Page 25

Wilting Marigold

Callum

Cal woke just as the sun was setting, the amber glow painting the sand dunes and red rocks in swathes of warm copper, and the heat made the air dance and sway in the distance.

He let the warmth chase away the chill that lingered from the haze of his nightmare, brushing his fingers against the rocks as a reminder that he was here.

Alive.

These damned dreams continued to plague his mind, stealing what little rest he permitted himself to have.

They’d been worse lately, too.

Insistent.

Death.

He always dreamed of death.

He tapped the rock again.

Alive.

Unstabbed.

Wonders never ceased.

The owls would be out soon, feasting on the rodents that tarried too long above the ground just before the day faded completely.

It was a ruthless world out here in the desert, and not for the first time, he found himself grateful that he’d followed the suggestion his father made before he’d died.

“Join the governor’s militia, and you’ll never want for a thing, boy,”

he’d said.

And he was right.

Callum had been blessed with food and housing and a clear purpose—he got to help people.

His position was intrinsic to keeping order and peace.

He’d found his calling, and his chest was ever-swollen with pride.

He was part of something bigger. Something greater. His work with the piercers alone had made him near invaluable, he’d been told.

That call for justice, for doing what’s right and helping the greater good…it had burned in his blood since he was a child, and now he could count himself among the best of the best.

He’d served mission after mission for his country and people, to keep them safe and well.

Now, distressingly, his need for justice was pulling him in two ways.

His eyes found her sleeping form, curled in over her knees.

The tiny blade that had been tucked beneath her pillow—he’d seen her put it there—was now clenched in her palms, even in sleep.

There was something off about the whole situation, but he couldn’t figure out exactly what smelled fishy, even beyond what he was able to intuit about Sullivan.

He watched her for a time, monitoring the rise and fall of her shoulders with each breath, while his mind churned, seeking an answer he knew it wouldn’t find.

With a groan, he stood and stretched.

Several delicious pops riddled down his spine as he twisted away the aches and pains that came with sleeping against a rock wall.

While the woman slept, he went out to gather more lefiin pads and hopefully snag a rodent or two along with the owls or find some of the sable ginger.

He was pretty sure he’d seen the telltale flower, but it was difficult to say.

The darkness didn’t help, but the moonlight did, somewhat.

He returned to the cave with a full satchel, a desert hare, and a pair of eggs.

“Come on, Half Pint, time to get a move on.

Moon’s already risin’.”

He strode over and nudged her leg with his boot.

Her eyes flashed open and locked on his with a charcoal glare.

She stretched ostentatiously, that damn blade of Fyn’s still in her hand and on full display.

“And where would you attempt to take me, Colonel?”

she demanded with a raspy voice.

“Chirston.”

He didn’t elaborate as he picked up the discarded cactus petal and wedged it into his satchel for later.

He checked his knives and piercer, the smooth handles hanging from their holsters.

“What is ‘Cherrrstin’?”

she asked, rising to her feet and gathering the bedding back into a makeshift pack like she’d done before, all while keeping an eye on him.

He had to admit, she was clever.

That bundle of hers would be a godsend for her.

She looked to be limping only slightly, which was a good sign.

Less like a wilting flower.

He wasn’t about to carry her the whole way, no matter what he’d threatened. What was not a good sign was the knife she kept tight in her fist, but he did his best to ignore it for now.

“Chirston.

It’s a town about five days to the west.”

Callum crossed his arms and stood wide in front of the entrance as she approached him with her lips pursed.

“Why should I believe—?”

“Well, unless you’d prefer I take ya right back to Sullivan—”

“No!”

Her eyes flashed like obsidian in the starlight.

“Well, there you go.

Looks like you’ve decided. Come on.”

Without waiting, he left the cave and began the long trek to the east, following the stars.

Each footfall puffed up a small cloud of dust and sand around his feet.

They probably ought to get sandstriders, too, if they could.

Maybe they could find a herd of the wild solarith and…he chucked that idea.

Wrangling two wild creatures was just stupid.

He could survive, no problem, and he had done it before, but the little waif trotting behind him might have a harder time.

