Page 15

A Spindly Forest

Rumi

The shuffle and thumping of boots announced his presence as HazelEyes made another round, this time with a meal tray for her.

Had it been a day already? She could smell the stale bits of gristly meat and day-old potatoes before his large form obstructed the wan light filtering through the iron slats in her cell door.

She clenched her fists together, keeping her eyes down to avoid his gaze, the metal around her wrists and ankles clinking softly as she shuffled away from the door.

Her skin had long since rubbed raw where she wore the braces.

The prison consisted of stones larger than her head all mashed together and pasted over with mortar, and looked as though it had been hastily constructed.

She had counted each one to keep her mind off the ache of hunger in her belly.

The constant scent of dirt, rats, and iron had become her closest companions.

And darkness.

She could not remember the last time she had seen the sky or inhaled a breath of air that did not reek of confined underground, rodent-infested space.

When her mind felt fuzzy and her limbs refused to work, she found herself wondering what was real. Were her memories of vivid green meadows and dark leafy canopies merely created as an escape from the harsh reality of her world now? What was the world like beyond these prison walls? Where had she come from? Had she always been here?

No.

Trembling fingers traced the slightly raised skin of her markers on her chin and down her neck.

Then they found the twisting lines up her cheekbones and followed them over her brow, ending at the center of her forehead.

Rumi.

Her name was Rumi and she was alive.

She had a life beyond these prison walls. She tapped the center of her forehead as she repeated her name over and over again. Rumi. Rumi. They would not take her identity. She would not forget. Behiba would keep her soul safe in her mighty hands and the kind eyes of the goddess would see her heart and know that Rumi stayed true. Verenestra would keep guard over her this night and would see her home to her people. By the gods, these human monsters would not be permitted to keep her in captivity any longer.

Her captors’ incessant abuse at Sullivan’s behest left her body so weak she had been unable to eat—leaving her a sweaty, crumpled mess on the floor of her cell.

To her surprise, the dense fog that had surrounded her since she had arrived in this horrific place lifted some while she lay there, empty and broken.

She had been so out of it, focusing what mental faculties she could on disassociating from the excruciating pain being inflicted on her, it had never occurred to her that they had been drugging her, and by way of her food no less.

Now that she was aware of the deception, she had stopped eating and drinking altogether so her mind would stay clear.

Well…clearer.

The days stretched on once the sedative had begun to wear off, and on the floor of her frozen cage, Rumi sat still and gradually regained control over her mind as her surroundings came into sharper focus.

Almost imperceptibly at first, like an itch not yet ready to be scratched, a new sense quietly sprouted deep within her and soon grew into something she could not name but felt had always been a part of her.

Though Sullivan had done all that he could to render her powerless these past weeks, her Ti’la seemed now to be trying to send her a message of hope—and it had not taken her long to decipher it.

Rumi looked up as the door just outside her cell slid open and the guard stepped into the dark hallway—it was the kind one.

His uniform appeared freshly washed and pressed, the stark lines of red down the arms and legs seeming to pop out from the material.

The scent of soap still lingered on his skin.

It was a reprieve from the overpowering rank of sweat and cologne the other, HawkNose, often wore.

She kept her body limp, pretending to be under the effects of their sedative, as if her mind were still floating and she was barely aware of his presence.

They did not know that she had stopped eating their dinners some two or more nights ago, sharing her food with the rats.

They did not know that she knew the food was drugged.

It had made the last few days utterly horrific, having to hold to the illusion of a drooping and sedated creature as they sliced and poked and prodded, demanding her life blood for their experiments.

But she had not broken.

She had refused to tell them anything or cooperate in any way.

They had shown their monstrous hand, and now it was her turn.

“Good evening,”

HazelEyes greeted her with a small smile, the papery light sending stripes of shadows across the floor.

It was always the same with him.

He spoke to her and never seemed to mind that she did not speak back.

She had not decided if she liked it or if she would have preferred him to tend to her in silence like the others.

