Original Fiction -- Dust and Water, Part I
This is my contribution to Round 2 of fantasybigbang.
Art by skylar0grace is Here
Mix by pekori is Here
Type: Gen with undertones of femslash
Word Count: 25,000
Rating: R
Warnings: strong language, violence, character death, "offstage" M/M noncon sex
Summary: Aren, a young officer in the Tyrunian army, never expected to be imprisoned on trumped-up charges in one of his own Empire's most notorious internment camps. Yet, that is where he finds himself, in a camp built in the middle of the enkava, the poisonous dead zone around the destroyed city of Dracia. He reluctantly joins the other captives in eking out a marginal existence, though he can't shake the feeling that there is some hidden purpose to their actions. And when Aren at last seizes his chance to escape, he finds himself the unwilling custodian of the secrets that his fellow inmates risked their lives to preserve.
Notes: This was such a fun experience! This was my first attempt to write fiction of this length, and I certainly learned a lot doing it. pekori and skylar0grace were an amazing team to work with.
Extra-special love also goes to pekori , who in addition to making the mix, was also a Beta of Awesomeness, displaying optimism, cheerleading and handholding above and beyond the call of duty. (That last run-on sentence was just for you, dear!)
Part I // Part II // Part III // Part IV
Prologue
The sun hung low in the sky as the woman crested the last little hill of dunes and stared longingly at the water that separated her from the battered internment camp.
Removing her pack, she winced as the rough fabric of her shirt scraped across the raw skin of her back. It had been a long day in the ruins of Dracia, and her entire body felt brittle and oversensitive. Exposed skin was in worse shape, with her face and hands blistered and peeling. She should have worn gloves, but she had left them behind, and had not cared to go back for them.
She plunged gratefully into the water’s cool healing, holding the pack over her head until she could place it on the sandy shore of the other side. Clumsily she unwrapped lengths of heavy wet cloth from herself and let them fall to the damp sand, followed by her worn, patched clothes. Leaving them next to the pack, and uncaring about her nudity in the open, she waded back to the relief of the river.
They called it a river. It was really a canal which they had laboriously dug out of the desert from the river that ran behind the camp, surrounding their dwellings with water and affording some shelter from the pain of living in the shadow of the ruined city. She submerged herself up to her chin and turned to look at the ruins. The city had been beautiful once, vibrant and alive, nestled in the heart of one of the oldest forests on the continent until…. Until it was over in a heartbeat. Gone and destroyed with enough horror to ensure Itava’s immediate capitulation to the Imperium.
Relaxing into the water, she blinked in surprise at a sudden silver flash, and she stared in wonder at the shiny little fish fighting the current to return to its home upstream. She watched, captivated, as in spite of all its efforts, it was slowly carried downstream toward her. Too late, she tried to avoid it, but as it neared her, it immediately stopped struggling and went motionless. Scooping the lifeless little body up in her hands, she was able to marvel at the novelty of seeing a fish for the first time in - how long had it been? - for only a few seconds before it began to brown, shrivel and decompose in her hand.
Sadly, she lowered her hands into the water to clean the sludge from them, and then applied herself to thoroughly washing away the clinging dust of the enkava. She could scrub until her skin came off, though, and it wouldn’t affect the destructive residue she carried in her body. The contamination shone like a spotlight to anyone with half a magical sense, and it hurt too much to see the pain on the others’ faces as they tried not to stand too close to her.
Once the burning of her skin eased, she crawled to the bank and dumped out the contents of the pack. She washed her clothes and what objects she could in the water, and wiped down what she could not. The residue that saturated the objects was the same as that which she carried within herself, and it took several failed efforts before she was able to draw the contamination out of them and add it to her own, leaving them clean enough to handle.
Breathing painfully, she lay in the water for several more minutes. “It’ll have to do,” she muttered aloud. “Goucher can just deal.” Tucking her clothes and knapsack under her arm, she left the river and walked back to camp over the hot, glassy sands.
Part 1
Aren was bound, gagged, and unshielded from the harsh magic residue of the enkava, and he writhed on the floor of the enclosed cart as it slowly trundled along pulled by two stolid eyera. Their natural armor made them almost the only things not susceptible to the high levels of magic that surrounded them. He could feel as they got closer to the City, for even though the cart was dark and his eyes were squeezed tightly shut under the blindfold, the harsh magic energy burst through his eyelids. If his hands were free, he would have been hard-pressed not to gouge his own eyes out.
His two guards sat on either side of him, on low benches that ran the length of the cart. Snatches of their conversation drifted above him over the creaking of the wheels and the heavy plod of the beasts’ footsteps.
