I tweak out an elbow, manage to angle one nail around the ropes to scratch at my neck. An ungraceful act but at least it’s possible now.

The second morning I’d woken from an uneasy stupor to Kiluhepa telling her driver, in a heated tone, that if I was forced to relieve myself in her wagon, she’d be sure his robes were used to mop it up. Moments later he’d untied me from the decadent support beams. They still string me up at night but the hours between are a drop of water on cracked lips.

On the bench opposite me Kiluhepa sits stiff-backed, bunching and twisting her skirt. Her brow crinkles and she splays her hands, looking determinedly around the wagon. Then her gaze falls on me and her chest heaves. With a slow weighted release she goes back to twisting her skirt.

There’s been little conversation since the first night but I like silence. Though this is more crushing than I’m accustomed to. Unbidden images wriggle at the edges of my mind. The King’s sneering face, sometimes barking the order for my death. Flames tearing at my flesh while my parents back away, terror lighting their faces as the knowledge of my true nature sinks in. I scrub them clear, stifle a bellow.

I clear my throat and Kiluhepa’s attention jumps back to me.

“Did I do something to offend you?” I can’t fathom what that might be but I am an unsophisticated peasant.

“What? No.” She says, a little wildly.

Is she… nervous to talk to you? “Scared I might curse you?” I suggest, twitching my eyebrows at her.

Her mouth thins. “No.”

“What is it then?”

“I…” She pauses and stares at the wavering gap in the coverings. “I have trouble, getting words out sometimes,” she finishes in a strangled rush.

“Oh.” That’s got to be a certain kind of hell being a princess. “Like you can’t think of what to say?”

“Plenty of things go through my head. I just can’t stop worrying that they’re the wrong things. Even if it’s what I was told to say.”

She gets told what to say? I brush away the thought. “You seem to be managing ok now.”

The Princess lifts her shoulders. “Sometimes it’s easier, once I’m already talking, or have other concerns.”

That explains the first day. “I suppose that makes sense. It’s usually less difficult when you have an idea what you're dealing with.” I bob my head. “If you should be nice or tell them to shove it up their ass.” I lose the fight against the quirk forming at the corner of my mouth.

Kiluhepa rolls her eyes. “The answer is always nice. At least when you're a Princess.”

My eyebrows twist out of line. There’s her problem. But the words die in my throat, probably for the best, as the wagon shutters. It lurches to a stop, the clip of hooves on packed earth ceasing.

I search the Princess’s face for a sign she saw this coming but find only my own curious unease reflected back.

“Are we making camp for the night?”

“I don’t see why else we’d have stopped.” But the Princess leans to poke her head through the gap at the rear. “Strange. There are Assyrian soldiers, other than those my father sent, lining people up out there.”

A noose cinches around my heart. Why would more show up? The King must have figured out you're not who you claimed and sent them to collect you. I scoot deeper into my corner, a loose thread tickling my face. If I try to hide, Kiluhepa will know something’s up. Could I make a run for it, slip out of the wagon without her notice?

She looks back at me, a peek to one eyebrow. “They’re coming this way.”

My pulse turns to a rushing current in my ears. Footsteps clomp outside, there’s a shout from the driver’s box and they’re replaced by muted voices.

“You can’t pull that shit here.” Sargis’s gruff voice reverberates through the thin cloth. “I was given special authority by the King.”

"We were told the girl was in a wagon. Now do you want to explain to him how you let her escape or do you want to let us do our jobs?" A second voice demands.

Any semblance of hope that remained shatters to jagged shards that puncture my lungs.

After a murmured response, the clomping resumes, rounding the wagon. My mouth goes dry as salted jerky. I shift the princess’s veil over my binding and adopt an expression that with any luck will pass for mild annoyance. It’s a slim chance but if I can convince him there’s been a mistake I may buy myself time.

A leathery man in a dusty green uniform flings the curtain aside and borrows his gaze into the wagon’s interior. The Princess stares him down, haughty and impatient.

“Can we help you?” I ask, with all the authority a princess’s lady might.

The hard lines falter from his glower. “We’re looking for a girl.”

“And you found two of them, good job.” I flash him a coy smile.

His face contorts, hands clenching. And now you die, great plan.

The man draws a breath through his teeth. “Pale thing, with a scar through her eyebrow,” he runs a finger over his own.

The tightness evaporates and I almost choke on the plethora of air. They’re not here for you. But a feral unease nestles in my gut. This girl they’re after can’t be in for a good time. That’s not your problem. “What’s she done?”

“She was taken, from her husband Duke Ramsin Hadad’s home. We’re to return her to him.”

I suppress a grimace. The duke rules a province not far from Mitanni. I’ve heard stories of him, mostly of servants he beat half to death for missing a spot dusting or not bowing low enough.

“I’ll keep an eye out for her.” To tell her to run far and fast. I tilt my head at the guard and he lets the hangings fall with an irate grunt.

A furrow creeps across the Princess’s forehead. “Probably the best luck that girl’s ever had.”

“We’re in agreement there.” I fold my legs up, rest my arms against my knees, then say in Egyptian, “I hope they never find her.”

“You do speak the language.” Kiluhepa’s face lights like a sunrise. A warm ease spreads through my extremities. Maybe working for her won't be so bad. Then she adds in Egyptian, “that means we can practiced together.”

I cringe at the miss-use of tense. And maybe it wouldn't hurt to be disemboweled by a lion.

#

The wagon rattles over wind ravaged sand. The star doused sky occasionally visible through the swaying curtains. While it’s smoother than the river terrain we crossed a few nights ago, my guts are a swirling geyser of bile and dried rations.

Kiluhepa sits beside me, separated only by the width of the tablets and papyrus pages Darme gave me, stuffed between us in a wavering tower. The punch of citrus has subsided but she still smells better than most.

My lips thin. “No. When you say it like that it means ‘for pleasure’.”

The Princess’s dainty eyebrows draw together. “Maybe that’s what I was going for.”

I shoot a breath out my nose. And you were worried that this would be excruciating. Though correcting a princess is oddly satisfying work.

I twist a strand of hair over a finger, the edges snagging on the bindings. “Fine. But if you ever mean it the other way, you’ll want to switch the second word with the last.”

“Are you sure, that doesn’t sound right?” She consults the square of parchment in her lap.

“Positive.” I tap a line pertaining to sentence structure.

She glowers at it, like its contents changed of their own volition just to make her look bad. I squirm in my seat. It’ll be a terrible idea to ask a princess such a thing. The words spill out anyways. “Haven’t you been studying this since your proposal?”

Her face bunches. “Not exactly.”

“Why? How did you expect to talk to your future people?”

“For what reason would I need to talk? According to Bishu it’ll be preferable to the Pharaoh if I don’t,” She says it almost offhand but a bite lingers deep underneath. “I pleaded with my father but it was only when you came along that he gave in.

“That night a man I’d never seen before attended his counsel and suddenly Bishu changed his tone. Was all for me having an interpreter, for my learning the language so we could teach each other on the journey. I thought perhaps you were the man's daughter and Bishu owed him money or something. Until I met you at least. I might not be able to guess at his motives but I’m glad to no longer be alone in the dark on this.”

