by L. Penelope
Jasminda narrowed her eyes. “Thank you for the reminder, sir. I really do need to be heading home now.”
“We don’t want things to get ugly now, missy. Just clear out like you’re supposed to and everything will go real smooth-like.”
She wanted to rage. Where exactly was she supposed to go? What was she supposed to do? But pride kept her lips sealed and good sense kept the fury out of her expression.
“Well, on with ya, then,” he said, shooing her before turning the pony around. “The sooner you leave town, the sooner these old hens will stop worrying me to death with their nattering.”
As horse and rider sauntered away, Jasminda took her first full breath. Once they were out of sight, she turned on her heel and marched up the path leading home.
Still her home, at least for a few more days.
She’d only been walking for a couple of hours when something laying in the path made her stop short. At first she thought a discarded pile of rags had somehow blown up the mountain.
Then she realized it was a man.
CHAPTER TWO
Jackal and Monkey stood at the edge of a wide canyon. Monkey asked, If I leap and make it to the other side, was that my destiny or merely my good luck?
Jackal replied, Our destiny can be taken in hand, molded, and shaped, while chance makes foolishness out of whatever attempts to control it. Does this make destiny the master of luck?
—COLLECTED FOLKTALES
Jack had found himself in a great many hopeless situations in his life, but this one was the grand champion—a twenty-two-year record for dire occurrences. He only hoped this wouldn’t be the last occurrence and sent up yet another prayer that he might live to see his twenty-third year.
The temperature had dropped precipitously. His spine was assaulted by the rocky ground on which he lay, but really that was the least of his discomforts.
His vision had begun to swim about an hour ago, and so at first he thought the girl looming above him was a mirage. She peered down at his hiding spot behind a cluster of coarse shrubbery, her head cocked at an angle. Jack went to stand, years of breeding kicking in, his muscle memory offended at the idea of not standing in the presence of a lady, but apparently his muscles had forgotten the bullet currently lodged within them. And the girl was Lagrimari—not strictly a lady, but a woman nonetheless—and a beautiful one, he noticed as he squinted into the dying light. Wild, midnight curls floated carelessly around her head, and piercing dark eyes regarded him. Her dress was drab and tattered, but her smooth skin was a confectioner’s delight. His stomach growled. When was the last time he’d eaten?
Her presence meant he was still on the Lagrimari side of the mountain range bordering the two lands and had yet to cross the other, more powerful barrier keeping him from his home of Elsira: the Mantle.
The girl frowned down at him, taking in his bedraggled appearance. From his position lying on the ground, he tried his best to smooth his ripped uniform, the green fatigues of the Lagrimari army. Her confusion was apparent. Jack was obviously Elsiran; aside from his skin tone, the ginger hair and golden honey-colored eyes were a dead giveaway. And yet he wore the uniform of his enemy.
“Please don’t be scared,” he said in Lagrimari. Her brows rose toward her hairline as she scanned his supine and bloodied body. Well, that was rather a ridiculous thing to say. “I only meant that I mean you no harm. I…” He struggled with how to explain himself.
There were two possibilities. She could be a nationalist who would turn him in to the squad of soldiers currently combing the mountain for him, perhaps to gain favor with the government, or she could be like so many Lagrimari citizens, beaten down by the war with no real loyalty to their dictator or his thugs. If she was the former, he was already dead, so he took a chance with the truth.
“You see, I was undercover, spying from within the Lagrimari army. But now there are men looking for me, they’re not far, but…” He paused to take a breath; the effort of speaking was draining. He suspected he had several cracked or broken ribs in addition to the gunshot wound. His vision swirled again, and the girl turned into two. Two beautiful girls. If these were his last moments before traveling to the World After, then at least he had something pleasant to look at.
He blinked rapidly and took another strained breath. His mission was not complete; he could not die yet. “Can you help me? Please. I’ve got to get back to Elsira.”
She stole an anxious glance skyward before kneeling next to him. Her cool hand moved to his forehead. The simple touch was soothing, and a wave of tension rolled off him.