“It’s your fault we’re doing this,” one said to the other. “What the hell were you thinking, striking an officer? Damn, but this hurts, even through the shielding. We’re damn lucky were weren’t court-martialled and shot.”
“Aw, keep your shirt on,” the second guard retorted. “Prison duty isn’t so bad. It gets us out of the barracks, into the fresh, clean air.” He snorted sarcastically. “We’ve managed ten months so far, we can do another three. And it’s better than putting ourselves in the way of a bullet. Or a bomb,” he added. Aren heard him move, and felt the edge of the guard’s protective shield tickle the side of his face with the promise of relief. “And this time we get the pleasure of escorting General Rorik’s little favorite to his new home.”
As the second guard moved back, the first leaned in. “You’re going to die there, Krasny.” He must have removed his own protective amulet, preferring to suffer himself rather than give Aren any small comfort. “You’re going to die slowly, and painfully, and no one back in your unit is going to give a rat’s ass about you. Even if you do find out anything they think useful and you get your sentence shortened, none of us are going to trust you any more. We keep our units pure, and there’s no way we’ll let your kind taint them”. His feet dug into Aren’s ribs as he sat back.
Aren squirmed angrily against his bonds, shouting something muffled into the gag. The guard chuckled darkly, but whatever he was going to say next was cut short as the cart stopped. It shifted as the soldiers jumped out, leaving Aren alone in the hot, close stillness.
Suddenly, from outside the cart, the sound of footsteps grew louder. Someone new was approaching the cart, and whoever it was burned so brightly that his eyes began to water from the pain. Chewing on the gag, he ignored the taste of blood in his mouth and tried to hear through the thick walls of the cart to the low conversation taking place.
“What do you have for us this time, Goucher?” It was a woman’s voice, husky and tired. “Supplies?” Her voice briefly turned hopeful. “Or prisoners?” The voice took on a note of weary certainty.
“One prisoner.” Aren guessed this was the voice of his driver. This was the first time he had heard it in over six hours of driving. “And some rations. Not enough.”
“There never is. So who’s in power now?”
“Second Thaumaturgical Council, Didean Sect.” The door on the back of the cart swung open, and Aren groaned as the minute amount of shielding from the wood disappeared.
“Second? We never heard there had been a first.”
“Only lasted eleven days.” Goucher grunted, and Aren felt himself being pulled out of the cart and dropped gracelessly to the ground. The sand drove needles of heat into his skin, and to his disgust, he moaned again. Prickling and painful, the sand worked into the gaps and crevices of his clothing as he was dragged and propped up against what felt like the wheel of the cart.
“And Dideans? When did they come into power?”
Without warning, the blindfold was ripped away and a hairy hand pulled the gag down over his chin. Aren blinked rapidly against the glare to clear his watering eyes, and regained enough sight to see Goucher shrug. “Happened all at once.” He snapped his fingers, then curved them into an obscene gesture.
“You’re still employed, however, I see. How do you manage to weather all of these crises?”
Goucher chuckled. “Doesn’t matter who’s in charge of the government, the army’s always in charge of them. I’ve learned to float and keep my head above water. I’m unsinkable.”
A disbelieving snort. “Yes. Like a turd in a river, you always seem to bob to the surface.”
He grinned, seeming to regard this as a compliment.
Past them, Aren saw the boots of one of his escort shuffling through the sand. “Get him something to eat,” he ordered the woman. “Something good and hot.”
“Hot?” The woman tilted her head and looked at the soldier with obviously feigned confusion.
“Contaminated. You know what I mean. Just do it. We’re not untying him until he glows as bright as the sun.”
“Oh, really?” Her eyebrow quirked as she fearlessly faced him, the corner of her mouth turned up in a half-smile. “Why is that?”
“Because the last two that tried to escape from here before they acclimatized were a pain in the ass to track down and kill. I’m going to make sure that there’s no way this bastard can hide.”
Escape. Aren clung to the word like a lifeline.
The guard crossed his arms and stared at her. “Make sure he’s thoroughly contaminated before we leave, or else I’m ignoring orders and killing him.” He strode off back to where his companion was directing the transport of supplies over the river that separated them from the camp.
One inmate, a man, had been allowed to cross, and was doing the heavy work of ferrying the barrels and boxes over the river, where other members of the camp had gathered to receive them and carry them off to the collection of low buildings behind them.
The woman sighed, pulled off a worn backpack and rummaged in it. “Here.” She drew out a misshapen chunk of bread and tossed it into Aren’s lap. “Eat this.”