“You have yet to give me a reason,”

she objected, dashing up behind him—surprisingly quickly, considering her injuries—and peering into his face.

No stabbing though, so a good start.

“I’ve got a couple.”

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye.

She was a curious thing.

Most likely just trying to save her own neck.

“Well…what is it? Without an answer, perhaps I should just take my chances here in the desert!”

The Arryvian stopped and planted her feet with her fists at her hips.

If his ribs hadn’t compulsively ached at the memory of her blade, he might have laughed.

“Sure.

You could do that, Miss Marigold, but you’d be easy pickin’ for the predators out here, and that’s if the sun don’t kill you first.

Which it most likely would.

That’s not even mentionin’ all the other ways you can die out here.

You wouldn’t last two days without me.”

She opened her mouth, no doubt to object, but a loud, gutteral howl broke the silence of the night and she whirled in the direction it had come from.

It sounded very intimidating, but that was the point.

The gripe’s bark was all it had, being a small striped bird that nested in the lefiin, and it used it to drive away would-be predators, like them.

She didn’t need to know that, though.

“No trees to hide in out here, Marigold.

Windwolves, we call them.

Silent as death, and hard to see except for the flash of yellow eyes before they attack.”

He lowered his voice to a whisper, speaking like he might have told spooky stories to Barlow when they were young.

“Some say they can shape-shift.

Stealing the face of your best friend before they consume you whole.

Best be on the lookout.”

“You do not seem afraid,”

she noted, eyeing him up and down.

He shrugged.

“That’s because I’m not.

Wary, yes.

Afraid? I know how they hunt, I know the signs, and more importantly, I have a piercer to shoot at a distance.

But you and your piddly little knife?”

He gestured to the blade in her hand.

“You most certainly should be afraid.”

She huffed, but didn’t say anything else, and he watched from the corner of his eye with a smirk as she kept glancing over her shoulder, ever-wary.

This would be easier than he thought.

“What lies in Chirston?”

she asked after a time, the moon visible just past a plateau over her left shoulder.

“Lawful folk,”

he said with a sigh, realizing she wouldn’t let it go unless he elaborated.

“I told you, I’m gonna get justice for the people you killed.”

“And I told you, I did not kill them,”

she huffed.

“Which leads to the other reason.

If you are guilty, then you’ll be sentenced and taken off my hands.

You’ll be punished within the confines of the law.”

He held up a finger against her objection.

“And, if you aren’t guilty, then you’ll receive a pardon and be given immigration papers.

Those papers will get you on the O-rail and then access to a ship overseas.

Without the paperwork, you can’t get anywhere, darlin’.”

They walked in silence while she chewed her lip and kicked at the rocks at her feet.

“When they find me innocent, then I will be able to go home?”

“That’s correct, ma’am.

I’ll see to it that if you’re innocent, you’ll get all you need to get aboard a ship back to your trees.

You have my word as Colonel of the Governor’s Army.”

She watched him for a long moment, gripping the handle of her blade so tightly her knuckles were white.

He thought about saying more but decided against it.

He glanced at her once more, and their eyes met.

She grabbed his arm with her free hand, and he stopped, searching her eyes for something he couldn’t define.

God but she had such a gaze.

Then she released him and tucked her blade into her makeshift pack.

“All right, Colonel, you have a deal.”

***

They didn’t get quite as far as he would have liked.

Her shorter legs, slight limp, and constant shivering in the frigid night breeze slowed her and he slowed himself to accommodate her.

After the grey fingers of dawn coating the sides of the cacti and sand dunes came the sweltering sun, the incessant heat already prickling the back of his neck with sweat.

Not even the wind could ease the torrid weather.

She wasn’t doing much better.

At least the chattering of her teeth had stopped.

He’d been able to find a small patch of the scraggly sable ginger on the cool side of a lefiin tree and he’d wrapped it carefully and tucked it into his pack.

He looked back to see the little marigold wilting under the bluster of the desert.

He almost pitied her. Almost.

“You’ll need a hat before long,”

he said, his voice coming out a bit gruffer than he intended.