At least he treated her like a person rather than a rodent like those she shared her cell with.

The keys rattled against the lock as he opened the door, the hinges sliding with a shriek that made her grind her teeth involuntarily.

His hair, the color of dark tree bark, was kept short beneath his hat.

The beige uniform seemed to pull the color from his face, except for his eyes—of that lovely sort of hazel-gold that was rare among her people.

They were gentle and sincere and made his whole face appear more youthful.

It was almost enough to make her feel guilty, had it not been for the memories of their torture playing like an echobird’s song in the back of her mind over the last several days as her awareness returned.

Several times since he had turned up here, she thought HazelEyes had looked familiar.

Like she had seen him outside of these stone walls, but could not place it.

The holes in her memories were full of cloudy haze.

It did not matter who he was or if she had seen him before.

He set the tray on the ground beside her.

“Today’s a holiday, so I brought you a little treat.

Don’t tell,”

he said teasingly and placed a small round ball wrapped in colorful paper next to her dinner.

“It’s chocolate from the boss himself.

I think I might be gettin’ that promotion soon, you know.

Maybe I’ll be able to get out of here.”

He sighed and stepped back, adjusting his hat as he turned toward the door.

“They’ll be havin’ fireworks this evening.

I bet you’d like ‘em.”

Her eyes darted up to the offering, then to his face, before quickly looking away.

The dark mass of knots that used to be lovely curls hung in a tattered curtain over her face.

For a brief moment, she could smell flowers amid the sharp scent of his soap-scrubbed skin.

Something flashed in his eyes.

Pity.

Maybe guilt. It was difficult to say. She had seen it there before.

“Have a nice night, miss.”

Then the doors closed again and he was gone, the tapping of his boots on the stone floor announcing his exit, the lantern light fading away leaving her once again alone in the darkness.

Only the dust and greasy food to confirm she was alive.

But she was alive.

She scrambled to the plate, hissing as the shackles rubbed against her raw skin, and inspected the dinner he had brought.

Sure enough, a fork lay against the metal plate.

Never a knife, of course.

This was the second meal in a row accompanied by a utensil other than a dull spoon.

She needs her strength, Sullivan had said when he realized she was beginning to lose weight and that her magic was waning.

That is when the meat and potatoes had started.

And the fork.

An iron fork.

Thank Behiba for her blessing.

The first time she had been given a fork, she could not help but conjure the image of gouging out Sullivan’s cold, arrogant eyes with it.

But another idea quickly replaced the thought and she had held the instrument in her hand for a time.

There, with the gentle golden spark of her Ti’la, a faint echo thrummed in her palm.

She knew that sensation, that sound.

She had never attempted to connect to metal—never had a need to.

Now she had nothing but need and the time to learn. To speak the language of metal. As far as Rumi was aware, no Arryvian could shape metal. This was different. A gift from the gods in her hour of need. She would not squander it.

Before long, the guard would come to take the tray away.

But she knew that it was only a matter of time.

That time was now.

Rumi tore a strip from the bottom of her ruined dress and wrapped it around the fork to keep the metal away from the fresh wounds on her palm, courtesy of the most recent bloodletting.

Holding the fork in her hands, she opened her mind to it and focused all her senses upon the utensil.

She spent many long moments in meditation until she understood the energy coursing through the metal.

The scent of the iron filled her nose and her will twisted together with its natural energies.

Metal was not like trees.

It had been made hard, forced through fires and bent into compliance. It was difficult to shape and the material fought against her magic. Plant life was pliant and open to suggestion. Iron, it would seem, took a little more coaxing. But Rumi pressed on.

“Brijahg,”

she commanded in the ancient language.

She pushed her will into the fork and then the Ti’la began to flow through her, matching her will and shaping the fork in her fingers.

She smiled triumphantly as the tines began to bend and twist, lengthening at her behest.

Then each tine separated and fell to the floor, leaving her with four small tools.