Aren inhaled sharply as the bread landed. The magic coming off it was nearly as intense as that coming from the woman. He shook his head and used his still-bound hands to drop the bread onto the sand next to him.
“Do it,” the woman sighed, a trace of exasperation in her voice. “It’ll burn like hell going down, and hurt even worse coming out. But you’ll have to do it if you want to stay alive. For a while, at least. And, you’ll get used to the place.” She smiled grimly. “Before it kills you.”
Aren shook his head again, glaring mutely at the two of them.
“Stubborn little shit, ain’t he?” Goucher snorted at Aren’s discomfort.
“Goucher.” The woman’s voice was soft but stern. “Give him a little time to come to terms with this. Now, do you have anything else for us?” She gave the driver a significant look.
“Maybe.” His jovial mood vanished. “Depends on what you have for me.”
He and the woman turned their backs to Aren and the guards and stood a little closer together. Only Aren’s proximity allowed him to hear what they were saying. She reached into her backpack and pulled out several bundles. “Here. Three brooches, two rings, and a cloudy, cracked scrying-stone which may or may not work.”
“All deconned?” He made no move to take the items from her.
“Thoroughly and painfully, as of this morning,” she replied. “But that was several hours ago, so you may wish to have someone on the outside do the finishing touches, if you can find anyone.”
“Oh, I know people.” He quickly put the items in a thick linen bag, and pulled from an inner pocket of his heavy eyeris-leather jacket a wrapped bundle which he quickly handed to her. “Letters. A few broadsheeets. No liquor this time.”
“Shay will like the broadsheets.” She looked furtively behind her before shoving the papers into her pack. “And I think Gervais may be taking care of his liquor problem himself.” She sighed in disapproval and jerked a thumb over her shoulder to the back of the cart.
After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, the scruffy man who had carried the supplies over the river emerged from behind the cart, wet with perspiration and cradling three bottles in his arms. A moment later one of the guards also appeared, leaning against the cart with a self-satisfied smirk as he buttoned up his pants. Gervais ignored the leering guard, and began fighting the cap off of one bottle with his teeth before he had even reached the river to cross back.
The woman turned her attention back to Aren, scrutinizing his filthy and torn uniform jacket. “Well, Commander A. Krasny, better eat that bread soon. Our assigned jackbooted thugs aren’t known for their patience, and there’s no point in you getting shot.” She picked up the sandy bread and dropped it once more in his lap.
He threw the bread to the ground again. “I shouldn’t be here.”
The woman was unimpressed. “None of us should be, but you’re here now. And you’ll have to learn to make a life here, what will remain of it.” She drew closer, still burning and painful, and knelt next to him. Once again, she picked up the bread and this time shoved it into his hands. “Eat it, and then I’ll take you to the barracks.”
His eyes narrowed at her as he took a bite, chewing slowly and pretending to swallow. She returned the look, and her eyes scintillated an eerie amber as she stared back at him. “Don’t try anything,” she warned. “Do the sensible thing. Stay alive for as long as you can.”
Aren said nothing, though his cheeks and tongue were burning.
“We can leave you tied up until wind and sand do the job. But that will take time, which you do not have.” She gestured to the guards who, finished with their conversation, were returning to the cart. She moved closer, to emphasize her point.
He swallowed, and tears sprang to his eyes as the burning went down his throat and settled in his stomach like a hot coal.
“Go on,” she urged. “All of it.”
It took several more bites, but soon the bread was gone. Pale and shaking, Aren closed his eyes and let his head fall to rest upon his bent knees.
“All right, Goucher, she said. “He’s eaten. Untie him.” Aren felt a tugging at his wrists and ankles, a nick of metal on his skin, and relief as the ropes fell away.
Aren couldn’t help it. He pulled himself to his feet and tried to run, hampered by his numb feet and the pain of the bread. He made it three steps before he fell, accompanied by the jeers of the two guards.
“What do you think you’re doing?” The woman seemed more disappointed than angry. “And where will you go? You can’t go closer to the city; the pollution only gets stronger there. You can’t run away from the city, because that’s where the heart of the Imperium is, and the contamination will make you shine like a beacon. And it’s almost night, and you can’t stay outside because that’s when the nightwinds stir up the sand, and no one comes out from the resonances sane.”
She rose and squinted at the sun before turning to the driver. “You staying or going, Goucher?”
“Going. Don’t want to stay with you nutters any longer than I have to.” Goucher pulled his heavily-swathed form back onto the wagon, where the placid beasts waited patiently for him. “Rather take my chance with those nutters.” He gestured to the guards, now in the back of the cart.
“Why isn’t he afraid of being out at night?” Aren sneered, ignoring the needles of pain shooting into his buttocks as he sat up.
