Sanctuary

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

A rrows whirled through the air, some fashioned with bone flutes, causing them to wail as they pierced wind and flesh. The clank and vibrating shrill of swordplay echoed above the sounds of armor being deadened and broken.

Somewhere between the crunch of stone and bone, the metallic smell of blood clogging her nose, and the constant rattle in her ears, Petra heard the third weapon of Bessarabiah.

Drums. So many drums. Not rich and wide like those played for the emperor but rattling like tin pans. The sound got between her eyes and Petra thought she might go blind. It clambered over the forehead and knocked down the back of the head where it found the spine and flung itself over every bone. Through blurred and distorted vision, she saw countless bodies bolt, hands over their ears, stunted and slowed by arrows, pulled down by broken bones, ‘til they dragged their heads on the ground, to mill out the sound.

Lindy screamed but Petra did not hear. Instead, she felt the vibration of the child’s emotion and tried to hold her closer. The old woman had her arms around herself but stood to block Lindy from flying debris, her back exposed to the battle. Her lips had not stopped moving in prayer.

In the mud of her mind, Petra could not find two thoughts to string together and make a prayer. Her consciousness was shaken into oblivion. Was the intention of the fight to take away the logic of the human mind and transform men and women into beasts, operating only on stripped instinct?

Panic robs the brain. The smell of blood dulls senses and sickens the stomach. Intuition to stay alive takes over.

People were already crawling on all fours.

Petra shut her eyes and pushed her nose into the child’s hair. She, herself, was frozen with fear. Yet, she must do something. She must remain conscious. If she failed, Sacrifice would take Rand over and those who needed him most would perish. Breathing deep, she tried to inhale the oil on Lindy’s scalp and get hair inside her nostrils. Anything to call her senses back to her, keep her present.

The aroma of the oil used at Mynydd was faint but not stone dust, smoke, or blood. Neither was it the scent of urination and defecation from bodies evacuating in terror.

***

T HE ATTACK LASTED UNTIL the afternoon sun sank. In the time that is neither day nor night, the ground ceased to shake. Dust and smoke hung thick in the air, churning with the wind instead of blowing clear. The snow had ceased and did not cover the countless arrows littering the courtyard.

Nor did it cover the bodies. Moans emerged from some. Others’ eyes were glazed with death, faces twisted with terror and rigor mortis. When the gates opened to admit those who had charged outside the walls, bodies were pushed aside, some alive enough to feel pain and shriek.

The women emerged. From the tower and other hiding spots, they walked with slow steps and pushed their sleeves up. Here at Mynydd it was not the men who carried away the dead.

I must help .

Stiff from hours of standing in fright, Petra tried to take a step. The old woman had grown dizzy at one point and lay fainted before them. However, Lindy still held tight with the strange strength of children. Though her own hands felt like they were little more than stumps, Petra tried to loosen the child’s grip.

Lindy, I have to go help. Your mother is probably already helping. Here, stay here with grandmother and keep her warm. She could not be as brave for as long as you. Here. Rest beside her. We cannot let the bodies lay.

At length, the thin arms dropped, and Lindy allowed Petra to lead her beside the old woman. She wrapped them both in her cloak, whispered intelligible words that were meant as reassurance, and steeled herself to drag away the dead.

When Aldney first entered the Cloistered City, his writings to Petra were sunny and she begged him to tell her the reality of life there. It had taken several letters. Eventually, he told her about servants whipped to death for looking up while the carriage of a noble passed. He confessed to vomiting when he watched those, too battered and weak to hold their own body up, collapse under the strain of hefting barrels and supplies. He wept when the rigor of serving drove some to take their life. Once he fainted when an adolescent collapsed at his feet, dehydrated and sick.

Back then, Petra imagined it all with macabre excitement. Now, she coughed to fight the repelling lurch in her throat.

The women did not look at the bodies they hauled. Instead, they positioned themselves and squatted with their backs to them. Shrugging up ankles to their hips and under their arms, the women leaned forward and pulled. If a body was too heavy, two women took a leg each and the body was dragged, leaving ugly serpentine streaks of blood.