Bile coats my tongue and I stare at my bindings. What kind of monster would send their daughter to a foreign land, without the ability to even communicate with a husband she's never seen before? And I thought I got a bad shake. Maybe when I escape I could ask her to come with me? Yeah, right, and no one would search for you if you’re perceived to have kidnapped the Princess. I ease out a chest searing sigh. "So what do you know about this Pharaoh?"

With steady precision she balances the paper atop the tower. "Only that he gave my father a hefty trunk of gold for me and his subjects think him a god made flesh.”

"Like a god, or a God?"

Kiluhepa releases a soft laugh. "Probably depends on who you ask."

In the new language I say, "The profiteers or victims of profit."

She gives a solemn nod and sucks on her cheek. "Have you…"

“Princess,” Sargis, calls. “We’ll reach Lachish within the hour. Should we hold off on making camp?”

Princess Kiluhepa jumps to her feet, notes spilling across the bench. “I must ensure we get food while here. If we miss this opportunity for something fresh, I will make their lives miserable.”

I glare after her. This has been the finest food of my existence! Sure it’s mostly dried, but the meat began as a cut that didn’t require hours of boiling to make it possible to chew. With a variety of fruits presented on a carved platter, most of which I never heard of let alone tasted.

She disappears and I shift my attention to the ropes, working my hands back and forth in the minimal slack I’ve gathered in scattered moments of solitude. The bench creaks and my head whips up. But it’s not the princess who stares back.

A boy with yellowing bruises and a sheet of fabric peeking beneath his hood, lounges across from me, one leg propped on his knee. Though his face is now hair-free, with considerably less blood, the sharp cheeks and deliberate ease of the thief are evident.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to be doing that?” A smile cuts across his face.

I straighten my shoulders and lean back. “And I doubt rouge boys are supposed to be in the Princess’s wagon unchaperoned.”

“I’m clearly a widow.” He gestures at the scarf tied over his hair.

I crook an eyebrow. “Last I checked, you weren’t.”

“I know I was nearly unconscious but I think I’d remember you checking that.” He flicks a bit of dust from his filthy sleeve.

Flames writhe up my neck. “What do you want Thief?”

“Lord Narsi. And I want to help you.”

I cross my legs. “The head priest doesn’t have a daughter.”

He puts a hand to his chest and props his jaw open. I stare him down.

“Fine it’s just Narsi.” He loops an arm behind his head and kicks his feet on the bench beside me. “Now do you want my help or would you rather continue to writhe like a snared animal on the off chance you’ll eventually work yourself free.”

My pride prickles. That was about as far as my plan had progressed. Perhaps it can’t hurt to have an ally. If that is what he will be? He peers at me, almost hopeful.

“What did you have in mind? Provided you make it out of this wagon alive first.”

Narsi waves a hand. “I have a lookout.” Then he drops his leg and leans closer. “As I’m sure you heard, we’ll make camp near Lachish soon. Around midnight I’ll sneak back in, cut your bonds and we can enter the city under the cover of night.”

“So that’s your plan? Just untie me? Are you sure my tiny animal brain can keep up with such complicated instructions.”

His copper eyes glint. “You’ll manage. After a few days laying low, I should be able to find work easy enough. We’ll fold right in. You can…” He pitches his gaze around the enclosure, “I guess, be my second wife.”

The blood in my veins flows hot. “Get out. I’ll manage fine on my own.” Though quiet, the words slice the air separating us.

A few shades of color drain from his face and he throws up his hands. “I didn’t mean it like that, I swear. We planned to have my sister pose as my wife, so no one bothers her. I thought the same might make it easier for you. But if you’d prefer to seek a husband, we might pass as half siblings or something.”

My gut pitches. I have a life, a husband, waiting for me. I won’t get swept into this boy's fantasies. “We can work out the logistics when we’re out… ”

The strangled hoot of a choking owl sounds from the other side of the hangings. As I glance in its direction, Narsi mutters, “Tonight. Be ready.”

I look back but the elegant bench is empty.

A heartbeat passes and Kiluhepa appears, an agitated pinch to her features. “He said he’d do his best, like fresh is difficult to find this time of the season. I’m not asking for a delicacy! Am I?”

She plunks down and I arrange my face to something reminiscent of sympathy. “I suppose that depends on your definition. This late they might be a bit short handed to pull a fish direct from the sea to your plate while you watch.”

Kiluhepa studies me, rolling her tongue behind her teeth. “You are aware I have the authority to have you thrown overboard at full speed, yes?”

“You’re right.” I bow my head with an exaggerated shake. “I’d hate to have a scuffed elbow.”

The princess flashes a smile that’s quickly enveloped by a deep somber expression and we settle into silence.

The scent of damp earth and cedar clutches at the edge of the air. The Euphrates a jagged gash in the distance, banks packed with squat gnarled trees.

At long last the wagons pull to a stop near a patch of greenery. Most of the widows slump against trees or collapse in the shade of shrubs, a few gather at the supply wagon to replenish their water.

I ease Esmar between the roots of a tree, offset from the rest and pass her my jug. “Drink as much as you want. We’re nearly to the river.”

I grab her empty one and head for the wagon. A line stretches behind it. Half a dozen men in palace greens are dotted amongst the sweaty and bedraggled widows, most a few shades darker than when we set out.

I hang back, crouch in the cool undergrowth, out of direct sight. By the time the caravan had stopped to make camp the previous night Esmar was too shaky to risk her handling a knife anywhere near my face.

I pick at a loose thread in my sleeve, watch a woman with hair braided to her waist dump the entirety of her freshly filled jug on her head and reenter the line.

“Not into crowds,” asks a voice beside me.

A jolt ricochets inside my chest and I grapple with the urge to wheel around. From the hooded corner of my vision I catch the outline of a figure leaning heavily against a tree, arms folded over a broad chest.

I clear my throat and attempt my least crackly voice. “Not particularly. You?”

“I drive the thing so, unrestricted access,” he says, a shrug evident in his tone.

“Ah.” Must be nice, sitting on one's ass, well fed and watered, setting a pace those like Esmar struggle to keep. I half carried her the final hours last night after she slipped and couldn’t regain her footing. With another five days at least before we can hope to complete the trek to any coastal town on our own. She might not make it. My heart twists in my chest.

Unless...

I inflect my next words with as much sympathy as I can muster. “I’ll bet all that sitting on a hard bench puts an ache in your rear end.”

“That it does,” he says.

“They don’t let you switch out with anyone?” I hold my breath, wait for him to clamp his jaws on the hook.

“It’s not that I’m forbidden.” His tone is unsure. Perfect. “There’s just no one to take over.”

“Oh. That’s too bad.” I let a pause sit in the air, long and exposed, like I’m thinking. “You know my sister has some experience, and with you nearby giving instructions, I’m sure she could manage.” She doesn’t but it’s not that hard to hold reins.

There’s a rustle, the tearing of snagged threads against bark. “I don’t know.”

“Of course. You control the most essential part of this journey, without which we all die. Can’t be too careful.” I nod vigorously. Chance a glance over. “You got family waiting for you when you return?”

“Yeah,” he says, hesitant, guarded.

“That’s great. Ah, to have a nice warm meal waiting. I’d do just about anything for some roast duck right now.” I pull out the last of the cakes Esmar made. When I tried to give it to her she insisted it was mine, I disagreed. It will decay awaiting a verdict. Perhaps this will serve us both better. “But you know, I’m not even sure if they have spits in Egypt?” I shake my head, rip a chunk free and pop it in my mouth. It’s bitter at the edges and a bit crumbly but still flecked with sweet dates and has a spring to it, unattainable no matter the duration you soak dried rations.