“I will make one when we stop.”

Her voice was dry as paper.

“Right,”

he snorted.

“You’ll just make one magically appear.”

He laughed and shook his head, but paused at the serious look she gave him.

The wind tugged at her hair and pulled tendrils across her face.

“Yes.”

Her dark eyes were eerie—the way they bore into his skin, burrowing deep into his bones and leaving a chill that made his skin erupt into goosebumps in spite of the heat.

He exhaled and rubbed at his chest to ease the strange sensation before pointing further ahead at another large rock formation.

“That looks promising.

It’ll protect against the wind, if nothing else.”

Cal inspected the rocky area, searching along the crags until he found a cavern that was uninhabited and would fit them both comfortably enough.

This one tunneled down deeper into the small mountainside and from what he could tell, whatever had once lived there had long since left.

He gave a deep bow and waved her inside.

“After you, good lady.”

He couldn’t help but enjoy the way her eyes narrowed and lip curled, the flash of irritation in her eyes when she realized he was mocking her.

They continued into the cave, the air growing steadily warmer without the wind.

Red-violet clumps of lichen speckled the sandstone walls, the clusters creating a cloud of misty fuschia light that bounced off the uneven stone.

He and Barlow used to collect the plants and grind them into pretend potions and poisons, offering them to Mama with a bundle of whatever desert flowers they’d found along the way.

Mama had told him what the plant was called and some medicinal uses for it, but he’d long forgotten many of them.

Thankfully, he still remembered a couple.

He took out his knife and scraped the lichen off the wall and into his handkerchief. When he caught her observing with a curious tilt to her head, he shrugged.

“It’s good for tea, and it can turn into a gel you put on your skin—keeps you from blistering under the sun.”

He reached out a hand to brush the remains of the strangely textured plant into his cloth, while watching her sidelong as she continued into the cave with her head held high as ever.

26

Smells Like Rain

Rumi

One thing was surprisingly nice about the colonel.

He was quiet.

A thinker.

Every time she looked at him, his low brows and rigid face showed he was deep in thought.

Until he caught her looking, that is, then emotion fled his face, replaced by a mask of disinterest.

Was he plotting against her or just being obstinate? Then he opened his smart mouth and called her another stupid name again. It was probably both. She rolled her eyes at his impertinence, often.

They walked down the uneven ground until the tunnel opened into a wider cavern beneath the desert plateau.

She had never been underground like this before, though many people lived in Corsin, a city built beneath the thick roots of the trees of her homeland.

It was a strange sensation.

A sort of cloying, trapped feeling that warred with the warmth of safety the stone provided.

If she listened, she could hear her Ti’la answering the resonating purr of the earth.

A deep, monotonous groan. So different from her home.

“All right,”

the colonel said, interrupting her thoughts.

He scraped some loose stones from the middle of the cavern with his foot.

“I’ll get a fire going and cook up some meat.

How’s your leg, Twiggy?”

“It is fine.”

She ground her teeth but kept her voice even.

She knew what he was doing with these ridiculous nicknames—trying to worm under her skin and toy with her—but she would not allow him the satisfaction.

“Don’t go anywhere,”

he warned as he strolled back up the tunnel.

She would not.

She had decided, begrudgingly, whilst in his arms, with no other option available to her, that he was her best hope for survival.

After experiencing the heat and absolutely devastating lack of moisture in this place, she was certain he was right about that.

And oh, how that vexed her.

While he was gone, she picked up the strange pad that the colonel had cut to provide them with its water.

Used and discarded, he thought it had no further use.

She figured it could do nicely.

Closing her eyes, she drifted inward and listened until she heard the faint chorus of the plant.

Concentration pinned her brows together as she willed it to change shape, coaxing it to meld together and lengthen, strengthening until it was longer and wider.

It was not the most fashionable of hats, but it would keep the sun off her face well enough. Rumi wiped the sweat from her brow, concerned at the toll the simple crafting had taken from her body.

When the colonel returned, his large, imposing figure filling the tunnel, Rumi had the hat in her lap and was braiding her hair.