“He’s wearing eyeris-hide,” she answered patiently. “And he’s not contaminated. The pollution’s in your blood now, and it’ll react with the wildness of the sandstorm. Now come on.”
Aren rose with a grunt and followed her to the river as Goucher’s cart trundled off the way that it had come. Instead of crossing on the line of boulders to their left, she entered the water fully clothed, ducking her head to completely submerge herself.
“Wash before you enter the camp,” she ordered him after she rose. “It doesn’t do anything to reduce the poisoning, but at least it takes the dust off of your skin and keeps the buildings somewhat clean.” She stared at him as he still stood motionless on the bank. “Well?” her tone sharpened. “Get in. If nudity doesn’t bother you, then undress and wash your clothes, as well. The water really does make it feel better,” she added in a softer tone. “It’s only temporary, but after being in the enkava for any length of time, any relief feels good.”
He waded in and sank. She was right, the water was cool and soothing, and in its protection, he felt free of the miasma that had surrounded him for the last several hours. He could not stay under forever, though, and as soon as he lifted his head out, he could feel the oppression pressing down on him again.
He removed his jacket and leather vest, weighting them down in the river with stones, though he kept his shirt on. There was no way he was going to strip off completely and expose his bare skin of his back to the fierce sun. Taking a deep breath, he submerged himself again.
“What does the ‘A’ stand for, Commander Krasny?” she asked after he surfaced.
“Aren,” he replied, shaking the water from his hair. “What’s your name?”
“I’m an ‘A’ also,” she flashed a faint smile. “It’s Ailith. Take my advice and leave your uniform behind.” She pointed to his submerged jacket and vest. “And refrain from flaunting your rank. Nobody here has any reason to love you as a member of the Tyrunian army. And there are certain people here who might react badly to being in close proximity to one of you…” She shrugged. “Let’s not tempt fate, shall we?” She stepped out of the water, gesturing him to follow. “It’s not perfect, but the water seems to stop most of the burning from crossing over. Until, of course, the nightwinds blow through,” she warned ominously. “But, we keep the windows tightly closed at night. You’ll be grateful for that.”
He reluctantly left the river and hurried after her. She led him down a sort of half-path that led to an array of battered-looking buildings, raised up on wooden legs to allow air to circulate under them. “That’s where you stay?” he asked incredulously. They looked as if a stiff wind would blow them over.
She ignored him. “They’re sturdier than they look. And, we shore them up, when we can.”
He took careful note of the buildings’ layout, and looked away from her to hide his smile. He would be damned if he wasn’t out of here and free of them all by midnight.
Part 2
Aren relaxed slightly as he followed Ailith, his head much clearer in the relative relief on this side of the water. He struggled a little to keep up with her, as his gait was impeded by the heavy damp rolls of sand which formed around the bottoms of his pants legs. They slapped against his ankles and threatened to trip him until they dried and fell away.
The camp had been inhabited for some time, Aren knew. It had been set up by the army in the shadow of the destroyed city as a place to keep inconvenient prisoners who were too politically and socially sensitive to kill outright. Many people were sent there, but the camps never seemed to fill up. Now he could understand why. Life here was harsh and unforgiving. And for all he knew, they knifed each other on a regular basis.
He glanced sideways at the woman next to him as they trudged through the sand. She did not look dangerous, but that did not mean he was going to let down his guard. The young Itavans who had set off the bombs during the last Festival hadn’t looked dangerous either, and yet seven members of his own Hawk Division had been killed in the blast.
Of the few people that he could see, some were resting in the shade of the buildings, while the rest strolled through the camp, their faces protected from the sun by various homemade hats and wraps. Everyone looked gaunt and hungry, but no one was acting wild or depraved. They all seemed to be holding on to the tattered threads of civilization, even as they were slowly dying from the harsh environment into which they had been cast. They had even made an effort to plant crops, diverting part of the river into paddies in which stunted and misshapen teero plants were trying to grow.
She said nothing to him as they approached the nearest building. The unkempt man from earlier stood in the doorway with his arms folded, glaring intensely at Aren.
“What did Goucher bring us this time?” he growled in a low voice. “Anything useful?”
“A new friend. This is Aren.” she replied easily, though Aren could see that her shoulders were tense, and the wrinkles around her eyes deepened slightly as she answered.
“I don’t like him,” the man replied, staring at Aren with hard, exhausted eyes. He also burned, but not so strongly, or with such a fiery intensity as Ailith did. Aren wondered if it was because he had not been here as long as Ailith had, or if she made it a habit to cross the river more often than he did.