After a beat of hesitation the man kneels beside me. “I will never not miss fresh biscuits, some quail eggs, side of boiled roots.”

I break off another piece, hold it a moment with pursed lips then pass it to the driver. He grunts appreciatively. We chew in silence. I continue handing him chunks until only crumbs remain.

He dust his hands. “So this sister of yours, you’d trust her with the lives of all these people?” He gestures at the dwindling line for water, the woman slumped in exhaustion, myself.

It’s a risk, but I look him in the eyes. “I would.”

He picks at the short curls of his beard. “Have her meet me at the wagon at sun up. I’ll get her acquainted with the horses and the riggings.”

My gut squirms, there goes any chance for her to sleep in. It doesn’t matter, this will be of far more benefit. I dip my chin and offer a gracious farewell as I start for the line. Now down to two widows and an official.

Worst case, the driver is dissatisfied and forces Esmar to return to walking. Though unlikely. She knows the basics about horses, and I can teach her the handful of terms I‘ve acquired. It should be enough to keep him complacent till we break off near Lachish.

Then we just have to hope that pompous worm won’t think to look that far.

At last it’s my turn. I step forward but a guard thrusts an arm in front of me.

“Wait over there.” He points to the side.

I choke down a number of nasty retorts and questions as the curtains on the royal carriage are pulled free. Of course, the Princess, who hasn’t walked a step of this journey, is in greater need of water. I grind my teeth.

Four guards flank the opening and out strides Princess Kiluhepa, in a pale pink gown completely void of dust and sweat.

In her wake walks the sorceress. My heartbeat stills and I blink hard. It can’t be.

I did only really see her the one time… In the palace. Accused of bleeding guards with her mind. Hands? Ones now lashed together. Wearing the same ragged dress, and I haven’t the imagination to fabricate that curious gaze, absorbing all in its path.

The chatter outside the wagon falters and a breath snags in my chest. I wriggle deeper into the shadows, ears straining. Did a fight break out? No that would increase the commotion, and there are no thuds or scuffling. Perhaps an announcement is imminent. There’s an echoing rustle, as if the entire crowd is moving in unison. Then a gong shudders the wagon.

Or it’s the reason we’re all here.

The curtains are drawn with a flourish. Guards bearing torches and banners, mark a path to the grand palace staircase. Every remaining body is hunched over their knees.

King Shuttarna II strides into view, bulbous crown on pompously straight. In his shadow walks a girl with a circlet atop her head. Her hair hidden beneath a long veil of impossibly white cloth, dotted with thread stars to match her dress, a yellow to rival Hepa herself.

They're coming this way! You are in the royal wagon. Drawing closer. Princess Kiluhepa is at the steps, torchlight illuminating her soft features, glinting off green crystal eyes.

The King offers an arm to steady her ascent, pecks her bronze cheek and steps back. Kiluhepa perches on the edge of a cushion, hands folded in her lap, spine rigid. King Shuttarna II clasps his fingers and the curtains swish together, cutting off the scene.

The Princess lets out a tremendous sigh.

She drags the assembly from her head, tosses it on the opposite bench and slumps into the depths of the cushions, puffing out the vague scent of spiced citrus.

There's a holler, the slap of reigns, and the wagon, along with my insides, lurches into motion. A whimper escapes me and the Princess springs back to attention.

“What the fuck are you doing in here,” she says a little breathless, and a lot not the prim princess attitude I imagined.

My brow crinkles. Guess they don’t keep her informed on their shifty dealings.

I suck in a cheek. "Occasionally I say to myself, ‘you know what would make this dreary existence more entertaining?’ and the answer is always sneaking into a royal wagon and tying myself up.”

She crosses her legs, raking a narrow eyed gaze over me. "We'll circle back to that one. Who are you?"

I smother a grin. Is it safe to give my real name? It could reveal the thief’s deception but if they haven’t worked that out already it’s unlikely a common name, that may or may not be real, will tip them off.

"I’m Suriya. Your new interpreter."

Her delicate eyebrows arc to meet her freshly freed hickory waves. “Is there a reason my father’s guards felt the need to restrain you.”

Ask them. I swallow the retort. That would not bode well for me.

I shrug. "Rumor has it I'm a dangerous sorceress out for blood, that conspires with thieves and attacks helpless unsuspecting guards."

Kiluhepa snorts. It does sound utterly ridiculous out loud. Good.

Her gaze shifts to the fluttering curtains, expression growing dark. “That greasy nosed sidewinder said he found me a tutor. He failed to mention under what circumstances.”

“If it’s any consolation, I only dine on the blood of men, so you’re probably safe.”

She chokes out a laugh. “Are you at least a blood drinker that speaks Egyptian?”

I grimace. “That depends on your definition of ‘speaks’.”

Princess Kiluhepa’s fingers flex, bunching her skirt, her head jerking to either side. “That man will do anything to line his purse. My father is a fool to keep him around.”

My eyes stretch to their limits, my heartbeat doubling.

“Aren’t you worried he’ll hear you,” I breathe.

The Princess tilts her head. “Him?” She juts her chin towards the front of the carriage. “Unlikely. Have you ever been in a wagon box? It’s not exactly quiet and his hearing isn’t what it used to be.”

I blink at her. Am I not the only one unconvinced of the King’s divinity? His child would have more insight than most.

My fingers itch to twine through hair but it’s out of reach so I gnaw my cheek instead. “My hearing works well enough.”

She scrutinizes me, her gaze as deep and brimming with life as the Mediterranean. “That’s right you tied yourself in here, on the off chance you’d garner information on the daughter he's delighted to be rid of.”

My gut drops. “I find that difficult to believe.”

“It’s hardly a secret.” Her tone is airy but hurt flutters across her features. “I’m always in the wrong place, never regal enough or...” she halts, clamping her mouth in a firm line. “Well, it’s no longer his concern.”

I lift my shoulders, as much as my bindings allow. “I mean one’s gotta have ample extra time to watch Bishu crawl up his own ass?”

Her mouth quirks. A little flutter works against my ribs, then the wagon dips. Bile claws up my esophagus, burning my nose and throat. I will it back down. It’d be a shame to ruin such fancy cushions.

"You ok?" the princess asks.

I squint over. Father told me of men who got boat-sickness from weeks of rolling waves but never of wagon-sickness. Will she think I’m diseased? Have me tossed into the desert to infect the jackals?

"It’s just the ropes, they’re digging into my wrists." It isn't untrue, they're bound to draw blood any moment.

Her expression softens. “Oh. Let me get Sargis, he’s much better with knots than I am.” She hops up and walks, far more steadily than I would have thought possible, to the head of the wagon and pokes her torso through the gap. Muted speech joins the creaks and clomps. The driver lets out a self-satisfied burst of laughter and Kiluhepa withdraws.

Looking anywhere but at me she sits back down, pulls the nearest cushion onto her lap and begins to pick it's stitching apart.

I wait ten beats, or maybe only one. "Well?"

"He said…” she pulls in a breath, eyes still on her pillowy victim, “That if you're that uncomfortable he'll happily drag you behind the wagon instead.”