If he had anything to say about it, he did not let on.

Merely tossed her a surprised look before digging into his bag and producing a limp, furred creature, setting it beside large strips of…something.

She had assumed he had been out getting firewood, but this was not wood.

“It smells of rain out there,”

she announced as he knelt down and struck at the pillar of whatever he had gathered with flint and steel until it sparked to life.

Whatever it was, it caught quickly and burned bright, without much smoke at all.

“Nah.

It’s a bit early for rain.

We’ll be in town long before it falls.

Trekking through mud isn’t fun.”

“Fyn said it did not rain.”

“Oh it does, but only rarely.

A bit later this season and only lasts for a fortnight or so.

The people gather as much as they can while they can.”

He hesitated, his tongue sliding over his lower lip.

“I know it rains more where you’re from.

How often would you say?”

She considered it briefly before deciding there was no harm in answering this question.

“Every couple of days there is at least a slight drizzle, though the Song Seekers regularly ask the gods for more.”

“What are Song Seekers?”

Ugh, why did his questions never cease?

“They are a people who have abandoned the safety of the trees to chase the magic of the rains, hoping it will imbue them with its power.

Sometimes it works…though not often in the way they desire.

More often, they are changed.

I met a Song Seeker with the ears of a cat who could see in the dark.

It is a strange magic and unpredictable.”

“Strange that even across the sea, the rain is the same,”

he mused, his knife gliding under the animal’s hide to separate the skin from the meat.

“Though we receive less—much less—we’ve been told since infancy that it isn’t safe.”

Rumi plucked at her hair, dropping her eyes to the wisps of dark curls at her fingertips.

“Small amounts of exposure will not cause damage.

The Elders say it is only after prolonged exposure that the body begins to change.”

“How have your people adapted to life with the rain?”

He asked, his eyes glued to her though his knife still slid across the skin.

“We stay sheltered in the trees,”

she said with a shrug, loathe to elaborate further and share her people’s lives.

He seemed to understand because, after a few heartbeats of holding her gaze, his eyes dropped to the task at hand.

He did not pry further.

They chewed the under-seasoned meat and drank the bitter lefiin juice in silence.

Until she broke it, anyway.

“Why are you here?”

she blurted, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Not here with me, I mean here…in the desert.

Why were you with Weston?”

He stared at her for so long her mouth went dry, and a strange sort of fluttering took place in her belly.

His eyes shuttered beneath his lashes, and he took a deep breath that lifted his broad chest and shoulders.

“I took a leave of absence.”

“Why?”

He cracked an eye open and the flutter started up again.

This time, though, his face seemed weighed down by sorrow.

His shoulders slumped and his lips turned down.

“My brother…died.”

His voice broke on the last word and he cleared his throat to hide it, staring up at the ceiling instead of looking at her.

Guilt and sadness floated through her chest, making her heart shrivel.

“Oh.”

Way to go, Rumi.

“I am sorry.

Were you close?”

Wrong question, judging by the pained look that spasmed over his features.

She knew that look.

She knew it all too well.

“Thick as thieves…when I was around.”

She was not sure when she stood or why her legs carried her to his side, but in the span of a breath, she was sitting beside him with her hand on his arm.

He did not move away, as she had expected him to.

“I am sorry, Colonel.

Truly.

When I lost my mother, I thought my world was ending.”

She paused again and wet her lips before continuing.

“My heart is grieving with yours.”

For a heartbeat, they both stared at where her fingers met his skin, neither of them breathing.

Then, ever so slowly, he closed his hand over hers, solidifying the touch.

It was weighty, that touch.

He met her eyes and she knew beyond a doubt that in that moment, he was not her captor, and she was not his prisoner.

They were just two people sharing in grief and loss.

Realizing what she had done, she pulled back her hand, and there was a moment of awkward silence, the crackling flames the only sound.

“Would you like to tell me about him?”

she whispered.

His eyes traced her face so boldly he may as well have touched her.

He gave a slight nod, the firelight illuminating the planes of his face in warmth, and then he told her about his brother and their childhood together.