“Gervais,” she said in a low, warning voice. “No one can help being sent here. And after all, if a person ends up here, he can’t be all bad, right?” She smiled humorlessly.
Aren kept his face neutral, paying scant attention to the man in front of him. It didn’t matter what these people thought. He had already picked out the landmarks he would follow. He knew that to escape the mountains would be on his right, and the river behind him. If he kept the Guide Star slightly to his left, two days’ walk would bring him to the edge of the sands. This was no different from the training exercises he had had to do as a cadet. All he needed to do was to wait for night and be sure to carry enough water with him.
“And I have papers for Shay,” she continued, waving them gently in front of Gervais. “He needs to get them fast before they start disintegrating.”
Gervais grunted, motioned to the inside of the squat, dingy building, and moved aside to give Ailith room to enter. When she was inside, he quickly returned to the doorway, preventing Aren from following.
“I know what you are,” he threatened without preamble, jabbing a bony finger into Aren’s chest. “And you’re Hawk Division. Worst of the scum… “
Aren folded his his arms to mimic the man in front of him, drawing back his lips in a grim smile that exposed his startlingly white teeth. “What of it? I’m here now, aren’t I?” he sneered. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend. You should love me.”
“I don’t love anyone who had a part in subjugating and oppressing our people,” Gervais retorted. His eyes narrowed further, studying Aren suspiciously. “You’ve been planted here, haven’t you? HQ sent you here to spy on us.” He grabbed the front of Aren’s shirt with one hand and drew the other fist back, but before he could strike, they were interrupted.
“Gervais.” It was a woman’s voice, commanding yet serene. Aren didn’t dare turn his head to see who was behind him, but with surprise noted the look of mingled respect and fear on the other man’s face, overlaid with something almost like resentment. Gervais dropped him onto the sand, and Aren rose and turned to face the newcomer, quickly moving out of arm’s reach of the other man.
She stood calmly before them, hands clasped behind her back. Aren saw with surprise that she was dressed as a High Priestess of Yona, with the blue beads of a Seer fastened to the pale braid that fell against the left side of her face. She incandesced almost as strongly as Ailith, but whereas Ailith radiated a raw elemental power, the priestess glowed with the heat of a refiner’s fire.
It wasn’t until Ailith spoke that Aren realized that she had reappeared in the doorway, the pale frightened face of a young man peeking out from behind her. “Shay is reading the broadsheets now…oh.” Her voice sounded disappointed as she stared at the little group. “You two were going to fight, weren’t you? Thank you, Marit, for stopping them.”
The other woman smiled lightly and replied, “Of course. I’m always glad to help. And who is this?” She nodded toward Aren.
“This is Aren Krasny. Goucher just brought him. I need to get him settled. Night’s coming on fast.”
Marit nodded, and with a significant look towards Ailith that did not escape Aren’s notice, added, “Tomorrow then, at the pool?”
Ailith’s face relaxed, the deeper wrinkles around her eyes smoothing. “Of course.”
Gervais snarled at them. “He’s not going to stay in these barracks! I want him nowhere near me!”
Ailith ignored Gervais as she began to descend the steps. Gesturing to Aren, she commanded, “Come on,” but paused as the boy tugged on her sleeve, pointed at Aren, and pulled himself up to whisper in her ear. “Are you sure?” she asked the young man in a low voice, staring at Aren herself. Aren did not like the way she was looking at him. The boy nodded emphatically and whispered a few more words. She sighed, straightened up and patted his arm. “All right. Thank you, Shay.”
Coming downstairs at last, Ailith led Aren to one of the other weather-worn buildings. “We’ll find a place for you here for now. It’ll be best if you have your own building eventually, I think. I rather doubt that anyone else will want to be near you. Plus, it’ll take a while to decontaminate a room for you.”
She climbed the stairs to another building, set apart from the rest, but like the others weathered gray by the constant scouring of sun and sand and residual magic. Inside, it looked like it had once held as many people as possible. There were still a few bunks chained to the walls, and many hooks and eyes remained where bunks had once been. The thin, cracked walls and windows were patched and mended in a hodge-podge fashion; some holes were covered with pieces of wood, others stuffed with scraps of multicolored cloth that added an incongruous note of festivity to the drab room.
The magic in here was almost bearable, reduced to a low background hum and a prickling in the back of his neck that was annoying, but tolerable. The unfortunate side effect of sealing off the building, however, was that the atmosphere inside was stifling and still, with the roof and the westernmost side of the building hotter than the rest.
