Page 7

A Name

Rumi

Rumi woke to the sharp scent of vinegar, her cheek pressed to a cold metal table.

Her muscles were like lead and her head and mouth were stuffed with cotton, a familiar sensation, a remnant of that cursed poison.

She peeled her face off the table with great effort, her neck straining with the weight of her head.

She would punish Colonel Reid for the way he had treated her.

Her people might be peaceful, but she was past peace now.

She would make him hurt. Her blade would sink between his ribs again and again until his blood watered Verenestra’s fertile lands and her fists would break his bones into tiny pieces to ensure he would never move again. She would call the earth to yank him back into the depths where he belonged. Clenching her fists, she scowled at her wrists, still manacled.

“Ah, you’re awake.

Excellent.”

Her eyes snapped toward the unfamiliar voice.

He stood partially in shadow, his frame filling a closed doorway, medals and awards adorning his chest.

He wore his hat pulled forward casting a dark veil over his eyes.

“I am Captain Sullivan with the Third Battalion in service of Governor Cesar.

I’ve been assigned to oversee this interrogation.

You’ll answer my questions truthfully and promptly, and if you do, you will be rewarded.”

Rumi narrowed her eyes at him.

She had not cooperated with Colonel Reid, and that was not going to change now for this man.

Instead, Rumi summoned her strength and rose as straight as she could in the metal chair she was bound to by a chain around her ankle, the links of which jangled on the floor with the motion.

“What is your name?”

She stared at him blankly, pretending to be unfamiliar with his language.

His jaw ticked.

“I’d prefer that you don’t play games.

It will not go well.

I have Colonel Reid’s notes.

I know you understand the common language well enough.

So, let us dispense with any unpleasantness.

You give me what I want, and I can see about returning you to your country.”

She continued to stare, waiting, watching his jaw feather.

She did not believe him.

Something about his face, about the way he was watching her, had her clamping her teeth down on any answers she may have given.

“Tell me your name.”

His voice was cold and sharp, his face the picture of control.

“I just need a name for now.”

Rumi lifted her chin in defiance.

“You have one more chance to answer my questions or I’ll be forced to be unkind.

This attitude of yours is creating a problem and it simply doesn’t need to be this way.

Give.

Me. A. Name.”

The vein on his temple bulged.

It would have been funny if she did not feel so dizzy and fuzzy all over.

She opened her lips and he raised an eyebrow.

“Colonel Reid,”

she said, her tongue curling over the strange syllables.

There, she had given a name.

Sullivan sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“Very well.

The hard way, then.”

He stood and knocked on the door, and two men came in.

They grabbed and held her tightly while Sullivan unlocked her ankle.

Her limbs were still uncooperative or she would have kicked his face while he was down there.

As it was, her feet limply scraped along the floor as they dragged her from the interrogation room and down a flight of stairs into a frigid, empty cell.

Ripples of goosebumps scattered over her skin.

She tried to count the stairs and steps, marking the doors and exits in her mind, but it was still too full of cotton.

The doors opened with a shriek that made her ears ring, and the men released her inside, where she landed unceremoniously on the cold, stone floor.

Pain shot up her limbs as she hit the ground.

The rough floor scraped her skin and it burned like anything.

There would be bruises, too.

“Let me know when you want a better blanket.

It gets awfully chilly down here.”

The heavy cell door clanged shut and through the bars she watched the trio stomp back up the stairs, leaving her in the freezing darkness.

Rumi glanced around the room, hugging herself to keep in the warmth.

A thin, threadbare rectangle of fabric lay wrinkled beside her on a metal cot with a pitiful excuse for a pad.

No wood.

Of course not.

Reid had informed the captain of her abilities and now she was locked in an ice-cold room of metal and stone. Curse him.

Eventually, they brought her water and a small chunk of bread and cheese.

It was not much, but it filled the ache in her belly.

There were no windows and no light to mark the change in time.

Only her chattering teeth kept her company.

Had Reid not said there would be a trial? She was supposed to see the governor, was she not?

Eventually, the shivering yielded to numbness and her exhausted body fell asleep against the stone.

The jangle of keys jerked her awake and she peered through the bars.

Another soldier.

Rumi wished she knew what the different symbols on his uniform meant.

But she did not want them to know she spoke their language well.

Maybe it was a fool’s hope.

But it was the only advantage she had.

