by Alyssa Deane
It was the yelp, of course, which revealed her position to one who was passing, made him curious enough to haul his horse around, to return to the alley's dark opening. Already concealed once more behind the cart, Roxane watched the man dismount, frowning into the shade. His mount, a beautifully muscled white Arabian stallion, fought against the reins wrapped about his hand, jerking him sideways. He yelled at the animal and struck at it, so that Roxane understood, with a marked intuition, that this horse did not belong to him. In the next moment, as the horse wheeled about, pivoting at the extent of the trooper's arm, Roxane knew exactly to whom the stallion did belong. Even had she not known the horse, she recognized the saddle, the intricate and unique etchings tooled into the leather, the polished brass accoutrements, the place near the pommel that had been worn smooth by the stock of Collier's rifle...
Her heart ceased to beat, or perhaps its pace had so quickened that there was no sensation of rhythm, no pulse, no drumbeat, just a singing, hollow note accelerating to great velocity, round and round in its course through her body. The trooper let the Arabian go in frustration, execrating the beast in a whiplash voice that slithered along the walls of the alley. Roxane moved from her hiding place, stepped out and away, rising to her full height. Her arms came up, straight out before her, together, grasping the pistol between her hands in an unrelenting grip.
“You are a dead man,” she said softly.
If the sowar heard her words or understood them, she did not know, but he must have noticed some evidence of her movement, for he paused as he was about to turn away and came forward into the alley, out of the sunlight. He started at the sight of her, his hand reaching for the sword in his belt as a slow grin twisted his mouth. Then his gaze fell upon the gun in her hand, and the grin faded. His fingers hung in the air, twitching slightly above the hilt of his weapon. His eyes, in the shadows between the buildings, were entirely black, for even the whites of them were shaded and filled with the blood of a long, sleepless night.
For the space of several slow-drawn breaths, Roxane met the trooper's gaze unflinchingly. A vagrant wind, hot and searing, spiraled into the alley from behind her, pressing her torn skirt against her legs and spinning debris into a cloud which rushed toward the sowar, and past him, into the white light beyond. He stared back at her, immobile in his blue-gray coat, and it was patent in his browned countenance that he saw not her, nor even perhaps the pistol in her hand, but the assured imminence of his own demise.
In the end, she did not shoot him. She let him go without a word spoken, permitted him to stumble from the alley in pursuit of his comrades, long gone. When she had killed the other man, he who had been attempting to murder a woman in the streets, there had been reason for that action, an attempt to protect another from a mortal stroke. To kill this man would have been an act of vengeance, a cold, ruthless, unpardonable exercise. The anger urging her to release a deadly projectile into the heart of a man she could only assume had taken her love from this earth would never have been enough to carry her through life, knowing she had done so merely as a sacrifice to revenge. She let him go, and in the short interval that followed, as she stared out into the raw, vertical sunlight where the man had stood, the icy fire of her rage seeped away, abandoned her, rushing like water into the ground at her feet. She was left empty, and hollow, and shaking, and utterly alone.
Creeping cautiously from the alleyway, Roxane peered in the direction the sowar had taken, finding the street empty. She did not want to think of Collier, to dwell on the elements of his demise, nor of his suffering, nor even on the possibility that he might still be alive somewhere beyond her knowledge of his whereabouts or her ability to aid him.
But he must be alive, she decided, with a swift and silent prayer; he must live. There was no way any of this could be borne otherwise.
At a sound down the street behind her, she turned her head. Adain, his snow-white hide flecked with dust and mud and what appeared to be blood upon his forelegs, was standing at a short distance, muscle and flesh shivering over the bones of his haunches and the curve of flank, between rib and hip. The whites of his eyes were showing all around, and the stubby lashes, so like a woman's, Roxane had once thought, giving him the appearance of consternation. Not bothering to consider the wisdom of her undertaking, Roxane stepped out onto the cobbles, moving toward the white stallion.