I flex my hands against the bindings, rubbing another layer of skin off. I slather a veneer of brightness over my tone. "I guess I'd rather no hands than no face."

Kiluhepa peeks up, hands stilling. She plucks her veil from the bench, untangling it from the crown. Then the Princess steps before me and ever so gently tucks the fabric under the ropes. My body tingles as the smooth cloth breaks the twine’s jaws. Not at her proximity, her citrus soap scent washing over me. Who knew humans could smell so nice.

I gulp on the dry clump in my throat. "Thank you."

The streets are sparse, alleys stripped of their usual activity. Could there be some event or ceremony going on elsewhere that I missed? Or an execution?

An image of the sorceress on her knees at the king’s feet forces itself into my head and my heartbeat stills. I redirect my steps towards the square. I’ve holed up in the taverns as often as I could spare, with mounting desperation for news of her. Or preferably no news, from the guards who frequent them, spreading conviction details like gonorrhea.

Esmar has been asking if something’s wrong but I haven’t dared tell her of my hopes to find the girl before we depart and ask her along. Esmar may not understand my desire to save a girl I don’t know. Or worse, insist we wait to leave until she’s located.

A rumble of activity draws my attention to the hulking palace. Figures shift about the courtyard, adding extra flicker to the jumble of new torches.

I hurry my steps, heart beating against my throat. The palace grounds come into view, people swarm a set of wagons, satchels slung over shoulders, water jugs tied at waists. No, this isn’t supposed to be tonight. I grab at the nearest passing arm, a woman with tear tracks down her cheeks.

“The Princess, she’s not leaving tonight is she?”

The woman blinks at me. “Of course. It's the first night of half moon.” She sniffs and continues on her way.

The first night? I didn't know anyone still believed there were multiple half-moons.

What else might they revert on, the elliptical orbit of the planets?

I drag my thoughts back. I need to get to Esmar, gather our supplies, and make it back here before it’s too late.

Pulse thundering in my ears, I tear off in the opposite direction, no longer concerned with staying out of sight.

#

I rip open the door-flap and Esmar jolts to attention, fire poker clattering to the floor. I snatch up a sack. Rake my arm across the top wardrobe shelf, tumbling pouches of dried fruits, wheat, and a handful of beads inside.

Esmar kneads her knuckles down her skirt. “I know we agreed, no fires but we’re leaving tomorrow and those eggs you brought won’t keep and I found flour in the cellar and we don’t have near the rations we discussed,” Esmar says in a rush to her feet, her breathing turning ragged.

What is she going on about? I still, take in the sweet buttery aroma, with a tinge of smoke, the dance of flames beyond the hearth. My insides give a hearty squeal as a fissure starts in my heart. I jam a stopper in it. There’s no time.

“It’s fine Es. We've got to go.” I return to loading my scraggly sack. “They’re already gathering, they could leave any moment.”

Esmar's expression hardens, her breaths beginning to even. “But tomorrow? The half-moon.”

I shrug. “I know but the royal wagon was there and everything.”

Esmar gathers another bag and though her hands quake she tucks jars between garments with hurried care. “Shouldn’t we start working on the disguises?”

Shit, I’d forgotten them. “I don’t think we have time.”

She turns away, collecting her sewing in silence for a moment. Then she stills, her shoulders pulling back and rounds on me. “Ok, while it's possible no one there will recognize me, there’s no way someone will see that,” she gestures at my face scuff, "and not have questions."

I work through a breath. The safest way out, that's why we're doing this. I nod. “Get your mud.”

Esmar retrieves a small bowl of fine brown dust. I spoon in water and hastily sculpt disfigurements on her face, smear it into her brows to hide the scar. It won't hold up under scrutiny but in the dark beneath a hood, it should do the trick.

Esmar scrapes my stubble with a knife, then ties a fraying square of cloth over my hair.

She rocks her head to either side. “You won't be getting any marriage proposals but I suppose it’ll do.”

I shoot her a scowl and we load ourselves down with our sparse sacs and a water jug each.

We just dip from under the door-flap when Esmar stops short. “My cooking!”

I peer at her, then back inside. It does smell divine. “I’ll catch up with you.”

Prodding open the cook box with the discarded poker, I retrieve the half dozen scalding cakes. I drop them into my pockets, where they burn my flesh in intermittent taps as I sprint after Esmar.

#

When at last, we near the palace, night has scraped the orange tint from the sky, leaving it a bruised purple. Tension flutters at my nerves. Shouldn’t we hear the dim of voices, notice the cast of torchlight in the distance. What if we weren’t quick enough and have to wait even longer to leave.

The clearing comes into view, people clustered between the lush trees, boxes overflowing with exotic flowers, and shrubs of the royal garden. My chest eases a notch. Keeping our heads low, we slide in with a group chatting beside the supply wagon. Barrels and crates peek over the sides. A pair of horses doze in their harnesses. At odds with those now hitched to the royal wagon. That dance and twitch, under the restraint of tense servants. No doubt terrified what will become of them should the beasts make off with a carriage swathed in enough Chinese silk to feed several armies.

On the other side of a stout pomegranate bush, an official bustles up to a young woman, demanding her name, what family members she's lost.

Esmar grips my arm. I give her sleeve a tug of reassurance that I don't quite share. We've abundantly rehearsed our fake names. Ones carefully selected from gossip I collected around town, of who's been widowed, which are staying to wait it out.

The guard moves away and I shuffle closer. “You ok?”

Esmar sighs. “If I have to walk another step with you smelling of pastries, my tongue is going to leave me for your pockets.”

Shaking my head, I fish one out and plunk it in her outstretched hand.

“You’re a saint among men little brother. I mean I made them, so I guess that makes me the saint but you’re still top notch.”

My eyes tip towards the heavens.

“What you got there,” a voice calls from our backs.

Esmar jolts around. I turn slower, assuring my face remains in shadow. A guard clutching a tablet and notcher stares down Esmar’s cake.

She hugs the baked-good to her chest. “Can I help you?”

He narrows his greedy bloodshot eyes. “Name?”

I nudge Esmar and she bows her head, adopts a meek tone and says, “It’s Aziz.” The name of a pair of widows that, in hushed tones droned about the blasphemy of those abandoning their King for a land of heretics.

The guard consults his clay tablet. “Would you look at that, they’re already here.”

My pulse starts in my ears but he tilts his head in a hinting manner, gaze still on Esmar’s cupped hands. The blood turns hot in my veins.

Esmar shoots me a warning look. “I meant to say Baker.” And she places the cake on his ledger.

He chisels a line through Aziz, shoveling pastry down his gullet, crumbs cascading into the groves. “As you were.”

My fists tighten but Esmar puts a hand on my shoulder and guides me away.

“That asshole,” I say, jaw clenched.

“We got in, that’s what matters.”

I force my head up and down. “Do you want one of the others?”

“Better they stay hidden for now. You never know. Let’s get farther in.”

I check my hood, then trail her through the crowd, in a meandering path, clear of the tightest knots of bodies. Wails and snippets of conversation, drift from the few grieving relatives or embracing families, but most seem to have come alone. I can’t help my gaze roving over each face, a flutter of disappointment in my ribcage every time their features don’t match those of the sorceress.