Petra moved beside one woman struggling to move an old man.

“Age adds weight to bones,” the woman mumbled, letting a leg she had been holding drop.

Petra nodded and took her share. Death stiffens like frozen wood. Death makes skin rubbery and sallow. It is not a human anymore. The soul has left with its humanity. What remains is a corpse, heavy and ungainly.

Though many of these were husbands and kin, the women kept silent. Skulls bounced and cracked. Body parts, unknowingly severed, came off. There was not a whisper of grief. No nauseas repulsion. There was only the wind and the trudge of burdened footfall.

All the dead were taken to a space marked by rope. Tied around the ropes at equal intervals, were white strips of cloth. In the middle was a large stone circle. Within it were those set to have their mortal bodies removed from the world. Elderly women shoved wood and poured liquid fat to create a pyre.

“The ashes,” the woman beside Petra mumbled, “will be tilled into the ground.”

“Their lives will bring forth life.”

Her lower lip trembled. “In this way, my father’s father will feed his great grandchildren next spring.”

Her instinct was to turn and look back; to see the face of the man whose blood ran in the person beside her. Yet, it did not feel right. This face was not hers to look upon and recall fond memories.

Shall I look upon another face so many years from now? A face I have ceased to notice age on. When I see him, it will always be as now. In his prime. Veracity in his expression and body. And if it is I who passes first, will he see this version of me? Will he see past the changes age brings and know my heart for him was always evergreen?

I hope so.

***

T HE NOSE REGISTERS the familiar smell of burning flesh. It is the body that rejects the aroma. Not unlike pig meat but sweeter in a spoiled way. The children were not permitted to stand around the pyre. Their minds were too fragile to process an aroma they might simultaneously enjoy and be repulsed by.

Only the women and only for a little while. By dawn, the remains would be scooped into barrels and preserved ‘til spring.

In the main hall, where they had eaten breakfast what felt like days ago, on the same cots that had been used for seats, wounded men now lay. Now hot water would be used not for tea and cooking but for sterilizing and cleaning.

The women who pulled out rolls of cloth bandaging were the ones Petra stayed with, ready to staunch blood flow and secure injuries. The thick cloth strips carried no aroma, yet they bore the signs of previous attacks—old blood streaks like an ominous language. With more gestures than words, she was instructed on whom to tend first. Another would ensure the injury had been cleaned before dressing.

Petra had knelt down beside the first patient when the entrance swung open, and Rand strode through.

Her body squeezed in on itself and she fled to him. If she had wanted to resist, she could not. The sight of him compelled her, propelled her. Not just the mystic mark. Her heart. She needed to be pressed to him, feel his body on hers.

“Petra!”

Up in his arms he caught her, lifting her off the ground. He buried his face in the nook of her shoulder. She felt his lips part and his teeth graze her skin. If he had bitten her, to hold her and claim her, she would only struggle to get nearer. Her need was the same. She did not realize that touching him dissipated the muck from her nostrils and restored her hearing from the cavernous echo it had been. Her sight was cleared but all she wanted to see was him.

“Darling,” he whispered.

“Rand! I... Are you...are you hurt?”

“Not now. Not when I hold you.”

“Stubborn man. Were you hurt?”

His chuckle was delirium to hear. “Some scratches, yes.”

“I’ll tend to them myself. Then you’ll tell me what happened out there. I did as you asked. I didn’t move but it was—”

“Gruesome.” He sighed. “It wasn’t for your eyes to see. But your command let me fight. Never for a moment did I cease to feel the lack of you, but my head was clear enough.”

“It is the only way I can fight with you.”

He pressed his mouth near her ear. “Precious weapon.”

She shivered and he set her down.

“I can bandage you now.”

“No. Stay here. My wounds can wait. These,” he began, looking around with furrowed brows, “these cannot. Besides, I must talk with Forwin. The fight was strange.”

“How so?”

“Later. I can already smell infection coming from one of the bodies.”

Dutifully, Petra nodded though she turned from him like a weary body turns from a warm bed at dawn on a deep winter morning.