She spoke softly, hand out. Remembering the fruit in the bag, she withdrew a juicy globe as an offering. Adain's ears pricked forward at the sound of his name and the sight of a sweet treat, and came forward hesitantly. Roxane paused, not wanting to alarm the animal, waiting with her hand extended. When the animal had neared, she slipped her hand without haste into the halter, speaking his name over and over in a soothing sing-song voice. He responded well to the familiar tones. Ducking under his head, avoiding the juice dripping from his lips, Roxane walked around to the stirrup and steadied it, then looped the reins over the animal's back. Drawing a deep breath, she hiked her skirts up, fitted her foot into the stirrup, and mounted in a most unfeminine manner. She did not care. Adain accepted her presence on his back with only a small protest of form, and a slight toss of his head.
They were not far now from Ahmed's apartments, and even though Adain was a most noticeable creature, if she rode him in places where they might escape the eyes of the mutineers and rioters, Roxane hoped to gain the palace sooner than on foot. And if they were seen, Adain would, if need be, provide a better chance of escape. When she was near enough, she would secure the horse, for later use in exiting the city. He was a strong animal and could carry both her and Sera with ease.
It was a dangerously simplistic plan, she knew, but it was the only one she possessed.
Chapter Nineteen
The sun was at its zenith, shining down with blistering white light onto a figure on a commandeered cavalry horse, a fleet Australian mare of the Dragoons that was only partially broken, galloping wildly up the ridge toward the Flag Staff Battery. In the wake of their progress across uneven terrain, dirt rolled into clouds of pale red dust. The animal's fetlocks were caked with mud over the brown of its hide, for the rider had dared the perils of the river to avoid the bridge of boats. Rebels continued to cross there, over into the city.
The sounds emanating from Delhi, whose large population was now swollen by thousands of rebel troops and miscreants, were those of chaos. A dense black smoke rose into the colorless sky, and the screams of raging men were one unholy, rumbling voice.
In the cantonment, disorder reigned. Gun carriages rolled with great speed across the rutted earth. Those who manned them were undetermined friend or foe. Soldiers were breaking away from the main, hastening toward the city gates, small with distance. Collier saw them as he rode, and saw the bodies of other men, lying like miniature puppets in uniform in the dust. Whether or not they still lived, he could not tell. Nearer, and more immediate in his mind and intent, women and children on foot or in pony-carts were struggling toward the hulking tower of the Battery. Above the stone tower, the Union Jack still snapped out defiantly in the dry, hot wind.
He had bound his wounds, but haste had made the execution haphazard, and they pained him, aggravated by the harrowing ride from Meerut to Delhi on a fractious mount. Perspiration ran in rivulets beneath his dusty uniform and dripped, stinging, into his eyes. He tasted blood, from the blow to his jaw which had caused him to sink his teeth into his tongue; he caught the edge of the cut frequently as he rode, so that each time he spat along the wind the saliva flew foamy and red, spotting the shoulder of his jacket. The smell of it, of blood, was strong, leeching through the fabric of his uniform from the injury to his ribs.
Focusing on one face among many, Collier rode straight up to the Tytlers’ pony cart and dismounted. In his exhaustion, he would have slipped to his knees had he not kept his hand firmly wrapped within the reins. He leaned against the animal's foam-flecked neck.
“Captain Harrison!"
Running fingers through his dri
pping hair, he reflected at a weary tangent that he had somewhere lost his hat.
“Are all civilians ordered to the Battery?” he questioned Harriet, a friend of Roxane's and the wife of one of the officers.
“Yes,” said the woman in the cart. “Word came that all civilians must repair to the Battery. My husband has deemed it safer there, and I am not one to argue with him at this time."
She smiled at him, with only a small quaver to her mouth. Collier watched as she stroked the head of her daughter distractedly, dislodging the wet cloth she had placed there to protect the child from the sun. She herself was dressed in an odd assortment of clothing, beneath which the rounded swell of her abdomen was readily apparent. It could not be much longer for her, Collier thought with a sinking heart, and looked away, glancing up the line. He saw that others still wore their loose sleeping robes and slippers, hair unbound, clutching in their hands that which seemed, at this moment, the most important to their peace of mind: the stoppered bottles of stimulant ammonia. Trudging along beside many, faithful servants carried a collection of personal items, or children too young to walk so far on the sun-baked dust of the road.