“You must be delirious.” Her voice was rich, deeper than he’d expected. It eased the harsh consonants of the Lagrimari language, for the first time making it sound like something he could imagine being pleasant to listen to. She worked at the remaining buttons of his shirt, pulling the fabric apart to reveal his ruined chest. Her expression was appraising as she viewed the damage, then sat back on her haunches, pensive.
“It probably looks worse than it is,” he said.
“I doubt that.”
Jack’s chuckle sounded deranged to his own ears, so it was no surprise that the girl looked at him askance. He winced—laughing was a bad idea at this point—and struggled for breath again. “The soldiers … they’re after me. I have to get back through the Mantle.”
“Shh,” she said, peering closely at him. “Hush all that foolishness; you’re not in your right mind. Though I’ll admit, you speak Lagrimari surprisingly well. I’m not sure what happened to you, but you should save your strength.”
She closed her eyes, and suddenly his whole body grew warmer, lighter. The odd sensation of Earthsong pulsated through him. He had only experienced it once before, and it hadn’t been quite like this. The touch of her magic stroked him intimately, like a brush of fingers across his skin. The soft vibration cascaded over his entire body, leaving him feeling weightless.
He gasped, pulling in a breath, and it was very nearly an easy thing to accomplish. Tears pricked his eyes. “Sovereign bless you.”
Her expression was grave as she dug around in her bag. “It’s just a patch. You must have ticked someone off real good. It’d take quite a while to fix you up properly, and the storm’s coming. You need to find shelter.”
She retrieved a jar filled with a sweet-smelling substance and began spreading it over his wounds. The Earthsong had turned down the volume of his pain, and the cream soothed him even more.
“What is that?”
“Just a balm. Helps with burns, cuts.” Her hand paused for a moment. “Never gunshot wounds, but it’s worth a try.”
He laid his head back on the ground, closing his eyes to savor the ability to breathe deeply again. “A quick rest and I’ll be back on my way. Need to keep moving, though. Need to get back.”
“Back through the Mantle?” Her tone vibrated with skepticism. “And away from the Lagrimari soldiers chasing you?”
“Yes.” Her palm met his forehead again. She thought he was delusional. He wished he was. Wished the last few weeks had been nothing but the imaginings of an impaired mind.
“The Seventh Breach ended almost five years ago.” Her voice flowed over him, along with another tingle of Earthsong, cool and comforting. “We’ve had peace since then. No way to cross the Mantle from either side.”
He shook his head, aggravating the hole in his upper chest, inches from his heart where the inconvenient bit of metal was still lodged. “There are ways.”
A crunch of boots in the distance set him on alert. He grabbed the girl’s wrist to halt her while he listened. The soldiers were near.
He opened his eyes and looked into her startled ones. “Shh, they’re coming.”
Her head darted from side to side, and he saw the moment she realized someone was indeed coming. Jack couldn’t let her be found helping him. Having seen firsthand what these men were capable of, he couldn’t let her be found by them at all. The Lagrimari army was filled with men unfit eve
n for Elsira’s prisons. This girl had been kind, a trait his people didn’t believe the Lagrimari even possessed, but he knew better and felt the need to protect her. He wrestled himself to a sitting position, ignoring the daggers of pain impaling him with every movement, but her strong arms prevented him from standing.
“Hide here, and I’ll draw them away,” he whispered, and motioned for her to crouch down. “They will find me anyway, but it’s best they don’t see you.” Her gaze darted back toward the sound of approaching footsteps.
As he agonizingly made his way to his hands and knees, the pain flared hot, threatening to blind him. With a tug on her arm, he pulled her behind the shrubbery and half crawled, half dragged himself back onto the narrow, rocky path. Her head stuck up over the grouping of rocks and shrubs, and he motioned for her to get down as he put a little distance between them.
The footfalls grew closer. He turned to face them, not wanting to draw any attention to the girl hiding only a few paces away.