The guard took her up a flight of stairs, the stone frozen beneath her bare feet, and put her back into a room—the same or very much like the one she had been in before.

Stone from floor to ceiling with a single window and furnished with a metal table and two matching chairs.

The window, though apparently glass, was black and did not appear to face the outside. Strange.

He sat her down on the far side of the table and locked the cuff around her ankle to a metal loop on the ground.

Then he stood up straight and stepped back to stand guard by the door.

Not two heartbeats later, Sullivan entered.

A low twinge of unease settled in her belly when he met her eyes.

There was something akin to disgust there but it was hidden behind his cool exterior.

She only caught glimpses of this undercurrent of general dislike. What had she done to this man?

“We’re going to try again today.

I hope a night in the cell has given you a change of heart.

I would like to start with your name and develop a bit of rapport.

Do you agree?”

Rumi blinked up at him, keeping her expression blank, though she noted the emphasis on “her” name.

“I know you can understand me.”

His eyes tightened almost imperceptibly, just like aba’s did when one of the Elders did something displeasing.

Rumi did not budge.

“We know you have magic.

Plant magic, if the rumors are true.

Do you have any idea how much your magic could help the people here? Families are starving, crops wither and die, there isn’t enough rainwater to go around.

“That’s what I need to know, Arryvian.

Where does your magic come from and how can we recreate it so the citizens can thrive instead of merely surviving?”

For the first time since her abduction, Rumi’s stomach knotted with uncertainty.

She had not realized the plight of this country.

Were children truly starving because they did not have enough food? What did he mean about rainwater? The doubt must have registered on her face because Sullivan nodded.

“I know, you probably believe me a monster.

That I’ll play mind games until you give me what I want.”

He paused and rubbed his chin.

“But I have no reason to lie to you.

You are in control of how this goes.”

He studied her face, watching and waiting.

When she did not reply, he began pacing the room.

“It’s true, we have aqueducts and have found ways to dig deep into the earth for life-giving water, but it is…inconvenient.

Expensive.

You see the issue, I’m sure.”

His eyes slid to her face again and he tipped his head.

“I’m certain you’re a sensible woman who would do the right thing.

You don’t want poor families and children to starve, do you? Surely all it would take is a small whisper of how it works, hmm?”

Sullivan stopped his pacing and stood before her with his hands behind his back.

Something about this felt wrong.

Like she was only getting half the story.

This had nothing to do with the crimes she was accused of.

In fact, he had not even mentioned them.

Rumi felt her brows kiss and she tightened her lips resolutely.

This was about power.

Her power.

Behiba would carry her soul to the Well before she would share her secrets.

Right then and there, she made a vow to herself and Behiba that on her mother’s name, she would not divulge information to this man, no matter what he did to her.

On and on it went.

Sullivan would ask her questions, make statements designed to make her feel guilty.

When she did not cooperate, he would take several deep breaths and leave, and one of the guards would take her back to her cell.

He never yelled or acted in anger, though she thought she saw it gnawing beneath his facade.

It was getting tiresome.

Apparently, this desert land of theirs was running out of rations.

Or crops.

Or sometimes it was water in its entirety.

But his machinations changed slightly every time, so she was not certain what was truthful.

Regardless, she would wait until her trial and speak to the governor.

Assuming that was still happening.

On the sixth day, Sullivan was speaking in his typical fashion—he must have loved the sound of his voice, she thought—and Rumi stared at the ceiling, barely listening.

He was going on about something he presumably thought was important.

Rumi imagined what this room would look like if thick branches suddenly sprouted from the floor and cocooned the walls in bulbous leaves and flowers.

If the glass and metal cracked beneath the strength of nature and wrapped Sullivan in a tight and deadly embrace.

She pictured his face turning red and puffy as the tree squeezed and squeezed…

The force of the slap jerked her head to the side and the sound registered before the pain.

The stinging of her cheek made her eyes water.

“You will hear me, you stinking cunt.”

His voice was cold and rigid, devoid of the usual heat that accompanies anger.

Gingerly she touched her stinging cheek.

A wash of shame settled over her face and it burned red.

She imagined his handprint permanently imprinted on her cheek.

He had slapped her.

His face was carved from stone.

He only watched, expressionless.

Scrutinizing her reaction.

Monitoring her like an experiment.

