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around Isra’s waist and offer what strength I have, when I should crave
distance from her the way my people crave enough food to feed their
children?
“Don’t.” She shies away, as if my arm is a snake she’s discovered
under a rock. She dances out of reach, closer to the edge of the path,
where the wind blows harder than it does near the rocky face of the hill.
A sharp gust tugs her shawl down around her shoulders and lifts her
hair, making it writhe like a bonfire made of shadows. Behind her, the
setting sun paints the tired desert a hungry orange, the color of vengeance,
while far in the distance the dome squats smugly on the horizon, confident
the people it shelters will never be held accountable for what they have
stolen.
The desert bears their scars. The land spread out below us is all but
barren. The desert floor is baked hard. The wind can barely move it. There
are no more dust storms here. The ground cracks like eggshells, the pieces
moving farther apart with every month that passes without rain. The trees
are dead, and the few cacti that stubbornly push their way up from the
scarred earth cast gnarled shadows, crooked fingers that would snatch
Isra’s pant leg and pull her over the edge if they could reach high enough.
I could deliver her into their hands. One firm push, and in an instant
she’d tumble down the hill it has taken us an hour to climb.
I say, “You’re too near the edge. Let me help,” before taking her arm
and guiding her back to safer ground. I rearrange her shawl to hold her wild
hair captive, brush the dirt from her cheek, warn her to “Be careful. The
path drops sharply on your right side,” and ignore the way she flinches at
my touch.
“I …” Her eyes squeeze closed. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong
with me.”
I know. Now that we’re alone, far from the city she rules, with no
guards to protect her or chains binding my arms or legs, she remembers
that I’m a monster. She remembers to be afraid. I should be glad of that,
too, but it only makes my stomach clench and my voice harsh when I
remind her, “I gave my word. I’ll keep you safe.”
“I know you will,” she whispers, eyes still closed, her dark lashes
fa
I want to call her a liar, but it would serve no purpose, and I’m too
tired to fight. I’m feeling how far we’ve come. We’ve stopped long enough
for my muscles to cool, and the places where the spears pierced my flesh
ache more than they have in weeks.
“We’ll camp here for the night,” I say, turning to assess the trail.
“There’s a wider place in the path just behind us, and rocks to block the
wind. There’ll be nothing to drink until tomorrow, but there’s enough dry
wood for a fire.”
“That would be nice,” she says with a thin smile. “I haven’t felt my
nose for hours. I can’t believe I thought I knew what it felt like to be cold.”
I grunt in response, and her smile slips away.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “Your people must suffer during the
winter.”
“They suffer. They starve. You don’t care. Remember?”
“I care. Of course I do. That day in the infirmary was a long time ago.”
When she reaches for my arm, she’s trembling harder than she was before.
I take her hand and pull her to me with more force than I intended.
“If I were going to kill you, I would have done it already,” I growl, not
bothering with the Smooth Skin inflection that I’ve perfected in my months
of captivity. We are in my world now, and I will speak the way a Desert Man
speaks. “This is a foolish time to lose your courage.”
Her breath rushes out, and a wrinkle forms between her brows. “I
haven’t lost my courage. I … You …” The wrinkle smoothes, and something
flickers deep in her eyes. “You think I’m afraid of you?”
“I know it.” I hate the wounded note in my voice. I must be more
tired than I thought, or I wouldn’t allow her fear to affect me, let alone
allow her to hear it.
“Oh, Gem.” She lifts her chin, tipping her face up to mine. I know she
can’t see me, but in that moment I can feel her attention. It prickles the
place on my forehead where flesh meets scales, makes my nose itch and
my mouth wrinkle. “I’m not afraid of you. I swear it.”
I grunt again. “That’s why you flinch when I touch you.”
“No. I … That’s not …” The wind blows her shawl open at the throat. I
watch the muscles there work as she fights to swallow. Ripple, clutch,
ripple, shudder.
Seems her lies aren’t going down easily for either of us.
“Don’t bother,” I say, gripping her fingers harder, reminding us both I
could snap her bones as easily as the sticks I’ll gather for kindling. “Hold
your fear close. It will make for poor sleep tonight but peaceful nights back
in your tower. If you stop thinking of my people as monsters, how will you
ever sleep again? Knowing what you’ve done?”
ISRA
I’VE done nothing! I want to scream. It’s not my fault your people are
starving. I had no idea until I met you that the Monstrous weren’t beasts
perfectly suited to life in the desert. And a Monstrous killed my father less
than three months past. Is it my fault I’ve been too miserable and angry to
think of the good of your people?
By the moons, I can hardly bear the weight of what’s good for mine!
I’m only one woman, and most of the time I still feel like a girl. I wasn’t
raised to rule; I was raised to die. You know nothing about what it’s like to
be the queen of Yuan, so don’t stand there and growl your judgment at me,
you stupid, moody thing!
But I don’t scream. I don’t speak at all.
I endure Gem’s less-than-gentle guidance to our campsite and his
angry silence as he stomps back and forth gathering wood for the fire
without saying a word. I cross my arms and bite my tongue and keep my
peace, because if I open my mouth, I’m not sure what will come out.
It could be a reasonable argument, but it could also be something
much more dangerous. I could find myself confessing that I’m not afraid of
him, I’m afraid of me. That I’m afraid of how much I want him to touch me,
and keep on touching me, no matter how wrong it would be.
A wicked part of me would like to observe the quality of Gem’s
silence after that sort of confession. I imagine it would be very different
from the cold, efficient one I’m enjoying right now. More shocked and off
balance. Far less sanctimonious. The pleasure I’d take in pulling the rug out
from beneath his self-righteous feet would almost make up for the shame
of his knowing my secret.
Almost.
“Hand me your shawl,” he demands, startling me.
“What?”
“Your shawl. Hand it to me.” From the direction of his voice, I can tell
he’s standing. Glaring down at me, no doubt, too sickened to sit and enjoy
the fire he’s miraculously built. I would ask him how he did it, but it’s clear
he’s not in the mood for polite conversation.
“There’s plenty of room by the fire.” I leave my scarf where it is, lift
my chin, and do my best to look imperious, though I can’t remember
feeling this filthy in my life, even right after my mother died, when I refused
to let anyone bathe me for weeks. But back then I was a little girl locked
away in my music room, the only place the tower fire hadn’t touched. I
didn’t spend my days roaming the desert, collecting dirt and grit on my