Six Lagrimari men appeared from around the bend in the path. The sergeant spotted him, and a hard smile spread across the man’s narrow face. Jack only had time to feel a small amount of satisfaction at the purple bruise around the sergeant’s eye before a foot to his midsection stole his breath. A kick to the head stole his consciousness.
CHAPTER THREE
Monkey said to Jackal, I believe that luck is the master of destiny, for one cannot be ruled by that which one considers foolish.
Then he took a running leap over the edge of the canyon and disappeared into the setting sun.
—COLLECTED FOLKTALES
The first snowflakes began to fall as Jasminda crept down the mountain. She followed the lantern light of the men who’d dragged away the unconscious Elsiran, staying a few dozen paces behind. While she’d thought his tale fantastical, there was no doubting the six Lagrimari soldiers who’d appeared, or their viciousness toward him. She’d winced as they’d continued to strike him, long after he’d passed out.
He was an odd one, surely—his manner, his clothing, his perfect Lagrimari speech and accent. She’d never heard of an Elsiran who could speak the language. Even her mama had never been able to master it. And with his talk of crossing the Mantle, of course she’d thought him deranged. The magical border between the two lands followed the mountain range. The Mantle had stood for five hundred years and had only been breached seven times, each resulting in months or years of war.
Her papa had come over during the Sixth Breach. He’d been one of the soldiers stuck in Elsira as prisoners of war when the gap in the Mantle closed. After their release from prison, they’d been unable to obtain citizenship or find jobs, so the Lagrimari had formed settlements, shantytowns really, and eked out a meager living with the help of the Sisterhood. But Papa had met Mama and built a life with her. He never talked much of home or said anything about wanting to go back.
Jasminda had asked him about it, over and over, always afraid that as soon as the chance came, he would disappear into the mysterious country of his birth, just over the mountains. He would reassure her that he wasn’t going anywhere—sometimes with a chuckle, sometimes with an exasperated sigh, and occasionally with a haunted look in his eye that made her stop the questions.
The Seventh Breach took place the summer of her fifteenth year. The fighting had ended before her family even heard about it, isolated as their valley home was. Jasminda was glad they didn’t find out until the breach had closed. She believed Papa’s words that he would never leave her—believed them until two years ago when he’d been proved a liar.
But now her own two eyes bore witness of Lagrimari soldiers on her mountain. The odd Elsiran had been convinced he was still in Lagrimar. That meant he’d crossed the Mantle without even knowing it. Was this the start of another breach war, or something else entirely?
If she’d believed the Elsiran, she would have drained her Song to heal him more. His injuries were beyond her limited abilities, but she’d selfishly only given a little of her power to ease the worst of his pain. She’d wanted to leave a bit in reserve for her long journey. Could she have helped him avoid the men? There was little she could do for him now, not against six armed soldiers, but guilt made her follow them anyway.
It made no sense; he was nobody to her. Just another Elsiran. Except … He had not stared at her or been cruel. He had, in fact, shielded her from those men, put himself in their path so they would not find her. Why would he do such a thing?
As the men took wrong turn after wrong turn, she stayed on course, though the direct route she’d planned to take would have had her home and warm in bed by now.
Dawn poked its head over the jagged peaks, and with its arrival came the crowing of a rooster. The soldiers stopped short at a fork in the path. Jasminda knew that crow all too well.
The men conferred for a moment and chose to follow the crowing. The mountain made the sound seem closer than it really was, but the sign of civilization could not be mistaken. Her relief to be headed out of the storm battled with alarm—these strangers were now on a path that led only one place.
Her home.
The Elsiran had regained his senses, and instead of being dragged behind the men like a sack of beets, he stumbled along, his hands tied in front of him. The men climbed down the mountain, leaving the storm behind bit by bit. The snow and ice would grow worse over the next few days, but it would stay at the higher elevations. The valley where her home lay would remain lush and green, protected from the harsh weather by either the mountains surrounding it, or some lingering spell of Papa’s, or perhaps a little of both. But there would be no way out. These men would be trapped in an area that was only a two-hour walk from end to end. They would find her cabin; there was no way to avoid it.