A flurry of movement from the guards drew her attention and a loud shout echoed in the chamber, but barely registered past the roaring in her ears.

Rumi watched with wide eyes as the guards ushered the captain out and closed the door behind them, leaving her alone.

The door opened once more with a creak as one of the guards returned and sat across from her.

He had hair growing over his upper lip.

How strange.

It looked like a fuzzy, brown, caterpillar sitting on his face.

“My apologies, ma’am.

Captain Sullivan should not have struck you.

He’s been taken to speak with his superiors and will likely be transferred.

I’ll see about getting you a new interrogator.”

Foreboding whispered at the back of her mind.

Sullivan had not been angry.

In fact, the slap had felt almost contrived. An act.

The Caterpillar Man unlocked her cuff and led her out the door and back down to her cell.

No one came to speak to her for what felt like days.

A tray of food slid beneath the bars of the cell door at seemingly regular intervals and the guard who brought the tray walked away without ever looking at her.

She needed to keep up her strength.

If she had learned anything from her time with the colonel, it was that food meant energy for her Ti’la, and if she had any desire to use her magic, she would need to keep fed.

The meals were strange but edible.

She ate without complaint and returned to her little blanket and cot.

She was staring at the ceiling when the stones began to swirl above her.

Her arms tingled and lost feeling.

Rumi stood suddenly in alarm but swayed on her feet.

She tried to catch herself on the stone wall before falling to the ground.

She did not have time to use her magic to push the poison away before her vision faded to black.

***

She woke to a sharp wash of ice spearing her face and lancing her skin from her head downward.

Rumi fought for breath as she jumped up, gasping and sputtering as the water pelted her face.

Dashing to the far side of the cell, she pressed her cheek to the stone, letting the icy water cut her back.

It soaked her clothes and left her teeth chattering.

The rough stone against her fingers was different than before and the room smelled strange.

She could no longer taste the sea on the air.

Had they taken her somewhere?

“Whew! You stink! Don’t you savages know how to bathe?”

He said from the other side of the bars.

Sullivan.

“You smell worse than the pigs.”

As icy fingers of water raked down her back, she dared a glance over her shoulder.

A new seed of hatred began to sprout.

He held a bucket, and when he saw her looking, he flung the water back at her face, the frigid droplets slicing like blades over her skin.

“Feel like singing now, little bird? You see, things are going to be a bit different now.

My orders are to get the information I need by whatever means I deem necessary.

I know you have the answers, so if you don’t start singing, things are going to get a lot worse for you.”

He shrugged.

“I could do this all day.

This water hasn’t settled and is rife with magic—unsafe for the general public.

But I suppose that doesn’t apply to you.

It probably doesn’t even affect you.

Maybe you’re like those crazies in the jungle that drink this shit until they grow tails and fur.

Will you grow a tail for me, Arryvian?”

His insults seemed to lack the fire that should have been there.

Dispassionate and unfeeling.

Rumi braced against the wall, shivering, refusing to relinquish what little pride she still had.

She could take it.

She steeled herself with all her might.

When the onslaught ceased, she turned and stepped up to the bars, glaring at him.

He stared at her impassively, dissecting her with his eyes.

A slight movement was the only warning she got before he punched her, sending her reeling into the rough-hewn stone.

Copper filled her mouth and she spat it to the floor as the world stopped spinning.

Rumi was getting decidedly sick of getting punched.

She challenged him with her eyes as she stood, sending daggers of hatred through his skull.

Sullivan only observed her, calculating.

Without a word, he grabbed the bucket and left.

After a sloshing sound from down the hall, he returned to douse her again with water as cold as death.

Where were the other guards? The kind man with the caterpillar under his nose never came to stop the abuse.

He splashed her again, the numbness oozing into her bones.

No one was coming.

Sullivan kept at it for hours.

Maybe days.

It was difficult to tell.

It was only the two of them, and she would not break.

With no light source and the sporadic meals, there was no way to know how long it went on.

He shouted at her from behind the bars, threw food, tossed insults, and occasionally brought more buckets of water.

Everything he did seemed to be goal-oriented.

Even his insults seemed intended to spark a reaction.

She was not sure what he really wanted, but she refused to give it to him.

She did not know where this defiance came from.

She had never behaved this way with aba, even when they had had their fiercest disagreements.

But these men who dared to take her from her home and torment and shame her…she would not give them anything.

She would die first.