by Sharon Shinn
“You might not want to marry,” he said. “You could go to Luminaux and become a painter, or move to Bethel and buy a farm. Raise wheat and chickens and sell them in the markets.”
“Yes, but I’d be more likely to sell them to the Jansai, who would sell them for me in the market,” she said. “And then I’d be stuck on the farm all day. That doesn’t sound like much fun.”
“Move to Semorrah. Marry a rich man and lie about in luxury all day.”
“But then I’d still be married,” she pointed out. “And a rich Semorran merchant might not be any nicer than a Jansai man.”
“Very true. Well, you could open your own stall in the Semorrah market and tell fortunes to the travelers. Or sell gold and other baubles.”
“That I bought from the Jansai who came straight from the artisans in Luminaux,” she said. “You see? There is no way for me to avoid the Jansai. They touch every part of my life.”
“Move to an angel hold,” he suggested. “We do not deal overmuch with Jansai at the Eyrie and Cedar Hills.”
“I wouldn’t think I’d be very welcome at either of those places.”
He laughed a bit cynically. “Attractive young women are always welcome at the angel holds.”
“No, I think I will stay in Breven with the life I know and the family I love,” she said. “But it is interesting to think about the possibilities, even if I know they’ll never happen.”
He laughed. “Sometimes,” he said, “a dream is all the more powerful simply because you know it will never come true.”
They talked for another hour or two, Obadiah drawing her out with questions about her cousin, her brother, and the rest of her family. Her life sounded appallingly circumscribed to him, and she seemed moderately discontented with it, but no more so than any young girl resentful of the interference of her parents and the contours of her existence. He supposed she was not much different from a wealthy Manadavvi’s daughter, who was also expected to marry a man of her family’s choosing and live a life very similar to the one her mother had experienced. The Manadavvi women, of course, appeared to have much greater freedom and a more attractive array of privileges, but all in all, he guessed, their lives conformed to certain strict guidelines. How many pampered young Manadavvi heiresses had he met who had been as rebellious as Rebekah at the age of twenty, and as traditional and serene as their mothers at the age of forty?
She did surprise him once, in the middle of a story about her cousin Martha, who sounded like a rare handful. Obadiah found himself wondering if even the repressive Jansai system would be able to smother a girl so lively, and he said something of the sort to Rebekah.
“Yes, but I’m the only one who knows how wild she really is,” the young woman replied. “I’m the only one who went with her to the fair last year—” She stopped abruptly as soon as the words left her mouth.
“Went to the fair?” he repeated, instantly intrigued. “What fair? Are girls allowed to go to fairs?”
“No! We can’t even go to the market.”
“Then what did you—how did you—”
She leaned forward to whisper. “We dressed as men. Last year at the harvest festival. As boys.”
He took a startled breath. “And no one caught you?” he demanded.
“No. It was the most exciting thing! A little scary, though. But I want to go again when they have the festival in a few weeks. I know I shouldn’t.”
“What would happen if someone discovered you?
She didn’t answer directly. “We would just have to be very careful so that no one did catch us,” she said. “Maybe we won’t go. Probably we won’t. But if I’m ever to see the festival again, it has to be now, before I’m married. It might be harder to leave Isaac’s house than Hector’s.”
He wanted to discuss this astonishing revelation at greater length, but the sun had gone down and the air had cooled noticeably. Rebekah rose to her feet and shook the sand from her garments. “I suppose I’ve stayed away as long as I possibly can,” she said. “The men must be back from hunting by now, and the women will be making dinner. I’d better return to camp.”
“I can’t thank you enough,” Obadiah said seriously. “If you had not helped me—”
“It will get cold when the sun goes down,” she interrupted. “You might want to pull your tent down and cover yourself with your shirts.”
“Angels are never cold,” he said, amused.
“Angels who have been wounded might be,” she retorted. “And the sand will be quite chilly underneath you. If nothing else, you might want to put some of your clothes under your body. I pulled out your trousers when I unpacked your bag. You could make yourself a little mat from them.”
“Thank you. I would not have thought of that.”
She bent over the geyser, filling one skin after another. “Do you still have enough water? Do you want me to refill your containers?”
“One of them is empty. That would be kind of you.”
She took it from him as he extended his hand out from the edge of the tent. “I can’t think of anything else I can do for you.”
“As I said, you have been very kind.”
“You might take a fever in the night,” she said. “And there are predators who roam the desert who wouldn’t mind a little angel meat for dinner.”
“Since I don’t have any weapons, I’ll just try to stay alert.”
“I’ll bring you some stones. You can frighten off some of the smaller ones if you hit them with a rock. Or you might bang a rock against the metal of your canteen. Most of them don’t like noise.”
He had never in his life thought about primitive ways to discourage night hunters from wanting to feast on his flesh. He’d camped out in the open land more times than he could count—though he’d never particularly enjoyed it—but he’d always been facing a fire, and he’d never felt either helpless or in danger.
She stepped away, returning about ten minutes later with a dozen fist-sized rocks. These she piled up neatly within easy reach of his hand. “If you have more night visitors than this, you may just as well lie back and let yourself be eaten,” she said with a smile in her voice.
