by K A Doore
The liquid in the bowl had assumed an unhealthy sheen. He unstopped a vial and scooped some of the liquid into it. Then he covered the vial with his thumb and shook it. The liquid shimmered, gray and oily.
“Give me a hand,” he ordered. Then his gaze flicked to Illi and the very corner of his mouth, just visible above his tagel, twitched with what might be amusement. “Or perhaps I should say: Give me a skull. Because, see, you might otherwise attempt to give me an actual hand, which would be less than ideal.”
As with every time Heru attempted a joke, Illi wasn’t sure if she should laugh or not, so she didn’t. Instead she grabbed the skull by its short, curved horns and held it in front of her as Heru pried apart its teeth and spilled the liquid into its mouth. There was nothing stopping the liquid from sloshing through the skull’s gaping neck hole onto Illi’s sandals, yet her feet remained dry. Instead, the skull vibrated in her hands and let out a whining shriek so high-pitched it made her teeth itch.
Heru worked smoothly and efficiently, his movements perfected through the hundreds of times he’d performed this same act. He replaced the empty vial in the rack, then pulled a clear glass sphere from his pocket. The sphere was hardly bigger than his remaining eye. He set it between the skull’s jaws and muttered unintelligible words.
The skull shook harder, but Illi had expected that. She held on. Then all at once, darkness swarmed around the skull, buzzing and thick like a swarm of locusts. It pulsed outward, once, twice, before being sucked into the glass sphere. Then the darkness was gone and the skull felt oddly empty and light in a way that had little to do with weight.
The sphere, on the other hand, glowed almost as bright as the flask above them. The glow faded until the glass held nothing but a murky red smear.
Heru set the sphere in its own bowl. His eye roamed over the remaining skulls as he grabbed the next vial. Illi set the empty skull on the table and picked up the next. Together, in practiced silence, they repeated the procedure on the other twelve skulls.
Thirteen guul became thirteen empty skulls and in turn thirteen murky red spheres. Heru placed the spheres into a woven basket and tied a scrap of leather over the top. Then he unlocked a chest at the back of the room, spilling a bloody red glow across the floor. He set the basket inside and closed the lid before Illi could get a better look, but she knew what was in there: seven years’ worth of guul attacks and over a hundred more spheres.
The lid clicked as Heru locked it. He hesitated, his palms on the top of the trunk. When he stood, it was as if he were a vulture unfolding from its kill. His eye found Illi and he frowned, as if he’d forgotten she was there. Then the eye tracked upward, squinting against the light from the flask. His eyebrows came together in a thoughtful expression.
“I should go,” said Illi, already backing toward the doorway.
“Yes,” said Heru, not quite listening. “Yes, of course.”
By the time Illi reached the curtain, Heru had turned back to his table. He’d grabbed a roll of parchment and was leaning over it, scritch-scritching with a pen. He’d already forgotten her.
3
Blue—pale as glass, thin as smoke—pulsed between Illi’s fingers. But as quickly as the blue had appeared, it evaporated. Illi peered through her fingers at the empty bowl beneath that had contained water only a few heartbeats ago. She felt nothing. Frustrated, she poured more water into the shallow bowl and tried again.
It was hard to focus. Her back prickled with heat from the hearth and she shifted again and again on her cushions, trying to get comfortable despite the weary ache of her limbs. Across the room, Thana was sharpening knives. The rhythmic shnk-shnk-shnk of blade across stone was unusually irritating. And every time Illi managed to clear her thoughts and began to feel the water, she was back down on the sands, Yaluz bleeding out beneath her hands.
But if her healing, weak as it was, would ever be useful, she’d need to be able to focus at any time. Especially when she was uncomfortable.
She breathed deep, feeling for the water despite the distractions. It slipped cool over her consciousness, like the breath of early winter. The faintest blue tickled her fingers.
Then the door opened. The blue vanished.
Illi ground her teeth in frustration and looked up. Mo was already halfway across the room, her faded blue wrap stained with dust and sweat. Her gaze landed on Illi and she slowed, the weariness on her round face tightening to concern.
