dropping my precious flowers during an ambush.”

  His smile fades a bit. “Actually, they spilled before we even went up the mountain.”

  “They did? How?”

  He shakes his head. “Just a silly thing.” He pauses again, and it’s clear that he’s reliving some moment. “Some people can’t see past the surface. I think it’s their loss.” There is a conviction in his voice that I can’t quite understand.

  “You’re being cryptic.”

  Again, he struggles over his words, only to shake his head again. “You’re an extraordinary woman, Zivah,” he says. “You’re one of the bravest and kindest people I know. You’re more than the marks on your skin, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

  I still don’t understand what happened to the flowers he gathered, but I do understand what I see in his eyes. A heaviness settles in my stomach, and I know what I must do.

  “Dineas.” I place my hand gently on his arm. “I’m fond of you, you know I am. But it’s as a brother and a friend. You must know that.”

  A long silence follows. I see his chest rising and falling next to me. Finally, I can’t stand it anymore, and force myself to look at him.

  He’s studying my face, though he looks more puzzled than hurt. “If you say so, but…”

  “But what?”

  He lets out a quick breath, and then squints at the dancers in the distance. “I’m starting to get a good idea of the parts of me that survived the fever. I don’t have my memories, and I don’t know much about the world, but I still have my instincts. It’s not just the fighting. I can also sense an enemy hiding around a corner. I know when it feels like rain. And I can tell when somebody…” He stops and looks at me. “I guess what I’m saying is that I don’t believe you. Not when you say that I’m just like a brother to you.”

  He doesn’t say it as an accusation. In fact, he’s almost apologetic, but still I can feel my heart pounding against my rib cage. “I wouldn’t lie to you. Why would I?”

  “I don’t know,” he says quietly. He catches my gaze, and he doesn’t let it go. “Why would you?”

  My mouth goes dry, and my mind races with the answers I could give him. I could tell him he’s naive and delusional, that what he thinks are his instincts is just his own wishful thinking. I could tell him that he knows so little of the world, that there are many women out there and he shouldn’t stick with the first one he’s met. I could tell him that I have no wish to tie myself to a man.

  “Because you deserve better,” I tell him.

  He frowns. “I don’t understand.”

  Once the words start coming, they rush o
ut in a torrent. “Look at me, Dineas.” I wave my arm, gesturing hopelessly toward myself. “Look at the marks on my skin. You know what that means, don’t you? It means that in some number of years, months, or even weeks, the fever could return for me. Is that what you want? To love someone who might not be here tomorrow? To set yourself up for grief? Because the fever will come back. The fever always comes back.” I stop as abruptly as I started, struck with the realization that I’d just spoken truths long buried, fears I hadn’t even admitted to myself. Even if I haven’t told him the truth of his double identity or the complications of our mission, it doesn’t matter, because I’ve just bared my soul.

  Dineas stares at me, eyes opening in comprehension. “That’s the reason, then? That’s why you won’t let me close?”

  I could try to take it back, but he wouldn’t believe it. No one with eyes or ears would.

  He turns away, his brow furrowed as he studies the ground in front of him, as if he’s trying to figure out some puzzle. Finally, he lets out a breath and turns back. “I have looked at you, Zivah, and I see you. Now I need you to look at me.”

  When I don’t, he touches my cheek gently and guides my gaze toward him. “What am I?”

  I don’t answer.

  “I’m a soldier,” he says. “I just came back from a mission where we were ambushed by barbarians. My comrades and I were honored by the emperor tonight because we were the only ones stranded with Kiran who survived. You say you might die in a year, well, I might have died last week.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Nothing’s promised us by the gods. Isn’t that all the more reason to love while we can?”

  I can’t speak. My eyes are burning and I can hardly breathe.

  Dineas lets out a frustrated sigh. “Zivah…”

  He reaches up a tentative hand and grazes the back of my neck with his fingers. His touch is warm, but it sends a shiver down my spine nonetheless. I’m rigid, frozen.

  It’s unclear which one of us leans in first. I don’t know if we draw closer of our own volition, or if we do so simply because there’s no other way to go. But I do know the exact moment our lips touch, and the jolt of it sweeps everything else away.