“Good advice,” he said. “And someday a Jansai caravan will stop by and find my bones spread out before the fountain and wonder what manner of man was so foolish he died in the presence of water.”
“What about your wings?” she asked with interest.
“What about them?”
“Do they rot away like flesh, or hold their shapes like bone?”
This, again, was not something he had ever had occasion to consider, though he had heard historians in Velora talk about old sites they had dug up from the time the settlers first arrived on Samaria. “The wings are mostly tissue and sinew, so they rot away,” he said. “But if I die just right, or if I’m buried under a layer of soil and rock, my wings will leave an impression in the dirt, and anyone who finds my body in a hundred years or so will know that I was an angel.”
“And if they find your body in a week or so, your wings will probably still be intact,” she said. “Because I don’t think the mountain cats eat feathers. Or do they?”
“You’re a sort of gruesome girl,” Obadiah said.
Her laugh pealed out, lilting and happy. “I don’t really think you’re going to die,” she said cheerfully. “But I’ll come back tomorrow to check on you.”
He was silent a moment. “You will?” he said slowly. “Truly, I would not have asked it of you. You have done so much for me already.”
Her garments fluttered with her shrug. “We’ll be camped here another day at least. I don’t see any reason I can’t come back. And I’ll bring you more food, because that isn’t going to last you long.”
“I don’t want you to get in trouble.”
“Oh, I won’t. I won’t even have to sneak away. I’m sure my mother will send me back here tomorrow for more water.”
“Well, be careful. Don’t come here if it will make anyo
ne angry.”
That smile in her voice again. “I know how to leave a campsite without being seen. I think I’ll be able to come back tomorrow. I just hope you aren’t delirious with fever when I get here.”
“Or dead,” he added.
That laugh. “Or eaten. Then I won’t get a chance to see what happens to your body.”
Now he laughed. “Good-bye, Rebekah of the Jansai. I hope to see you tomorrow.”
“Good-bye, angel Obadiah. You will.”
He spent the first hour after she left reviewing their conversation and marveling at the fact that she had appeared at all, in the hour when he was so greatly in need of aid, and then that she had consented to help him. Not one Jansai woman in a hundred would have done such a thing, he believed. Well, maybe her cousin Martha. Wretched as he felt, he could not help a smile from coming to his lips. He had learned enough about Martha to think that Rebekah probably passed for a model of decorum in comparison.
Although, perhaps not. Perhaps even Martha would have fled the scene, leaving the angel there to drown or bake or starve. And how many of those silent, shielded, frightened young Jansai girls he had glimpsed would have stayed beside him a whole afternoon, trading stories and making him laugh? Surely, even among the rebels of her peers, Rebekah was unusual.
She was also adept at predicting the future, for every evil she had warned him against came true in the next few hours. He had been feeling stronger by the time she left, sustained by the food she’d given him, rescued from the wrath of the sun, and buoyed by the conversation. But as the night grew darker, he started to feel worse again. The gash on his leg felt as if someone was holding a brand to the flesh; his wing twitched constantly with the memory of fire. The air cooled alarmingly, and the sand against his skin began to feel like so many grainy pellets of ice. Struggling and swearing with the effort, he managed to worm his two worn pairs of trousers under his body, and that helped a little. But his skin was so cool. The trauma seemed to have leached all the excess heat from his veins, leaving him shivering and pathetic as any mortal.
So he took her next suggestion, which was to tug on the fabric of his tent and bring his shirts tumbling down to cover his body. They were thin and fancy, not designed to act as blankets in a chilly, hostile environment, but he still felt better as he made a nest of his soiled clothing and curled all his limbs together for warmth. The expenditure of energy left him completely drained, so he took one last sip of water and let himself fall asleep.
He woke a couple of hours later, hot and achy and fuzzily aware that some other creature waited nearby. He thrashed about until he achieved a sitting position, though the action caused his wing to crackle and his leg to spasm with agony. Then he saw it: the shadowed but unmistakable shape of a mountain cat maybe ten yards away on the other side of the fountain. Little was visible except the cat’s distinctive silhouette and glinting eyes, but that was good enough for Obadiah. Letting out a frightful yell, he grabbed up one of the rocks and hurled it as hard as he could at the night hunter. The cat whipped to its feet, snarled, and bounded away, but did not go far. Obadiah could still see it, a moving patch of sand and shadow against the sand and shadow of the desert. As its lashing tail stilled and its pointed face lowered to the ground, it grew almost invisible. But Obadiah was not likely to forget that it was still there.
Maybe not such a good idea to sleep.
Now that he was awake and in a sitting position, he took inventory. His flesh, so cool just a few hours ago, was now even hotter to the touch than an angel’s skin should be, and his head swam a little if he moved it too suddenly. Fever, after all. Damn her for being right.
But he could not damn Rebekah, not after she had saved him. He apologized to the night air and tried to clear his head.
What had she said earlier? About angels begging for medicine from the god? Had he come across any bruised and broken traveler, that was exactly what he would have done: raised a song to the god to pray for drugs. He even knew the exact melodies of the prayers for medicines that would take care of fever; he could hear them running through his head in his own clear tenor. But, merciful Jovah, he did not think he had the strength to sing.