***

D URING THE NIGHT, THE unhurt sustained themselves on larvae tea, giving the wounded heartier fare. For Rand, Petra scraped a bowl of porridge, leaving buns and dried meat for others. He would refuse them, anyway.

Gulping down a cup of tea for herself, (and swallowing a gag at the same time) she tucked the full bowl close and returned to their room. It would be cold by the time her husband pushed open the door.

He had visited the wounded soldiers, talked to Forwin, and then checked on the extent of both bystander and structural damage. When he came through the door, his gaze was down, and his shoulders slumped.

Wordlessly, she handed him the porridge and watched him eat. She watched him remove his armor and boots. Content to let him initiate conversation, it was then she noticed blood stains on his forearms and back. He understood when she poured water from the pitcher into a small wash basin and took off his shirt without comment.

For him, the moment represented nothing. He was wounded and awaited care.

For Petra, however, it was a blameworthy, pleasurable accost to her sight. Cuts between scars, deeper gashes among wretched scabs. His back, chest, and arms were art to her. A sculpture of muscle no stone carver could ever achieve, rushing the pit of her stomach and the intimacy between her thighs with heat.

She hoped he thought her hands shook out of mercy, not blatant attraction. She was wretched to notice his physicality in a moment like this.

I might have to cross my eyes to see clearly.

Over and over, she wrung out the washcloth, wiping his skin free of blood. The gentle slosh of water was the only sound in the quiet.

On malicious gashes, Petra used a salve specific to the fort, made of codonopsis root, mixed with clarified lard. Rubbing it between her fingers to emulsify it, she spread the balm over torn skin, wincing in place of his reaction.

For he had no reaction.

Has it been trained out of you? Or do you steel yourself to the feel of my hand? My fingertips and toes are buzzing. Your skin is warm, and it would be so easy to tip my head forward and let us meet, skin to skin, in that way.

“Did you,” she started, clearing her throat, “umm, discover anything? You told me the battle was strange.”

“It was. I learned Forwin is an obstinate oaf who would see Mynydd collapse before he accepts aid. And,” he looked over his shoulder, “the mother of the little girl is dead.”

“ What ?” Petra came around. “No! Does she...does she know yet? Are you sure?”

“Yes. When I came back to the hall, I saw her beside her mother.”

“But Bodil wasn’t there when I—”

“She was found later. There was little hope she would live through the night.”

Tears burned her eyes, and she pressed her hands over them to staunch the flow. Rand pulled her to sit down on the bed beside him. Sobs made her chest ache and felt like they would break her back. His arm stole around her, and he pulled her onto his lap.

“It’s not fair!”

“It’s not.”

Her words tripped between gulps of air. “She’s a child! I don’t know if she had anyone else.”

“We will make sure she is taken of.”

“This, this has to stop!”

To this he did not respond but rocked her, almost imperceptibly.

The movement tipped more words from her. She demanded to know what happened during the fight. She protested that these people only seemed to know how to bury the dead. How were these the same who had defended Mynydd for so long? Weren’t these the emperor’s men? Didn’t they want to serve him? Bessarabiah could return at any moment. Where had all their might come from? It seemed the men were fortified. They must have aligned with Zeg or Ahn. Yet, decades had proven the three countries professed “live and let be.” Neither alliances nor foe. Cyprian must be told! He must be made to understand and send troops.

“Forwin doesn’t want them.”

“You can’t let—”

His words were soft, as if she had woken from a nightmare. “Of course I will send word. But when the Bessarabites ceased fire, he took it as proof that his men were enough. His men are loyal to him. The damage to the fort and bodies he sees as necessary collateral. So, they do, too.”

“How much more does he think this place can give? They’ll be back.”

“They will. We did not beat them today. The ceasefire was sudden. Planned.”

She started to say the emperor must be informed of this but pulled back the words. Rand was wounded but she was the one who cried. His back was in shreds, but he rocked her in his arms.

She looked up and pushed the hair back from his face. “You won’t be beaten. There will be good news from your message to the royal city.” She smiled. “Perhaps Forwin will break both his legs.”

He laughed. “From your lips to the Heavens! Tell me, do you feel well enough to walk the battlements with me? I want to make sure I request enough supplies. And,” he glanced out the window, “the snow seems to have stopped.”