A palace official pushes past me to get in the face of a woman with gray dominating her hair and creases forming at the corners of her eyes.

"Hey, this is for widows not grandmothers."

"So now there’s an age limit,” the woman retorts. “That's funny, there wasn't one to prevent you bastards sending my husband to die."

The official's face contorts and he backhands the widow. She staggers back and I wince, blood surging hot through my veins.

Ahead Esmar slows, probably noticing I’m no longer behind her. She starts to turn and I rush forward, wave to draw her attention from the scene. Esmar makes a ‘hurry up’ face at me and vanishes behind a pale skinned woman with wheat colored hair.

I huff out a lungful of air and chance a look back. The elderly widow clutches at her face, dark streaks peeking over her fingers, but the guard is walking away. I force my fists open. He didn’t stop her from leaving, she still has a chance to escape this place. For a better life if fate is on our side.

Esmar halts beside a twisted trunk, where the weakened reach of torchlight intersects. She wraps her arms around herself, swishing a sandaled foot in the dirt. I check for guards and extract two of the cakes. She takes hers and we share a triumphant sigh. We made it. For a time there’s only the subtle sounds of sweats being devoured.

When the pastries are gone and our limbs weigh heavy for standing too long, the tone of the hum changes. The courtyard brightens, guards fall into line behind the royal wagon, alternating torches, and green and gold banners.

Around us the crowd sinks to its knees, elbows to dirt. Teeth grinding, I force my legs to fold. The boom of a gong reverberates through my bones, and over the sea of stooped backs the palace doors are flung wide.

Despite the pressing heat of the waning day, hairs steeple down the length of my arms. My tongue too dry for my new favorite way to ease the crawl of time.

A useful activity where I recite the new language in haunting tones and the guards debate whether or not I'm summoning some foul beast of the darkworld.

Darme took an early leave, gave me a bundle of extra scrolls, and told me he wouldn't return tomorrow. Which can only mean this is the night we set out for Egypt.

Unless they’ve decided they no longer have a use for you and plan to do away with you instead.

I give my head a vigorous shake. They wouldn’t waste valuable resources like that. Would they?

The door rattles and my stomach lurches into my chest. It swings wide to reveal a dozen or so guards, swords all trained on me. Shoulders pressed close, not so much as a starving rat's gap in their ranks. And my power is still fucking off elsewhere. I force air into my cramped lungs.

“Come forward. Hands out in front of you,” barks a man near the back.

I hesitate a moment, try to still the tremors racking my limbs. They intensify. Another guard produces a rope. I flinch from the rough fibers that nip my skin. He pulls it tighter around my wrists, up my fingers, interlocking my palms in forced prayer. Then he drapes a cloak about my shoulders but does not pull the hood up, leaving my face unobstructed with my bindings cast in shadow.

He shoves me from him and I stumble. Hands on every side drag me back, digging the strands deeper.

Blood thunders in my ears. I pull in a breath, straighten my spine. Making a scene will do you no good now.

I walk the only direction available, a narrow staircase, along windowless white stone walls set with torches. Unlit save for a few that cast haunting relief on gargoyles, statues of King Shuttarna II’s face on various animal bodies, battle murals in which insides are depicted outside in gruesome detail. I’m steered down an even narrower hall, void of any defining facets.

A single torch illuminates a rough slatted door at the other end. We draw near and the guards stiffen, their ranks tightening. One reaches past me, careful not to make contact, and pries it open. Warm, thick air billows past, mingles with the stale interior.

A crowd mills around a pair of wagons. Men with large muscles and downcast stances heave barrels and crates into the first. A rough cut wooden box on wheels, parked to one side.

The other sits at the center, cobble path leading right up to its rear. Beams curve from each corner into a swooped canopy. Every exposed inch is carved with suns, and trees whose roots and branches loop and stretch into the next. Pale purple cloth hangs between, it flows with the breeze, winking at passing flames.

A sharp jab dings at my ribs.

“Move.”

I glare back at my assailant. "To where?" I say through my teeth.

The guard puts his face right before mine, wafting a slight odor of cheese. "The wagon."

I do nothing to hide my gag as I start for the cargo box but don’t get more than two paces before his hairy arm catches me across the chest.

"I said the wagon," the guard snarls, pointing his whole hand at the fancy shaded one.

I tip my brows at him. He glowers on. I sidestep another prod and scuttle forward. The crowd edges from our path, whispers condensing in around us.

A small stair of white stone, carved and polished to a shine, leads into the wagon. I take the single slippery step into the dim interior. Cushions of all shapes abound, in green pastel with excessive stitching.

The guard follows me in, hesitating when the others hang back. He gives me a hurried shove, forcing me to catch myself with a knee to the padded bench. I drop into a cove of cousins and he draws out another length of rope. Dragging my arms over my head, he lashes them to the crossbeam, a little sun wedges in my shoulder blade. I slump against a small round cloud, with a perfumed puff.

I lean on a booth with casual ease. Awaiting merchant and customer to conclude their haggling over the proper discount on overripe lettuce for the man’s goats. Their voices peek, and a moment later the men shake hands. The merchant ducks to retrieve the goods. 

I seize my opportunity, my hand in and out of the dried date tray, securing them within a robe-slit and back on the table. The shop attendant’s gaze locks on me. I run a palm over the scruff of my face, the other splayed on the table. See, all empty. The man returns to his customer.

"Got any mutton," I interject. He doesn’t and won't turn his merchant tactics on me mid sale. He gives a curt 'no' and I push away from the stall.

My stomach writhes with a thousand fanged creatures. These people are just trying to scrape out a life with what little they can craft or grow and I come and take it for myself. If only the events of the other night hadn’t made alleviating royals of their excess wealth so risky.

I drop beneath a pistachio tree outside the ring of shops. Its dappled shade offers minimal mercy from Hepa’s assault on the market, wilting any exposed vegetables and its patrons.

I peek open the robesacks, seams taught under the weight. Another few days like this and we may have adequate supplies to get us to the coast. I never learned to hunt and I'm more likely to hook myself than a fish but where there's water so too is civilization. 

I have no doubt in my ability to snare an apprenticeship with a local merchant. For all he’d not done, father taught me well how to get a man to buy something he had no interest in at double its value. Though scarcely better than stealing.

I shake down the contents of the pouches. They'll hold a bit more.

A long, deep blast sounds from the town center. My head snaps up, a weight descending in the hollow of my ribs. There are two reasons that horn is used, decrees from the King and the public atonement of criminals. 

Like sorceresses! Was my lie uncovered so soon and this her execution.

I hurry past shopkeeps scrambling to store their wares, towards the raised platform outside the line of booths. It’s rumored that it used to reside in the actual center of town but King Shuttarna II’s predecessor didn’t fancy people going about their lives during public shows of his divine cruelty. 

I slide into the queue behind a woman with a spiky gray bun. Out of direct line of sight from the platform but with a clear view for myself. The King’s lackey, Bishu, gazes over the sparse crowd, wearing an expression like manic glee that lost a fight with indifference.

By the time he deems enough people present to clear his throat with a phlegmy grunt, my muscles are strung like a bow.

“Loyal subjects of his excellency, Shuttarna II, King of the universe, your prayers have been received. The great war has taken too many husbands and sons, leaving some without a head of house.” He pauses, bowing his head as if the notion pains him.