The far side of the long, narrow building was partitioned off to form a private room. “Some people share barracks,” she explained, “but they all prefer that I…” she gestured ruefully to herself, indicating the strength of her contamination. “It’s just one of the many joys of being here.” A bitter edge crept into her voice. “All of this loneliness and hardship, and we can’t even take solace in being close to another person for long.”
Aren shifted uncomfortably at the thought of this woman, or anyone else in this camp, in close physical intimacy to one another. His discomfort deepened as he remembered the looks exchanged between Ailith and Marit earlier.
“I don’t have a spare mattress,” she continued. “But surely that won’t be a problem to someone as highly trained in deprivation and hardship as yourself.” He couldn’t tell if she was being sarcastic or not. Her voice was even and her face clear, but something about the words seemed sharper than necessary.
She held out a battered and well-mended blanket, the patches a kaleidescope of colors and shapes. “It’s my only extra. It’s just wool, but at least it’ll keep you warm. The nights can get surprisingly cold here.”
He took the blanket roughly from her. Of course deserts were cold at night. He had been through enough training to know these simple things. That’s why he was waiting until nightfall to escape from here. He could take a long drink from the river before he left, put the correct stars in front of him, and walk his way out of here. It had taken at least six hours by cart and eyera, he had judged, and one man alone could outwalk an eyeris if he were fit and motivated, which he most certainly was. He would also take the blanket. If he were unable to make it completely away from the desert, it would serve as a cover to keep the sun from his head. Pleased with himself, he sat on the spare bunk and waited for Ailith to leave so he could settle and get a short amount of rest until nightfall.
Ailith was in no hurry to retire to her own room. “I know what you’re planning,” she stated sadly, “We’ve all had those thoughts, and most of us have tried it.” She began to disrobe, shedding her outer layers and hanging them on hooks on the partition. “We’re too far from the desert’s edge for you to make it during the day. And you can’t go at night. Believe me when I tell you the nightwinds are nothing to take lightly.”
As she spoke, he kept his eyes firmly away from her body, now clad only in her worn, dirty undergarments. She paid no attention to his dedicated examination of the edge of his bunk, and continued. “If you think the pain from the other side if the river was bad, wait until the sands begin blowing. The river stops a lot of it, but enough gets over to make the nights uncomfortable around here. We’re not sure if it’s the actual pain of the impact of each contaminated grain of sand, or the harmonics of the wind and the magic feeding off each other that destroys a person, because the few who’ve tried it didn’t stay sane long enough to tell us.
“Even you,” she added, taking a pitcher of water from the little table next to the door of her room and pouring some of it into a cracked basin, “Who, no doubt, have been held up as a superior member of our race, wouldn’t survive.”
“Then why warn me? All you have to do is let me go out and die, and you’ll have one less Tyrunian soldier to deal with.”
She remained silent as she finished washing. Hanging the cloth on a nail with precise, controlled gestures, she let her body dry in the heat of the building before opening the door to her little room. Pausing in the doorway, she turned back for a moment and weighed her words carefully. “Unlike some, I don’t enjoy the feel of an enemy’s blood on my hands.” She closed the door firmly behind her, leaving Aren in the rapidly dimming room.
Once alone, he searched through the room for anything that could be used to hold water, but came up short. The best he could find was the ewer and basin that Ailith had used, which was completely impractical under the circumstances. He supposed that he might try to find one of Gervais’s bottles. The way he had been downing the liquor, it was likely that one was empty already.
He shook his head and sighed regretfully. No water was going to make this even more of a challenge than he had anticipated. His jaw clenched as he resolved that it didn’t matter. He was still going to do this. It had to be now or never, if what she said was true about the cumulative effects of being so close to the City.
Rolling the blanket into a pillow, he stripped off his outer clothes in the heat of the room. He lay gingerly down on the warped and cracked wood of the bunk, closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep.
Part 3
Though Aren did not sleep, he lay quietly on the bare, uneven bunk, letting his mind wander while he rested his body.
It helped to think of what he was about to do as a battle. It would be him against the elements, against the naysayers, against the people who had sent him here. He’d cross the desert, find a train to the capital, and make his commanding officers to reopen his file. They’d be impressed with his cunning and daring. They’d restore his rank and reward him…
He took a deep breath, held it, and let it out slowly. There would be enough time to dwell upon this later. Right now, his first priority was to escape.
Ailith hadn’t lied. As soon as the sun set, the wind began to pick up, rattling the loose glass in the windows. He reached up to readjust the cloth stuffing in the window above him to silence the noise. As the evening darkened, the winds increased further, blowing little puffs of dust though the remaining tiny gaps in the walls.