In her mind, she told him she would walk anywhere with him. Aloud, she asked for a moment to fasten her cloak.

It is cruel to think there are brilliant summer afternoons when mothers give birth to babies already dead. Terrible to imagine a sunset when a man murders his neighbor with the cool violet glow of descending twilight. It is blasphemy to imagine a morning after a woman is raped at night.

Hours ago, there was no sky. Chaos churned overhead. The fighting would never end. Yet now, Petra looked up into an expanse of deep, vibrant blue, studded by incandescent pearls. Far and clear. Wide and refreshing. It might have been the first night after the first day of creation. Indigo clarity. The only clouds were those from her frosted breath.

Across the stone courtyard, their steps echoed in the near stillness. Rand led her to one of four sets of steps that led up to the battlements. At the top, he took her hand and cautioned she not look down. She wanted to tease that just because she was born in the dirt did not mean she had a fear of heights.

The stairs did, however, bring them higher than Petra expected. Yet it was not from fear that she remained silent but from awe. At this height, she felt close to the sky. It seemed like all she had to do was stretch out her arm and she would feel the barely-there feather mist of a cloud drifting by.

If there had not been sentries on duty, she would have spoken her thoughts. However, Petra knew they watched her from their periphery. It was scandalous enough for a military man to be seen walking with his wife at night, let alone a Shiv.

Rand kept her hand firmly in his.

Connected to form a rectangle, from up here, Petra realized that Mynydd was longer than wide, and it had been luck the day’s attack focused on the north-most section. If it could be called luck. At the very least, the wall was shorter and took less time to repair than those that ran east and west.

Rand stopped.

“If Cyprian could see this, would it make any difference?” he asked.

Under the starlight, those rich umber eyes glimmered, as if wet with tears. He looked beyond where they stood, perhaps peering into the Cloistered City.

Petra pulled her hand from his and took his arm, hugging it with both hers.

“It’s not your duty to make him care.”

“It is my responsibility to protect his people.”

“And you have been doing that.”

He scoffed. “Poorly.”

“Not from where I stand.”

He looked at her. “So close to me.”

“Where I want to be.”

Rand stared. Into her eyes, upon her mouth, down the length of her body. Across his stoic face, hurt and relief followed one another. A shimmer of happiness overtaken by regret.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered.

The words were a gift every woman should have yet not one she was prepared for. In her it sparked a heavy glee, like a blanket by the fire on a cold night.

She faltered to reply, and Rand kept talking.

“I would kiss you here. I would kiss you and carry you back to the bed and place myself between your legs. I would make love to you until you begged me to stop.”

“Rand...”

He grabbed her hips. “You lift me up and you damn me. I can smell the ashes of burned bodies and my body aches for you. Blood stains will be scrubbed from the pavement tomorrow and I would drink you until dawn. You tell me! Tell me what happens when I split in two.”

Her heart hammered. Her body shook. Heat simmered between her legs and her hands were cold. Her knees might buckle, and she wanted to grab him with all her might. His body, his voice, his presence stoked and soothed her. In this moment, thirsty for the way his lips parted, and his eyes devoured her, he was not the only one who suffered.

“It’s you,” she said, her voice husky with need, “who should answer me . You tell me what happens when I split. You tell me I must check myself when I can feel your hands slip to my backside.”

He jumped back, chest heaving. Yet the space between them did not matter; it was charged with lightning.

“My duty,” he scowled.

“Is dual. To me and these people.”

He grabbed her by the back of the neck and the small of her back. Her body thrummed. His mouth was a whisper from hers and the heat of his breath was orgasmic.

“Do your duty, Captain.”

He snarled and his mouth crashed down. He opened her mouth and bit her lips. He bent her neck back without mercy. He kissed her like a wolf consumes its prey. She couldn’t breathe. She dug her nails into his arms to keep from fainting, dazzled by a thousand inward lights.

Yet he pounced like a predator and sprang back. Petra lost her balance and fell on her backside.

“Escort Lady Tsenturian to her room!” he roared, striding from her.