“You should be resting.”
“That’s what I told her,” said Thana, the shnk-shnk-shnk never wavering.
Illi dropped her gaze back to the bowl in her hands. “I can rest later. I need to practice now. More guul could attack tomorrow.”
Mo’s footsteps were little louder than a breath as she approached. “There won’t be any guul tomorrow, nor will there be any next week. And if there are, you’ll still be ready. No guuli will ever take you by surprise.”
Illi’s fingers tightened on the bowl. “One did. And I—I almost couldn’t. I let myself be overwhelmed and Yaluz could have died. That’s why I need to practice. Please, Mo.”
Mo sucked in a breath, then crouched and put her hands over Illi’s. “The Circle was very clear about water usage in the coming weeks. We need to preserve enough for the rite. That means no wasteful healing.”
“It’s not wasteful if it will save a life.”
Mo sought Illi’s gaze and held it. “Are you saving a life right now?”
“No, but—”
Without breaking eye contact, Mo slid the bowl from between Illi’s hands. “Then no.” She stood and set the bowl at the end of the pile of cushions, out of reach. “If it’s practice you want, we can work on your breathing techniques later.”
Illi sat back into the cushions, letting out all of her breath in a sigh. “We shouldn’t even need water for this rite. It’s not like there are any bodies. We burned them all, remember.”
A click sounded from the other side of the room as Thana set down the dagger she’d been sharpening. “It’s still possible that performing the rite will help their jaan. The marab believe there’s a chance, anyway, and I’m more than willing to waste some water on a chance.” She picked up another dagger and began dragging the whetstone across it.
“The marab are wrong,” said Illi. “Those jaan are all wild. There’s no helping wild jaan. And with this drought we barely have enough water just for the living. Why waste it on the dead?”
“I wouldn’t discount the marab so easily. They’ve had seven years to perfect a new rite,” said Thana.
“And seven years for this drought to worsen. I still don’t see the point. They’re gone. They’re in the Wastes. Heru thinks—” Illi cut herself off, but it was too late.
Thana set the dagger she’d been sharpening down and turned her full attention on Illi. “You know what I think about you spending so much time near him.”
“Somebody has to understand what he does,” said Illi. “He’s the only one who can stop the guul. What if something happens to him?”
“He’s been helping,” said Thana with a nod. “But so have the marab. His way may be faster, but it’s not the only way. Everything he does goes against G-d.”
Illi bit her tongue. She wasn’t going to get into this fight again. She didn’t understand how Thana and the others could still believe there was a G-d after the dead had crawled out of their own crypts during the Siege.
Thana came around the table, palms up and out in a gesture of peace. “You have your training with Mo. Isn’t learning how to heal enough?”
Illi glanced at the healer, whose muted blue wrap was warmed by the firelight. Her long braids were only sparsely populated by salas, the colorful bits of string and cloth she’d been given by the lives she’d saved. Mo was one of only a few healers who had survived the Siege; she’d been halfway across the Wastes at the time. She’d removed all of her salas when she’d returned to Ghadid and now only accepted them rarely. Mo blamed herself for what happened almo
st as much as Illi did.
“I’ll never be good enough,” said Illi. “I’m not a natural healer. There’s just no overcoming that.”
“No, you’ll never be as good as a natural healer,” admitted Mo. “But you can improve. We need every healer we can train, even those not born to it. There’s more to healing than the use of water.”
“Bandages and poultices won’t save someone from the guul.”
Mo let out a long sigh. “You have to stop treating healing like a weapon. You also have to heal yourself. Rest. Your actions reflect your healing and your healing reflects your actions.”
“I can’t rest,” said Illi. “I’m too wound up. Better I do something useful than lie in the dark with my eyes open.”
Mo pursed her lips. “You don’t have to sleep to rest. Go out—be with your cousins and friends. Isn’t there a market tonight?”