“Is Roxane—is Mrs.—” He paused for breath. “Is Miss Sheffield with you?"
The woman looked up at him with an odd expression, then turned her head to follow his gaze back along the line toward the smoking residences. “I ... I have not seen her,” she said.
“Not at all?"
“No."
Thanking her, Collier led the horse along the road, searching for Roxane among the women moving toward the stone edifice. He asked for her until his parched throat gave out, realizing, only then, that not a drop of liquid had passed his lips since the afternoon before. Recognizing his plight, one of the civilian men offered him a flask. Collier drank before identifying the contents, then choked on the mouthful of distilled whiskey. Still, the alcohol served to moisten his tongue, and he handed the flask back, asking once again after Roxane. The other man shrugged, suggesting that she was possibly already inside.
Upon entering the Battery, a cylindrical tower with a smaller section protruding from the top, he ascended a winding stair to a tiny room no more than eighteen feet in diameter. Here Collier saw more of the women with their children and servants, huddled onto the relative coolness of the floor or standing against the curving walls. Roxane was not among them, nor had anyone seen her throughout the course of the day. Her father, someone finally spoke out, had been wounded and returned to his home, where a handful of loyal sepoys were keeping watch. Perhaps she was still there with him. It was said the wound was mortal....
Mutely, Collier turned and stumbled back down the stairs, his heart contracting in his breast. Climbing once more into the saddle, he rode as swiftly as the spent beast would take him the two miles across the ridge to the officers’ homes, a nightmare urgency causing the blood to surge through his veins. Even at a distance, he could see that most of the houses were on fire. Clouds of dark smoke billowed skyward, and the smell of the growing conflagration stung his nostrils and caused his eyes to water. Gardens were trampled, fences broken, the thatch of roofs consumed in flame. In the yards, furniture lay smashed, clothes discarded, chests which once held silver and other precious items looted and left on the ground. Yet he found the home of Max Sheffield untouched. Outside, a half-dozen sepoys stood watch, Enfield rifles at the ready. He ran inside, heedless of the grinding of his ribs beneath the bandage. The door struck the wall; flakes of whitewashed plaster spiraled down over the floor.
“Roxane!"
The sound of his voice was oddly hollow, falling back against his ears like an echo off the face of marble. He could have sworn, in that instant, that there was no one in the house, but then he heard a voice, quiet and dignified, call, "Sahib," and he looked to the parlor doorway, where Govind, the gardener, was signaling him inside.
“The colonel-sahib is here,” he said, raising a long brown finger, stained green from the young plants he had been tending, to his lips in a gesture for quiet. Silent, Collier entered the parlor.
The odor in the room was very strong, and Collier knew immediately where the wound had fallen, and that it was, indeed, a mortal one. Govind, or perhaps Roxane, had lighted two candles and sprinkled some sort of oil—patchouli, Collier thought—to alleviate the smell, but it was of no use. Without speaking, he crossed the floor and sat down in the chair the gardener had abandoned.
“Colonel Sheffield,” he said, speaking softly, as one does in a room where death is hovering. “Can I get you something?"
The man lying on the sofa rolled his head in the direction of Collier's voice without opening his eyes. His skin was pallid and had a distinctive look to it, like a pastry shell, very fine and transparent and lifted away from the structure of his face just enough for the light to shine through the surface and show all the webbed mappings of his age and his pain.
“I cannot believe ... I would not ... I would not have believed..."
Max spoke breathlessly, his voice no more than a ghost of his former commanding tones, so that Collier was made to lean forward, nearer to the man, straining for the words.
“Colonel,” he said, “would you like some brandy, for the pain? Or something stronger? Damn it,” he muttered, turning toward the gardener, “where is the physician?"