Why is every war ‘The Great War’? None are ever ‘that pointless war in which we lost many lives for no gain’.

"However," Bishu continues, "the merciful King Shuttarna II will not leave you to suffer. At the next half moon, those who have endured such a loss will be allowed to join the learned Sona in escorting our own beloved Princess Kiluhepa to her betrothed in the kingdom of Egypt."

Whispers rustle the crowd. 

“Who’s Sona?” the gray haired woman asks. I jostle my shoulders. Probably some poor soul drug from her family to make this seem more humanitarian and less like our illustrious King sweeping his problems into the fire.

"Food and drink will be provided, and you will ensure her highness reaches her destination with the grace and ceremony befitting a princess.” Bishu surveys the crowd, a threat in his hungry wolf stare. “Those interested will assemble here. Bring only the belongings you’re willing to carry on your backs. The wagons leave at sundown and will not wait for stragglers.” He swivels on a heel and descends the platform, leaving a tirade of muttering in his wake.

I stare after him, mouth sagging. A caravan of supplies, all the way to Egypt, with a myriad of towns between to choose from. This could be our best chance, if we can avoid the officials’ notice for a fortnight.

I peel away from the crowd, and weave my way out of town.

#

The canvas flap swishes into place behind me, gusting a warm current over my neck. Esmar huffs out a sigh as her dust pile skitters back across the patch of packed dirt floor she just swept. 

My gut pinches. “Sorry. I can...”

Esmar shakes her head. “It’ll give me something to do later.” She rests the crooked stick with bits of bent straw tied to one end on the cooking rack. “Pockets already full?”

I allow an eyebrow to dip out of line. “Pockets?”

“I thought about calling them ‘integrated loot sacks’ but it was too obvious.” Esmar shrugs.

“Well whatever you call them, they’re pretty great.”

I walk to the table and empty the pockets of bits of jerky, nuts, a few nubs of salt, a pouch with contents unknown to me. Esmar sits sideways on the chair, hanging off the back by the crook of an elbow, gaze following each item's passage.

I glance over and she straightens, hands clasping in her lap. My resolve splinters. Perhaps it won’t be best to leave with the caravan? It may provide steady supplies but it will also mean more scrutiny, more chances to be recognized.

Esmar grinds her teeth. “Tell me.”

“What?” I stall. 

“Whatever decision you think you're protecting me from.” There’s no accusation in her tone, only exhaustion.

“Oh that.” I un-ball my fists, busy my fingers with stacking dates, the rows wobbly on their curved bottoms. Maybe it’s best she knows the options for how I endanger her life. I puff out a breath and tell her what I learned in the square, of the Princess’s trip, the King's, or more likely Bishu’s, scheme for the widows. 

When I finish Esmar stares under the door flap for a long moment. “So, we’ll need only slip off in the night, at the town of our choosing?”

“Yeah. But we’ll be in close proximity to who knows how many bodies, with guards keeping watch, for days.”

Esmar’s lips crinkle and she extricates a date, off the table and into her mouth in a swift movement, barely noticeable if not for her satisfied moan. Her face goes slack, eyes tipping back in her head.

A snort escapes me. “Should I give the two of you some privacy?”

She waves a hand at me, eyes still closed. “Shh, you’re ruining it.”

“Good. I already saw too much.” I scoop the rest into a jar and set it atop the sagging wardrobe. “So, do you think it’s worth the risk?”

“Dominicide is always worth the risk.” She blinks at me, expression flat.

The air vacates my chest, leaving my tongue a desert scape, before the joke finally penetrates and I choke on the void. “We’ll call that plan B.”

I scrub my date sticky fingers on my robes, then, creases still adhering to one another, dump the mystery satchel. A few scraps of hide, a hole-punch, and one silver chunk tumble out.

“While I doubt the invitation for widows extends to runaways and their scrawny pubescent brothers, we might be able to disguise ourselves, fake our lineage.”

Esmar holds a leather scrap over her nose. “I think I can come up with something. You’ll have to leave the talking to me though. You sound like a half cracked frog these days.”

“Ok, ignoring how little sense that made.” I yoink back the hide and return it to the stack. “You think this is a good idea?”

“Of course. To be one of the herd is to go unnoticed by the panther.” Esmar pulls out a bundle of fabric scraps and begins to spread them strategically across the floor, muttering to herself. 

The tirade of potential escape options wane from my mind. Slimmed to the most ridiculous. Perhaps you could dig out. Through stone? Feign being sick. They'll just set fire to me here. 

No, I am going to be a slave; to a spoiled princess Kiluhepa. Perhaps scrubbing her chambers, polishing her furniture, bathing her. A tingle runs up my thighs, at odds with the cringe I expect the thought to elicit. I give my head a minute shake. 

It's said she never wears the same dress twice. Maybe they need you to sew her wardrobe. I do shudder at that. Of all the tasks Mother taught me for my future home, that's the one I despise most. Painstaking hours of needle through cloth, no higher thought to be found. And I never excelled enough to let my mind wander without gouging a finger open.

The Princess could be nothing like they claim. After all, King Shuttarna II is said to be the merciful ruler of the universe, right hand of the gods and beloved by all. What I witnessed was more, scared arrogant human, with more power than brains. 

If he really is as they say, should not a guard be upon me now, slitting my throat for such blasphemous thoughts?

Two sharp raps shake the door and my ribcage constricts. I spring to my feet and tuck beside the hinges, constraining my thunderous breaths. I probe for my powers. Still absent. Of course, only good for getting me into trouble, never out.

The door peeks open and a slight man with gray flecked hair side-steps in, bringing the scent of earth and tobacco. A simple robe hangs from his charcoal shoulders, and he clutches a leather satchel, bound shut with string. A bit of the tension leaves my chest, and air floods my starved lungs.

"I’m still alive. Satisfied?" he calls to the guards, in a strange manner that shears the edges from each syllable. 

There’s a grunt from outside and the door snaps shut. 

"As if sorcerer would half been stopped by a door.” The man shakes his head. Then his gaze finds my corner, piercing through dark eyes with red shocked edges. "Counselor Bishu requests I teach you language of the land. You may call me Darme.”

He lowers himself to the floor, legs folding beneath him, and opens his bag. I peel myself from the wall and take a tentative step closer. This is all too… to my liking. My penance can’t really be to learn? Darme extracts a stack of stiff white sheets, the same as the one I found in the graveyard. I sink down across from him and extend a hand to pluck one from the pile. 

“What is this?”

Darme messages the bridge of his nose. “Writing.”

My outstretched fingers curl into a fist. But there’s an impatience to his tone reminiscent of Father that smooths the agitated ends of my nerves. I lost count of the times he scoffed at how few men in Mitanni knew how to read. He’d tell me, ‘knowledge is power, all one must do is note how the wealthy covet it to see this.’ It's not a leap for Darme to think you, a girl Bishu likely informed him was a mouth-breathing dormouse, might lack such skills. 

I temper as much bite from my tone as I can manage. “I meant what is it written on?” I drag a sheet into my lap, etched with the familiar lines of Assyrian script.

“Papyrus. From Egypt.”

I peek up at him, pulse rising in my ears. “Is that where you’re from?”

“I am not here to tell a life story.”

“That’s a no. But you have been there. Is that where you learned," I consult the third line, "'taking the bull out to pasture' is an acceptable euphemism?"