There was silence from the little room at the end of the building. If she were right and the winds grew worse as the night went on, then he had only a short time to orient himself before he was unable to see his landmarks. Rising silently from his bunk, he redressed quickly in the dark, his fingers fumbling on the fastenings of his clothing. He fashioned the blanket into a rough headdress and crossed to the door.
It took him a moment to open the latches by feel, but he worked them open, cracking the door open slightly to peer out. The air in front of him was hazy, and above him, the stars were dim and haloed by the dust in the air. No matter. They were good enough to take his bearings by.
As he left the protection of the doorway, the wind blew the blanket around his face, and he was forced to hold tightly to it. He closed the door behind him, but the latches were only on the inside, so he pulled the door as securely closed as he could and hoped it would hold.
A light film of dust collected quickly on his clothes, but the more he rubbed at it, the deeper it seemed to go. Ignoring the discomfort from the dust-borne magic, he took his bearings from the Guide Star and the feeling of the city behind him, and hurried to the river. As he wandered into it, past his knees and up to his waist, the water contrasted sharply with the harsh air around him, and he was bitterly tempted to sit in the water and not move until morning.
His attention was so focused upon keeping his footing in the river current, that it wasn’t until he was nearly completely across that he gave the far side any attention. Before him loomed a wall of sand, higher than his head and blotting out the stars completely. It was the nightwinds pushing the destructive sand against the invisible barrier of the riverbank. It pulsed and throbbed, and where the swirls and eddies were thickest, the concentration of power self-annihilated in eerie flashes of not-quite-light.
His instincts screamed at him to give up and return to the barracks, but he had never yet backed down from doing what needed to be done. He ignored the queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach and the shaking of his hands and held the blanket close over his nose and mouth. Keeping his eyes deliberately fixed on the ground in front of him, he took one last clear breath and pushed his way into the wall of sand.
It was hell.
Unable to see, he guessed which direction led away from the camp, and struggled to remain upright against the wind. His only guide at this point was the pressure of the city behind him, but that faded quickly the further he went into the sandstorm.
The contamination in his body throbbed in response to the shattered bits of magic carried by the sands. Depending upon which way the gusts hit him, his body felt swollen, broken or crushed. When the inevitable lull followed, his body went nerveless and limp.
Exposed patches of skin burned and cracked, abraded by the stinging sands, and he was grateful for the blanket’s protection of his sensitive eyelids and lips. Even through the blanket and his closed eyelids, the pseudo-light of the magical detonations from the blown sands burned glowing, throbbing afterimages on his eyes that frightened and disoriented him.
Several times he fell, the sand below as painful as that above, though it at least was unmoving. He pushed on, his heart racing, his lungs about to burst, every muscle protesting the effort it took to move through the storm.
The physical pain was the least of his torments. The worst part was the sound. It began as a moan, which he was able to ignore, but as the wind increased, it rose and fell, going from low groans to faint screams. And when the full force of the wind dug viciously into him, it began to torment him with muttering voices. He stumbled as he lost his footing , distracted by trying to make sense of the half-formed words as they blew past him.
Soon, more fully recognizable voices came out of the walls of sand. His drill sergeants, swearing and mocking him for being weak and a coward. His platoon mates, insulting him for his too Itavan-looking nose and eyes. The screams of the nearly-dead that lay in the square after the Festival bombing...
There was a sudden stillness. The winds had shifted unexpectedly, leaving him in a patch of silence, his ears ringing from the sudden respite of the sand and sound. From his right, from the thickest part of the sands, he could hear a woman’s voice, half forgotten but still familiar. “Aren, child,” it said reproachfully. “How could you have forgotten me?”
To his shame, he wanted to cry, but he was unable to squeeze tears from his parched body. He dropped to the sand, worming and burrowing his way under it to avoid the stinging grains blown on the wind, realizing that being so close to contamination would likely kill him all the faster.
At least he would die free.
* * *
His battered mind rose briefly to the surface drawn by the protests of his body. He was aware of cold, and darkness, and a frightening stillness. He tried to move, but his legs and arms were heavy and leaden. His eyes also refused to cooperate as sparkling little lights stabbed his eyes painfully in the unnatural blackness around him. Something on his head was heavy and clinging, and threatened to block his mouth and nose with every inhalation. There was also something gripping him tightly around his chest and neck, and his panic grew the harder he struggled against it.
“Hold still,” a hoarse voice commanded in his ear. His mind could scarcely comprehend the words; they could have been in a foreign language for all the sense they made to him, and he continued to struggle against the unknown force holding him down.