He drew his knees up, moving his left leg carefully, and linked his hands around his ankles. The posture made him feel more secure, as if he would not suddenly lose his balance and fall back to the ground. Then he tilted his head back so he could see the stars, the glittering map of the heavens that seemed, in his delirious state, even closer to his hand than the equally glittering expanse of sand. He opened his mouth and willed himself to sing.
The music came out like a whisper, like a breath, a lullaby so soft he could have sung it at the ear of a sleeping baby. Doggedly, he sang the piece through, panting a little at the first chorus, pausing for breath several times during the second verse, and practically wheezing by the time he arrived at the second chorus. There was no chance this prayer would find its way to Jovah’s ear. Obadiah himself could hardly discern the melody. The distracted god would not be able to catch the arrangement of the notes, understand the mumbled words, and toss down lozenges of medicine to ease the angel’s hurts.
Obadiah’s head fell forward to rest on his knees. He was so tired. He was so drained. He did not care, at that moment, if the fever burned him up or the mountain cat claimed him for dinner. His eyes shut and his mind closed down. Locked in this cramped position, he slept.
Chapter Seven
When Rebekah returned around noon the next day, Obadiah was in seriously bad shape. He had spent the night dozing in his upright position, then jerking awake every time instinct warned him that danger was approaching. Maybe seven times he spotted the mountain cat only a few feet away, and he drove it off with badly flung rocks and a cacophony of shouts and hammerings. Each time, it slunk away with a little less alacrity; each time, it settled down to wait just a few inches closer.
Every time he woke, defended himself, and then assessed his situation, Obadiah felt worse. His head was beginning to pound, the pain from his wounds was fierce and insistent, and fire ran through his veins. There was nothing much he could do about any of this except drink water, try to rest, and try to stay alive.
When dawn yawned and sat up, he more or less surrendered. He was too tired to maintain his semi-seated position, and he no longer cared if the mountain cat ate him for breakfast. Shuddering, he lowered himself back onto his trousers, untidily bunched into a bed on the sand, and pulled his soiled shirts over his face and torso. He had scarcely adjusted himself twice, seeking a more comfortable position, before he was asleep.
He woke once, so hot and so thirsty that he did not think he would live long enough to fight free of his linen coverlet and find the mostly empty waterskin. A few gulps of water—almost as hot as he was—and then he lay back down, panting. It took a moment for him to realize that he was still alive. So neither infection nor predator had killed him yet. The mountain cat was a nocturnal animal and had probably slipped away with the sunrise; but a fever would hunt any time, night or day, and might easily bring him down before nightfall.
When he woke again, Rebekah was there.
She apparently had been there for some time, because everything was different. It took him a moment to identify why he felt so much better, so he stared at her for a long time, trying to marshal his thoughts. She did not seem to be aware that he was awake. She sat before the fountain, splashing quietly but purposefully in the water, and he could not bring himself to wonder what she was doing. He could only marvel at what she had done.
She had constructed a real tent for him, for one thing. Stretched over his head was an actual length of stitched fabric, and it had been attached to four short poles that were stuck in the ground around him in a rectangular pattern. The pain still throbbed in his leg and his wing, but it was numbed, almost bearable. She must have—while he was still sleeping—spread his hurts with an incredibly efficacious salve. And he was no longer so hot. His skin felt cool, as if someone had wip
ed it down with water.
But he was still beset by a raging thirst.
“Rebekah,” he croaked.
Instantly she turned from her task and came to kneel beside him. Again, she was completely covered in swirling veils, so he could not see her face or her shape; it was like having an attentive ghost perch at his bedside. “So you are still alive,” she said. “I was not sure, when I arrived this morning, that there was a breathing man beneath those tangled shirts.”
“Can I have—something to drink?” he whispered.
She already had a waterskin in her hand. She held it to his lips because his hands were so shaky he could not keep them steady. Expecting another mouthful of hot, tepid water, he was astonished to taste a sweet fruity drink. He gulped it down greedily, spilling some down his chin and onto the sand.
“What is that? Where did—you get it?”
“I brought it from camp. Water and mashed apple and marrowroot. It’s good for you.”
“It’s wonderful. And all this—this tent—”
She laughed. “Yes, I was very pleased with this myself! I brought the broken axle from Simon’s wagon and a strip of canvas we carry to repair our own tent. Much better than shirts and shrubs.”
“But how did you carry it so far?”
She spread her hands out as if uncertain of how to answer such a ridiculous question. “I made a bundle and slung it on my back. It wasn’t difficult. And I brought you some food. And medicine.”
“Medicine,” he repeated. “I think you must have already given me medicine. You’ve dressed my wounds again, haven’t you?”
She nodded. “Yes. You cried out when I touched you, but you didn’t seem to wake. I’m sorry if I hurt you.”
“If you did, I don’t remember. But the pain is—so much better now.”
“Is it? Good!” she exclaimed. “It’s manna root salve. Nothing as good as that in any of the three provinces, not for an injury. But that’s not what I meant when I said I brought you medicine.”
He could only stare at her dumbly.