Govind, his dark eyes moist, merely looked at him and shook his head.
Collier's breath escaped him in a rush. He dropped his head into his hand.
“Colonel,” he said, quietly, “is there opium?"
On the sofa, Max shifted his body beneath the stained sheets. He groaned, once, and was still.
“I ... I don't want it, Harrison."
Collier nodded against his palm. Outside the covered window, he could hear the sharp retort of falling timbers at a small distance; nearer, the sepoys spoke in a fluid rise and fall of hushed speech. Inside, all was quiet, save for the rasping sound of the colonel's respiration. Collier listened for another sound beyond that dreadful indication of ebbing life, for the hastening tread of Roxane's steps across the floor, returning from some other part of the house where she must have gone to search out that which would ease her father's suffering.
After several minutes, Collier raised his head. The sweat was cold upon his flesh, and a sensation of ice rushing suddenly through his veins circulated once, and settled into his belly. He felt sick, and light-headed, and more afraid than he had at any time during the past two days’ dire events.
“Where is Roxane?” he asked.
Max made a noise, less of pain than of despair.
Collier looked again to Govind, who moved his head, very slightly, in mute response.
Collier's hands began to tremble where he held them, between his knees. “Where has she gone? Where is she?"
Beside him, Max sighed and turned his head away, staring at the wall where the candlelight had made a pale pattern of shadow in the room. Collier raised his eyes to the gardener. Between his knees, his hands clenched into fists so tight, he could have snapped bone and not known it.
“She went after the little one,” Govind offered, finally.
“Where?” His voice was harsh with dread.
The gardener lifted his hands, folding them together. Squaring his shoulders, he met Collier's gaze.
“Into the city,” he said.
Into the city. The significance of those words vibrated through Collier's consciousness with the resonance of physical impact.
“Oh, dear God."
In an instant he was on his feet, leaping up from the chair and racing out of the house, crying aloud in torment, calling her name, the blood heated now to flame and pounding through his heart like molten iron, a pain of anguish, tearing his soul; but when he stopped and looked around, he was only where he had been, seated still in a shaded room beside a dying man, a man who would die without his daughters at his side. The gardener, true and loyal servant, had moved to stand near the doorway as though to block the headlong
flight which must have been apparent in Collier's eyes. Collier saw that he was weeping.
Wordlessly, Collier reached out. He took Max Sheffield's hand into his own, holding it very gently, for Roxane's sake, and waited for the end.
Chapter Twenty
Adain—Adain was gone, wrested from her by cruel hands. She was tumbled from the saddle into the street, where a fist in her hair raised her to her feet. Roxane kicked and struggled, much to the amusement of her captors. Her hair came unbound from the mistreatment, flowing around her shoulders. The long locks were a target for grasping fingers, tugging thick strands from her head. Behind her, where she was unable to turn and look back, she heard the stallion make an unearthly noise, a noise like a woman screaming, echoing off the walls of the courtyard. She did not know, after that, what became of the horse.
Roxane tripped, rending her skirt, and was yanked upright by the fist in her hair. The action was not as forceful as it had been, but Roxane was not fooled into thinking it was kindness, but merely oversight. There were many of them now, prisoners being herded through the courtyard dividing the attention of their captors. Driven, frightened, some crying, toward a single door recessed in the wall. Civilians, Roxane noted, and nearly all of them women and children.
The room was small, barely able to contain them all, with only the one door for the circulation of air. Where she was shoved nearly to the back, the atmosphere was stifling. Roxane felt near to fainting. Around her, it appeared that some had already succumbed to the airlessness and heat, if the fright alone had not been enough to render them senseless. It was dark in that room, and when the door was shut a few minutes later, blacker than night. Some of the children screamed in terror.
“Open that door!” a voice shouted—a male voice, one of the few present among them.
“Is it locked? Open it!"
The door was shouldered open on creaking hinges. A shaft of light entered the room, blinding in radiance after even such a short time in the pitch of the room's lightless interior.