His eyes tip towards the ceiling. "You can read then?”

I give my head a jerky dip.

“That may make this actually possible,” he says and passes me a blank page and charcoal stick.

Darme lays out the language’s rules, pausing frequently for me to copy them down. Then reads off a list of common phases, I transcribe those too. 

The Egyptian words aren't as different as I expected. There are even a few that are the same, save for extra emphasis on one letter over the other.

 Their writing though, is all minute pictures, mostly of birds and reeds, to our clusters of knobbly lines.

We only stop when the light has crept too far from the window slit to make out the script.

Darme tucks the pages into his bag. “Next time I’ll bring torch.”

I strain to keep my eyelids open, my tongue heavy from exercises to get it around the less familiar sounds but I don’t feel much closer to speaking Egyptian than when we started. 

I rub a chalky finger with a clean one, the black smears the new surface in a shadow of the first. “How long do I have to learn all this?”

He loops the satchel’s tie. “The princess leaves in fifteen nights. We’ll have our finial lesson then. If you put in the effort you may learn enough to continue practicing with her on the journey. Another twenty or so days before you arrive.”

Darme tucks the pouch under an arm and calls for the guards to let him out. 

“Until tomorrow.” He dips his head and squeezes out the crack the guards deem adequate. There's a tearing sound and his next words come out in a third language, of which I'm unfamiliar but his tone suggests are hostile in meaning.

The corner of my lip twitches and I let my head fall back. Into solid stone. Pain splinters through my skull. Idiot. I massage my scalp. 

When I look back up a guard, half lit by torchlight, watches with one brow cocked. Hastening to reassemble my noble strut, I shoot him a conspiratorial smile. Neither of us know what we're in on but he nods and doesn't move to stop me.

The steps level and I veer into the garden, the air thick with hyacinth blossoms and herbs. To any outsider appearing as though I'm heading for the priest's estate.

I tighten my grip on the satchel of food I swiped on my way out, twist the pristine ends savage between my fingers. It's nowhere near the haul of rations that guard caught me with. If I'd got away with that we could leave tonight.

I scramble through a gap in the hedge, brambles tearing at my clothes, assaulting my fresh cuts.

While these will see us through the next few days, each time I return with less than enough food to make it to the next town, the odds diminish that I’ll make it out of this one with my life and both hands attached.

Which would have ended tonight if that girl hadn’t shown up, done whatever she did. And I’d left her at the king’s feet, blood-lust in those shriveled eyes that refused to soak up the abundance of moister about them.

My insides knot. I did all I could, risked too much already. It's not just my life at stake.

I tuck close to the spattering of trees as a squat house dominates the horizon. The tension does not ease from my shoulders until its blank windows disappear behind stalks barley.

The listing rows give way to a wash and nestled within is a small hut. Straw peeks from the mud roof, a tattered scrap of hide hanging crooked over the entrance.

The way people around town tell it, the man who lived here started attending the market naked a couple seasons back, trying to buy trinkets with animal droppings stolen from nearby livestock. Until one day he hadn’t and all just assumed he was dead but none wanted to be the one to find, and therefore deal with, his body.

Making it an ideal shelter for those that don’t want to be found.

I duck under the door-flap into the single drafty room. A fireplace hulks in the corner, its soot blackened hearthstones the only indicator it had once been active. The storage cabinet leans heavy on a drying rack, its cloth nibbled to stray threads by mice.

In the only chair that doesn't leave your ass a pin-cushion of splinters, sits my sister, Esmar. Much of the russet tint of her youth bled from her skin by numerous season kept inside. Her lank brown hair is tucked over one shoulder to keep it out of her sewing. She sweeps the string in an elegant loop then pulls it tight ending in a violent yank, the echo of a tremor in her hands.

My jaw tightens. I deposit the satchel on the table with one mismatched leg. “Couldn’t sleep?”

"Nightmares filled my head before I even closed my eyes.” She releases a heavy sigh and sets her project aside. “What took so… Your face! What happened?”

Esmar reaches as if to brush my wounds and instinctively, I grab her wrist. She recoils and I snatch my hand away, silently cruising myself. She shrinks as far as the confines of chair and wall allow. I grip my elbows to lessen the impulse to wrap her in a comforting hug.

And I wait, my chest an aching pit, for the shaking to subside, her breathing to even.

She pushes up the wall and I venture a tentative, “I’m sorry.”

“Don't be,” her voice is small but assertive. "I should know how sensitive it can be right after." She peers at me beneath delicate eyebrows, one split by a thin pink scar. "And your face looks particularly awful."

I scrunch said face at her. "Thanks."

"I’ll draw you a wash and you can tell me how you managed to piss off a meat mallet.”

I open my mouth to protest but the focus seems to have drained the last tremors from her, and my face fucking hurts. I sink into her now vacant chair, which groans in protest.

“One of the palace goons caught me coming out of the royal supply wagon.”

She stills in adding mead to the washbasin. “How did you escape?”

I rake a nail across my chin scruff. "I didn't."

Esmar hoists the basin up and scrutinizes me over its contents' violent threats of escape. "You appear to still have both hands,” she says and deposits it on the table.

“Only because I was saved by a sorceress."

Esmar snorts. I shoot her a glare, then splash my face. The water nips the split bruises, a bit of the pain drizzling to the basin with it.

"I'm serious. The guard went back for the sword he dropped trying to catch me,” an echo of the terror I'd felt waiting for his return squeezes my throat, “and she appeared out of the darkness. Told him to leave me alone and when he refused, pulled his blood out his eyes!”

Esmar’s hand goes to her mouth. "She killed him, just like that?"

"No. She ran off when we heard more coming." Why though? Maybe her power was depleted. Or she thought she'd finished the job. A finger jabs into my bicep, jerking me back to the moment.

“And?”

“Someone was on her tail as she left, may have been there the whole time, just out of sight. I knew she’d be caught and the guard she attacked was stirring. They’d have killed her without hesitation, I had to do something. So I fixed his face a bit, made his condition less mysterious,” I hook a nail beneath the loose edge of a scab at my wrist, work it away from pink skin, “and I waited for the guards to find us."

I peek up to find Esmar watching with a sad shadow of a smile. “Did it work?”

“No,” I say at the end of a shaky breath and relay what happened in the throne room.

“The way Bishu was looking at her, like his personal triumph, it took everything in me to leave. Even then, I waited in an alcove down the hall. She never came out,” I finish, my unfocused gaze on the dark rivulets streaking the basin. I’d come so close to leaving Esmar alone to this world for a girl I don’t know and who’s likely gone now. My insides knot so tight and fierce they strangle my gut, spilling the acrid taste of pre-sick onto my tongue.

Esmar pats my shoulder in what’s clearly meant to be a comforting way but is more of an awkward slap. “You did everything you could.”

I nod, leaning back into the seat in a bid for relief. Instead I'm met with a sharp jab. I extract the lump of cloth, stuck with sewing tools. “What is this?”

She snatches it, plucks the needle free and shakes it straight in a way that says ‘behold’.

I blink at the faded garment, peppered with ragged holes. “Moth eaten robes?”

Esmar scowls. “No! Well yes, but look…” She sticks a fist through a slit along the seam, into an attached fabric sack and gives her fingers a triumphant wiggle.