Then she crouched over and inserted one shaped tine in the lock of her shackles and began picking the lock with one of the others.

She had tried to use her magic on the tumblers themselves several times with no success. The shackles were too heavy, too dense and the tumblers much too complex to focus on one pin inside to move it in isolation of another. She also could not feel the Ti’la in them. Nor the spoon. It was strange to feel it suddenly now in the fork, but truly the gods must be on her side.

Rumi was grateful that she had taken to sneaking away from home in the past, so her fingers could move nimbly and with experience, letting her tools work, feeling for the inner workings to shift and give.

Locks like this were uncommon in her home, but there were a few thanks to aba’s paranoia.

She shook her head as she thought of her aba.

Ever since her ama had gone to Behiba’s care, he had changed.

More forceful and less forgiving.

Especially toward her.

As the heir, she was held to different standards and rules.

Even Mbali had noticed, and that boy had the thickest head of anyone she knew. Reckless, he had called her, selfish, ungrateful, trying to forge his words over the gentle ones her mother had used. Adventurous, free spirited, proud and loyal.

She had spent nights locked in her room “for her safety”

wondering what Ama would say if she had come home to find her daughter caged like a bird.

She would probably help pick the locks herself.

Which is why Rumi had continued to sneak out.

Not for anything nefarious, of course.

Rather, because she did not deserve to be in captivity, locked away until a suitable suitor braved Aba and asked for her hand, and, by extension, his throne.

The lock clicked and the shackle released from her ankle.

Without pausing, she dove into the second one, the sound of metal scraping against metal a shrill chorus accompanied by the pounding of her heart in her ribs.

Her ears twitched at every sound, her heart leapt to her throat at the thought of being discovered.

Next, the ones on her wrists—those were more difficult.

She knew the guard would be back to collect her tray shortly and she had to be ready.

She glanced back at her uneaten food, her stomach growling loudly as the smells wafted up to her nose.

Gods, she was so hungry.

She vowed to Verenestra to feast on a whole pig when she got home, swearing that even then she would not be satiated.

Quickly as she could, she freed herself from the manacles and gently slid all of them to the corner of the room.

Then she arranged herself to look as if she were still contained without having to touch the cursed restraints.

She doubted that she would ever again be able to wear bracelets and bangles without recalling the rubbing of those cuffs.

Rings of red pulsed in the cold air and she hissed in relief.

When the familiar sound of boots came back around to her cell, she tugged the strip of fabric taut between her fists.

Rumi stopped breathing, counting the seconds until she saw the ring of light bobbing on the floor.

He was whistling, the keys on his belt jangling with each step.

The door slid open.

Her heart stopped.

Now was the time.

As soon as he set foot in her cage, she leapt up.

His beautiful, kind eyes went wide with shock.

She kicked out her leg, her foot catching his knee to send him sprawling forward.

Then she was on him.

She scrambled onto his back, wrapping the fabric around his neck before he could struggle much.

Surprise was on her side. His gasping, choking sounds hammered the nail of guilt deeper. She pulled with all her might, closing her eyes and trying not to hear the scrambling and kicking as she strangled him, his fingers tugging at the cloth. He reared back in a final desperate attempt to dislodge her, but she clung tight, even as he fell backward, on top of her. His bruising weight knocked the air from her lungs. Kaelthor forgive her. She hoped her prayer to the god of death was unnecessary, that her strength was not enough to take this man’s life.

“I am so sorry,”

she panted in her native tongue.

“Sleep a while.”

No sooner had she spoken the words than he went limp.

The fabric fell away with a whisper of cloth on skin and she pressed her fingers to his neck, desperately searching for his pulse.

He was still alive.

She nearly sang with relief before rolling from beneath him.

She had to work quickly.

The jacket was easy to remove and while it was big, it would hide her well enough.

She began to unlace his boots when he stirred, groaning.

Rumi froze, her fingers trembling.