She doubled back and took a shortcut she usually avoided, though it had been a favorite of her brothers. It involved a very steep climb, required scaling several large boulders, and brought her far too near one of the caves that peppered the mountain. She ignored the yawning black opening and focused on beating the men to her cabin.
Awake now for over twenty-four hours, she pushed herself far beyond exhaustion. Snow made the rocks slippery, and she lost her footing and slid down an embankment, skinning her hands and forearms. She picked herself up, ignoring the injury, and raced to her cabin, confident she had at least twenty minutes before the soldiers arrived.
She hurried to the barn, where she found the goats already awake, agitated and jittery, no doubt because of the storm. They were like her, craving peace and quiet. Any interruption to their routine or change in the weather troubled the sensitive creatures. She checked their food, then barred the outer barn door to keep them from wandering.
Her next stop was the cabin, where she set down her bag and retrieved her shotgun. She carried a pistol with her on trips to town, but the shotgun was her favorite. It was almost an antique but shot straight and true. She loaded it with the shells she’d purchased from the blacksmith, then sat on the porch steps. Waiting.
Do what you think you can’t. That’s what her papa had always said. It was a mantra of his. When he’d repeat it, one of her brothers would often make a face, crossing his eyes and mouthing along. But with them all gone now, it had become her own incantation, chanted inside her head at moments like these.
This was her home. The only thing she had in the world. No tax man nor enemy soldier could take it from her. She would do whatever she must to protect it.
It wasn’t long before the telltale clomp of boots announced the men. She hadn’t gotten a good look at them in the dark, but the cool morning light revealed dirty uniforms and even dirtier faces. All except for their leader, a man of skin and bone, his narrow face overshadowed by both a giant, curling mustache and a blackened eye. He was clean and well groomed, his hair parted and shining with pomade.
She stood as they approached, shotgun dangling almost casually from the crook of her arm. The Elsiran, barely standing, was held upright by a soldier. All
her healing work had been undone by their brutality.
The leader spoke first. “Pleasant morning to you, miss. I am Tensyn ol-Trador, Honorable Sergeant of His Majesty the True Father’s royal army. My men and I are in need of food and shelter. We must speak with your father or husband.” His voice was high and nasal, like a human rat.
“This is my home.”
His eyebrows shot up, and he glanced back at his men, his mouth twisting into what perhaps was meant to be a smile. “You are alone?”
“I want no trouble here,” she responded. The Elsiran’s head popped up; he frowned and squinted at her, his bruised face freezing once he recognized her. Astonishment and sorrow settled across his features. His shoulders slumped.
Nerves caused her to struggle to catch hold of Earthsong. The power skittered out of her grasp.
“We have been caught in the mountains by the storm and cannot make it to the capital until it passes. We are tasked with transporting this spy to face the True Father’s judgment.”
“An Elsiran spy? In your uniform?”
“Yes, he had been spelled to look like one of us. I witnessed it wear off with my own eyes, miss. There are traitorous souls infecting our land, working with our enemies. The Singer responsible for this spell is soon to meet the World After, I think. But that is a matter for the True Father to sort out.”
The soldier holding the Elsiran kicked at his legs, causing him to crumple, face-first, to the ground. His upper body heaved as he drew in jagged breaths, but he did not cry out. Jasminda held her breath, keeping her face rigid to hide her horror. The prisoner rolled awkwardly to his knees, then slowly struggled back to his feet. The soldiers beside him snickered as he wobbled before finding his balance. His head shot up defiantly.
Her breath escaped in a rush. The man she’d met the day before on the mountain had been somewhat peculiar, but also gentle. Even with the uniform, he’d struck her as a painter or poet who had fallen upon thieves or been mauled by an animal. She hadn’t truly believed him to be a soldier. But now, the sharp lines of his face had turned savage. With his sculpted cheekbones, decisive chin, and that cold power in his eyes, she wondered how these soldiers ever thought they had him cowed. How could she have thought him anything but a warrior?