“Damn it, I said hold still.” The voice was firmer and angrier. The pressure on his neck lessened sightly, and suddenly his nose and mouth felt clearer and he was able to breathe more freely, though there was still a clinging weight on his forehead and ears.
He was unable to move against the unknown cold pressure that enveloped his body, until he managed to lift his arms above his shoulders, and was surprised when suddenly he was able to move them freely. With a cry of triumph, he half-turned and began to pummel at the unknown object clinging to his chest and face. A dull thud told him that he had made contact, and he grinned savagely and struck again.
The voice in his ear did not like this. The grip on his chest increased, and a rough hand pressed down on his neck again. He continued to struggle vainly, even as he began to sink down into blackness again.
* * *
When Aren awoke, it was instantly. Though disoriented, he did not panic, but took a deep breath and looked curiously around. He was in a narrow bed, on clean sheets that rasped roughly against his tender body when he moved. Above him was a white canopy, pale and luminous, cascading down to draperies that enclosed the bed. He was nude, and his hair felt rumpled and damp under the back of his head where it rested on the pillow.
He pulled the blanket from the bed and wrapped it loosely around his waist, groaning as he moved. His body was exceptionally sore, from the large muscles of his legs and back to the scoured skin of his face and hands.
Tentatively pulling back the curtain, he looked out. He was in a small room, lit gently by the diffuse sunlight filtering in through cloth-covered windows. Ailith was in a corner, on…a rocking chair? She was definitely rocking, and she was spinning. She was twirling a spindle as long as her forearm, letting it fall gradually to the floor as she pulled long, pale fibers from a pile on her lap, wetting her fingers from a small bowl that sat on a weathered crate next to her.
He must be in her room, the little annex that she had disappeared into the night before. He looked about it for any clues about her, but it was sparsely furnished with just the bunk and chair, and one or two wooden boxes on their sides that served as shelves to hold clothes and small items.
He watched her, fascinated by the repetitive movements, until she and looked up and saw him peering out of the drapery. She, too, looked bedraggled and rather the worse for wear. Her hair, though combed back neatly from her face, was damp. Her exposed skin was red and raw, and a large bruise was beginning to form around one eye.
She carefully removed the fibers from her lap and set them along with the spindle to one side. “You’re awake.” Her gaze did not linger on him, and her voice was cooler than it had been when she spoke to him the night before. “Good. The sun is coming up. It’s time to begin work.”
He pushed the pale fabric aside and sat on the edge of the bunk, holding the blanket loosely around him as he tried to piece together his fragmented memories of the night before. “I’m wet,” he said at last, unable to say anything more coherent.
“We had to take shelter in the river until morning.”
“”Did I give you that black eye?”
“Yes.” She seemed to be having trouble breathing, managing only short words and phrases before lapsing into painful silence.
“Where are my clothes?”
She looked up at him at last, her eyes peculiarly unsettling. They were scintillating like they had been the first time he had seen her approach the wagon, after she had been in the enkava. He wondered if his own eyes were reacting in the same way.
“Out in the other room, drying.”
The prospect of putting on wet, clammy clothes was not enticing, but they ought to dry fast enough in the dry air. Clutching the blanket more tightly about his waist, he hobbled toward the door, puffing and groaning like an old man.
“How did you come to be here, Aren Krasny?” she asked as he shuffled past her.
He stopped in surprise. “I don’t have to tell you that,” he replied defensively. “You should have asked the guards yesterday if you were that curious.”
She reached out quickly and grabbed at his right arm, pulling his hand toward her and turning the inside of his wrist so that it faced up. Unable to keep his hold onto the blanket, and too surprised to grab at it with his left hand, the cloth fell to the floor, leaving him bare before her. Though he quickly covered himself with his free hand, he was too surprised to pull his right hand away.
“An Itavan, in the Tyrunian army, serving the Imperium.” The fingers and thumb of the hand that held him framed the faint remains of the sigil that identified his tribe. “It was flamingly bright in the river. Hard to miss. The magic of the nightwinds resonated with it.”
“Only a quarter,” he said defensively, pulling against AIlith’s grip. Either she was stronger than she looked, or else the experience of the night before tired him more than he realized. “Through my grandmother. Not enough to count.”
“Tell that that to the people you were responsible for killing.” She released him and looked away, still having difficulty breathing. “Get dressed. Go to the fields and do what you’re told. If you want to eat, you’ve got to work.” She pointed to a faded ceramic pitcher on the makeshift shelves next to her. “Take that. And the blanket.”
His stomach began to rumble loudly at the mention of food. Jaw tightening, he deliberately left the blanket on the floor as he grabbed the pitcher and slammed the door behind him.
Continue to Part II