“You gotta…unbuckle the top…first.

Then the laces…”

She gaped, motionless, as his head lolled to the side and he met her eyes.

Surely he could hear the thundering of her heart.

Then he smiled.

A familiar smile.

Her stomach plummeted and she leapt up, knocking the food into a mess on the floor.

Rumi snatched his hat, then ducked out of the cell.

“Wait,”

he whispered, rolling into a sitting position.

“Take them.”

Rumi froze, her breath caught in her throat as HazelEyes finished unlacing his boots and tossed them toward her.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to say anything.”

His hands lifted in the air, his palms facing her.

“But, I need you to hit me as hard as you can.”

Rumi shook her head quickly, her hands clutching the coat closed at her chest.

“If you don’t, he’ll know I let you go.

It needs to look good,”

he explained.

His eyes shifted to the plate and he jerked his chin, his hands still raised overhead.

“Use the plate.

Hit me in the head with the plate.”

She felt the blood drain from her face and he offered a sad smile.

“It’s okay.

I need you to do it.”

With a lingering glance down the hall, Rumi moved back into the cell, making sure to keep as far from HazelEyes as possible.

Something in his voice, something about him, urged her to trust him.

His request made sense, and Rumi knew that if Sullivan had any inkling that his soldier had helped her, he would be in trouble.

He might even suffer, something she was far too familiar with.

The plate trembled in her fingers as she hefted it.

Her lips tightened as she moved closer and she gave him one last beseeching look.

Behiba forgive her…

The crash thundered in her ears as the plate met his skull and reverberated all the way up her arms and into her shoulders.

She dropped it like it had burned her, guilt churning in her gut as he fell backward against the stone.

A bruise was already forming on his cheek and his lip had split, but he smiled through the blood.

“Good job.

Now cuff me.”

He did not hesitate to hold out his arm toward the discarded chains.

With a shaky breath, she did as she was told and then stepped back out of reach.

Time was not on her side.

When he was restrained, she tucked her hair and pointed ears into the hat carefully, attempting to hide her “otherness.”

The boots were far too large, but the warmth was a blessing for her frigid toes.

The stone was cold against her back, biting her skin even through his jacket as she pressed against the wall and held her breath, listening. Waiting.

Movement made her glance back at the man who offered her a subtle, reassuring nod before closing his eyes once more.

Remorse crashed down on her, leaving a bad taste in her mouth.

Why was he helping her? Her eyes were drawn to the little wrapped ball he had gifted with her meal.

She hesitated only a moment before snatching it up and putting it in the pocket of her stolen uniform.

She pressed her hand against the keys to keep them from jangling as she stepped into the hall.

Freedom was so close now, butterflies swarmed in her stomach, ready to take flight along with her.

She chose not to close the door behind her, just in case he needed to get out and someone did not come looking.

She would not be the one to lock someone else up.

Her shadow grew before her as she dashed past the lantern, and her feet barely made a sound beyond the soft scrape of the oversized boots as she crept along the stone corridor.

Many years of training in the trees made sneaking through these halls an easy feat, even in the large, clunky boots.

Following the path upward and traveling up the flight of stairs to the main floor was a breeze.

Concerning, really, how simple it was.

Could it be as straightforward as walking out? When she reached a hole in the stone, an open window, and looked outside to see blasts of light and smoke that painted the night sky in sparkling colors, she realized why.

A holiday.

Just as he had said.

She paused, staring at the sky in awestruck wonder as the dazzling lights illuminated it once again.

The cracking and fizzling rattled her bones and she found herself grinning.

It was more beautiful than she remembered, and the smells of night washed over her in a cleansing balm.

She stood there in the window for several moments, unable to tear herself away from the display. It was not until she heard a scuffle and the telltale screech of the prison door spinning on the hinges that she lurched onward.

The building was still unfamiliar, but she figured if she stayed by the walls and windows there would eventually be a door.