Illi nodded slowly. Zarrat had mentioned the market, but it had been almost too easy to forget. Caravans were few and far between since the Siege. Most of the other cities in the Crescent had been completely emptied and it simply wasn’t worth the Azal’s time to make the trek. But some did, those willing to take the risk of walking the Wastes for salt, those who had family members who had settled in Ghadid, and those who knew how useful Ghadid glass could be, how powerful the charms made by Ghadid’s marab. Those who didn’t heed the warnings.
“Sounds like fun,” she said, and it wasn’t a lie. Caravans brought new faces and new stories, new weapons and new methods of fighting. Over the years, she’d learned a few things from the hired guards that accompanied caravans across the desert. Maybe she’d learn something new tonight, something useful.
“Then listen to Mo and go,” said Thana. “You’re released from all household duties tonight as long as you don’t come back until second bell after sunset. Just bring me one of those buns with the minced dates in the middle. No—bring me two.” She cut a glance toward Mo. “And maybe one for Mo if she wants.”
Mo laughed and swatted Thana playfully. A smile finally broke Thana’s features and her harshness melted away. In one quick motion, Thana wrapped an arm around the shorter woman and drew her in close. Thana pecked Mo on the cheek, then the nose, then finally on the lips.
Illi sighed. “Guys. I’m still here.”
“Exactly,” said Thana, although it came out distorted, smooshed as she was against Mo’s lips. “Go away.”
Illi rolled her eyes, but left. The air outside was still warm, but evening’s chill was already on the wind. Waning sunlight painted the stones in the walls and across the ground a warm golden brown. She paused to get her bearings just outside the faded red door of her adopted home. Inside, knives clattered as they hit the floor and someone giggled. Well, now she definitely couldn’t return for a few hours.
Illi closed her eyes, ignoring the people brushing past. A greater commotion came from the south, and the air was already laced with the smell of roasting meat, honeyed almonds, and cinnamon-laden tea.
“I thought I’d find you here,” said a familiar voice.
Illi opened her eyes. Dihya stood only feet away, her wrap a fresh purple that brought out the warmer undertones in her skin. A faint smile twisted her lips, which seemed redder than usual.
“Did you paint your lips?” asked Illi.
Dihya lifted her chin, daring Illi to say anything. There was also a brush of black kohl around her eyes, accentuating the specks of copper in her irises. Dihya looked strong and beautiful and amazing.
“You look … nice,” said Illi lamely.
Dihya smiled and somehow managed to look even more amazing. “The others decided to check out the market. Want to join us?”
Illi took a deep breath. She’d prefer to be alone, wandering unnoticed and anonymous through the crowd. But Mo’s words drifted back to her: you also have to heal yourself. Maybe this would be good for her.
“Yeah.”
Dihya started walking, slow enough that Illi could keep pace. Her cousin was nearly a full head taller and built like a wall. If Dihya wore a tagel, she could have been mistaken for a man. Her arms were thick with muscle that Illi envied. No matter how hard she trained, Illi would never have that kind of mass.
Their cousins were only a platform away, as was the beginning of the market. Most of the stalls were still being set up and stocked, but a few were already in business, trading colorful eastern fabrics and bags of southern spices and expensive northern wood for Ghadid’s glass and stringwork and leather. Zarrat was gnawing on a stick of roast meat, its hot juices darkening the bottom of his tagel. Azhar was browsing a stall with leatherworks, turning a sandal this way and that.
Between them should’ve been Yaluz, teasing Zarrat or helping Azhar find the right sandal. His absence hit Illi like a blow and she was once again reminded of her failure. She should’ve been quicker, faster, more—
“It’s not your fault,” said Dihya. “You can’t protect everyone.”
Illi started. She hadn’t realized she’d stopped. She rubbed her arms self-consciously. Nodded. “You’re right. He was stupid. He should have been more prepared.”
Dihya sighed. “That’s not what I meant.”
But Illi had a smile on and was already approaching her cousins. They greeted her with equal warmth. Zarrat offered to share his snack and Azhar asked Illi her opinion on the sandal’s leather stitching and for a little while, everything was all right. Almost like it had been.