She had only ever been taken up the stairs to the second floor where they performed their tests.

Tests was a polite term.

Mutilations, more like.

She stopped herself from touching the lacerations their barbaric instruments had carved into her.

She would not be brought back to those moments, but that cursed room would forever haunt her.

Two guards appeared around a corner ahead and Rumi quickly dipped into a small alcove, making herself still as the stone around her.

She gnawed on her lip, her body aching to move.

When they passed, their laughter smelled heavily of booze and mirth, she continued her journey to freedom.

While she did not find an exit, she found what were presumably the kitchens.

They were empty, the cook long gone and likely out enjoying the holiday jubilee.

What were they celebrating, she had not a guess.

She snatched a couple of apples from a net on the shelf and made her way toward a little wooden door against the far wall—either a way out or, less likely, a pantry.

Her growling stomach had a certain preference in conflict with her deep desire to escape this place.

A cold breeze that nearly blew the hat from her head told her she had guessed right.

She did not look back as her footsteps flew over the earth, packed sand and stone scraping beneath her feet.

Finally.

The world around her lit up in bright explosions of color.

The thunder nearly made her jump out of her skin, but still she ran, her breath slicing a throat pleading for water.

A spindly treeline formed from the darkness ahead, and she willed her wobbly legs to carry her further still, but her energy was waning.

If she could get to the trees—

A shout rang out in the night, like a toll of doom.

More yelling.

She was a doe fleeing hungry lions.

She had to make it.

She could not go back.

She would not go back.

Rumi stumbled forward as the world listed sideways, her starved body weak and malnourished as the giant boots tangled her feet.

Dry dirt bloomed around her from the force of the fall and covered her front in dust that coated her tongue and cracked through her sinuses, torturing her parched body.

Her palms barked in pain, the wounds splitting open once more.

Desperately, she called for her Ti’la, scrambling to feel nature’s response, but her body was too far gone.

Too weak.

With a whimper, she scuttled forward on hands and knees toward the trees, her body aching.

Were they trees? They did not look like the ones at home.

She hoped they would listen to her pleading, but when her fingers scraped along the rough surface, she felt the cold, unfeeling bark of silent strangers that did not respond—could not respond.

She sent a prayer to Morthis…Lord of Warriors, King of Fire, I beg for your dragon’s might. Fill my blood with your sacred fire so I may offer you a victory worthy of your name. Give me strength to fight.

Footsteps grew closer behind her.

The cracks of fireworks were the snapping whips of her captors, lashing against her skull.

Was she going the right way? She kicked off the boots so they would not trip her again, whimpering at the rough ground on her raw feet.

She quickly gathered herself up, cradling her palms against her chest and clambered through the skeletal forest as fast as her legs could carry her.

Her feet protested against the cracked, dry ground as she sprinted.

Her chest ached and her lungs burned.

Just a bit further, she told herself.

Just out of reach, but no, she had to make it.

Her vision blurred and she sagged forward against a tree, bark chipping at her fingers where she steadied herself…she had to stop. Had to breathe.

Long enough to catch her breath, but only just, then she was careening through the woods again.

The strange emaciated trees whizzed by her head.

She leapt over roots and rocks until she stumbled again but this time tucked into a graceful roll that would have made aba proud.

Did she step in water? Was it just a dream? Surely a dream…

“Luck flies on swift feet,”

he would say, “and you are a fast runner.”

Lucky.

Lucky to have discovered their sedatives.

Lucky to have gotten a fork.

Lucky it was a holiday.

Lucky…why did that word have such a ring to it?

Not lucky to be here.

And not lucky to be hungry.

And thirsty.

Dying.

She knew she was dying.

But she refused to die in their prison. Kaelthor would not take her yet.

She lost track of how far she had run.

Her mind stuck in the circle of lucky and unlucky, adrenaline turning to delirium as she lost all sense of time.

The sky began to grey, the pale light of dawn looming over her shoulders.

With it came a scorching heat.