As they drifted through the marketplace, Dihya took Zarrat’s hand and she laughed as he commented on some of the stranger wares. Illi couldn’t help but smile at the two of them; while she didn’t care for Zarrat, she could appreciate that Dihya did. And if Zarrat ever broke Dihya’s heart, then Illi would have a good excuse to remove his. Illi grinned at the thought.
“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” said Azhar softly.
Illi coughed, glad Azhar couldn’t read her mind. “Yeah … it helps knowing a caravan will still come all the way out here, even during this drought.”
“Things are pretty good, aren’t they?” said Azhar. “I mean, despite so much. We’re doing okay. Everything we were so afraid of—none of it came to pass. The caravans came back. The dead didn’t. I can hardly believe that it’s been seven years … in another month, we’ll finally put those who died to rest. We all thought the world ended that night, but it didn’t. It only changed. We’re still alive. Still here.”
Illi swallowed. “Aren’t you ever afraid it’ll happen again?”
“No,” said Azhar, but she sounded puzzled. “No, I don’t. It was such a bizarre event. I can’t imagine anything like it happening again. Can you?”
“Once something like that happens, how can’t you expect it to happen again?”
Azhar gave a half shrug. “I guess … I mean, the Empress is dead. There’s no one else like her out there. No one is going to conquer this city anytime soon.” She laughed, but the sound was hollow. “I mean, why would they? So we’ve got that going for us.”
“It won’t be the same thing,” said Illi. “It’ll be something else entirely. Something completely unexpected. No one could have imagined what the Empress did. No one will be able to imagine the next terrible thing that happens.”
“Why does something have to happen?” asked Azhar. “Why can’t the Siege just have been a once-in-a-thousand-lifetimes event?”
“I just … I want to be prepared.”
“Illi—you can’t be prepared for everything.”
“That’s where we disagree.”
Azhar shrugged. “I’m just saying—life is going to surprise you no matter what, for bad, but also for good.”
Illi started to answer, but she caught the flash of gray cloth approaching them before Azhar did and let her argument dissolve on her tongue. Menna stepped in their way, stopping them both. She was a whole head shorter than Illi, her skin as smooth and pale as milky tea, her features soft, and her braids short. A black stripe along the edges of her wrap
marked her rank as an elder marabi.
Azhar broke into a wide smile and threw her arms around Menna. “So you decided to join us after all.”
Menna glanced at Illi. “As long as I’m not interrupting anything.”
“Nothing.” Illi waved her hand. “We were just arguing.”
“Good,” said Menna. “Well, continue. Azhar could use the practice.”
“Hey.”
Menna held up her hands. “What—it’s true. You could stand to be meaner. And more combative.”
“I’m plenty combative,” protested Azhar.
“Like a bunny,” said Menna, half grinning. “Just lookit your claws.”
“I’ll show you claws.” Azhar curled her fingers like she was going to scratch Menna. Then she paused and peered at her nails. “But I just cut them…”
Menna barked a laugh and then slipped between Azhar’s arms and up against her neck, nuzzling her like the animal she’d just been disparaging. They kept walking, but Illi fell behind, watching them with a mixture of longing and regret. Dihya and Zarrat, Mo and Thana, Menna and Azhar—all of them had moved on. All of them had dared to love, to live. Even Dihya, who had beheaded her cousin Azulay herself. Even Thana, who had lost her mother. Even Menna, who had broken her oaths, committed blasphemy, and burned her city.
Only Illi was still caught in the past, unable to move forward. Not for the first time, she wondered if she was broken, if a piece of her would always be stuck in that night, unable to escape.
She let Azhar and Menna drift ahead, scanning the nearby stalls for anything useful. She stopped next to one that carried all sorts of dried plants—for healing, for cooking, and for the marab—but the owner waved her on.
“Sorry, ma, but you should come back later,” he said. “Got someone scheduled for his pickup and you’d rather not be here when he comes by.”
Illi hardly registered his words, a thorny twist of branches catching at her attention. Certain thorns were supposed to help with healing if you chewed them raw. “I’m sure I won’t be a bother, sa.”