“Ok?”

She rolls her eyes. “Here, try it on.”

I pull it over my shoulders, on each side slits rest at just the right level for my hands to vanish discreetly within. The sacks are cavernous, probably room for a whole day’s loot and are of sturdy construct, despite the rest of the garment’s condition.

“Just don’t use them to paw at yourself with no one the wiser.” Esmar scrunches her face at me.

I laugh even as my neck ignites. Unexpected relief flooding my gut at hearing her make a horrible joke again. “Gross. Thanks for ruining it, now I can never put them to good use.”

This close the palace dominates the star blotched horizon, all haunting arches, and flickering rectangular pits in the dark. I'm steered along the thoroughfare, the cobble agony on my bruised and torn feet.

Once it was obvious I was subdued, two more guards in yellow threaded green robes, had joined the first. Their grips now bruising on my arms, as if a faulty hold will lose them praises for bringing in their prize.

The road splits and we take the fork that dead-ends on the polished slab steps of the palace. My chest tightens, the force of my breaths searing. They can't mean to bring me before the King of the Universe. Perhaps because as right-hand of the Gods, King Shuttarna II can strip me of my soul on the spot, or possesses some resistance to magic ideal for killing a sorcerer? A chill seeps deep into my spine, bile clawing up my throat.

I collapse, the extra weight pulling the guards off balance. One comes into range and I sink my teeth into flesh.

He wrenches free, the white above his irises briefly visible in the dim. “Little bitch.” He turns to the first, rubbing the angry indentation. “It’s not contagious is it?”

I spit out the salty grime. Nasty and that may not have led to an escape but my chest is a touch lighter.

The other man gives him a withering look. “Of course not ya moron.”

But he backhands me for good measure. Spots flicker across my vision, pain blistering the side of my face. Still worth it.

The slog up the stairway is a calf burning eternity. I help as little as possible, while avoiding another blow.

Eventually it levels before a massive rock archway, flanked by a pair of winged stone bulls bearing the King’s head. His blank eyes follow us as we pass into the cavernous room beyond.

A clunky throne, caved with men hunting a lion, looms at the center. The great King Shuttarna II sits in its depths. He looks me over, thick brows pulling closer, his small eyes near vanquished in their shadows. Though intricately braided, the coarse gray beard hides little of his weak chin.

I’m drug into an awkward tilt as my captors sink to their knees, and remain there well into ass-kissing territory. The feeling begins to seep from my legs when steps scuffle beside me. There’s a grunt and the thief is slammed into view. His bruises stark in the luminous chamber, a new trickle of blood oozing from his hairline. My insides knot.

No. He was up, with ample time to escape. Unless he collapsed again. You should have made sure he was good. He shouldn’t have stolen shit.

The King lists his head towards a man with limbs like branches, but not ones I'd ever trust for footing, wearing the same green robes as the guards and a yellow shawl draped from one shoulder. “Enlighten me Bishu, why was I summoned to these proceedings?”

“I was assured it was of import, my King," Bishu says, his expression placating.

King Shuttarna tips a hand in our direction.

After a heartbeat’s hesitation the guard who captured me steps forward, head bowed. “A short time ago this heretic," he jabs a finger at me, "assaulted private Goru unprovoked…”

"Unprovoked?" The thief's tone is not loud but crisp and echoing with indignation. He shrugs off a guard’s hand and gets agilely to his feet, spine straight despite the tremor of his legs. “She was saving me.” He says the last word with such self-importance that I gag a little.

King Shuttarna II narrows his eyes. “And who are you that I should care?”

Goru’s gaze snaps up. “A thief, my King.”

“I am Head Priest Murza’s son,” the boy says, as though it should be obvious.

I coax my features to something like serenity. I’ve seen the priest’s son many times at prayer, holding the collection plate with a hooked smile. This boy is not him but they may not know that.

“Everyone knows Dawid,” Goru sneers.

Ah, fuck.

“Of course they do," the vitriol in the thief’s voice is so convincing I almost believe him. "Father’s pride. Inheritor of the conduit. I think even he forgets he has a second son."

Might he be the priest's child?

The King leans back into the depths of his throne. "The Gods' favor can preoccupy the mind."

Veins bulge in Goru's fist. “He admitted to being a thief!”

The boy purses his lips. “I didn’t deny it. I had to do something when Father paid no heed to my concerns over the impoverished widows. How a meager amount of our extra food could quell the unrest brought on by his favorite war.” A darkness passes behind his swollen eyes but it's quickly replaced by sulky defiance.

King Shuttarna II rakes a look over the thief. “You think it may become a problem?”

The thief nods. “I hear them talk in the pews, whisper of how they won't be able to feed their families. They're becoming desperate.”

The King steeples his fingers. “And you think something so benign could subdued them…”

"It is irrelevant. This sorceress," Goru spits the words out like a bug that invaded his mouth, "pulled out my blood with her hands!”

Laughter bursts from the thief, airy and condescending. “That’s what you're calling getting your face smashed in by a little girl?”

I bristle and, with great difficulty, choke down my retort. You can be pissed when your life isn't on the wrong edge of a sword. I twist my neck for a better view of Goru. His face sports a purple and green adornment that was definitely not there when I left. So that's why the thief had lingered.

King Shuttarna II surveys them with cool indifference. The thief, his stance self-assured, amusement peeking from his cracked and bloodied face; and Goru, nostrils flaring, mouth flapping as if he hopes to snare words.

The guards holding me shift, loosen their strangling grips.

“Have you anyone to corroborate your story, Goru?” Bishu asks.

Goru finally manages to get his tongue around something tangible. “You can’t possibly be buying this hog-oil? You'd have to be a moron to not realize he’s lying.”

King Shuttarna II draws himself up, nostrils billowing. “How dare you question my judgment, your King and hand of the Gods. Bishu.” He waves the slender man forward. "Remove him."

Bishu bows and turns his unblinking stare on Goru. “Come with me.”

Goru backs away, shaking his head. Bishu lets out an exasperated sigh.

“Bring him,” he tells no one in particular, stepping down towards a narrow door at the rear of the throne.

All four idol guards lunge to obey. Grabbing Goru under the arms and hauling him after the consul. His muffled pleas grow fainter, then, silence. My chest seizes, as does the thief's jaw but the King simply taps his fingertips on the polished marble armrest. A moment later Bishu emerges, alone, smoothing a crease from his robe.

King Shuttarna gives a satisfied nod. He blinks at the thief as if just remembering his existence. “Get out, before my compassion is tainted by more incompetence.”

The grips on my arms loose until, over the King’s shoulder Bishu gives a slight but pointed head shake. The guards’ hold on me stills. My muscles reclaim every millimeter of slack they’d forfeit. I’m not being set free. The thief hesitates, our gazes catching for the briefest moment, a defiant set to his that settles the tremors in my chest. Then he bows, fists at his sides and strides from view. I gulp down a breath. At least he won’t share in your fate.

Bishu taps the arm of the throne. "How do you suppose the girl knew who he was?”

The King tugs his beard braid and lists a look over me.

I bite down a hasty retort. Who would know a boy no one notices, bloodied in the dark? His mother? Too Obvious. Maybe a sister? While two invisible siblings happens, no one's willing to admit they pay so little attention.

What about a teacher? A noble family would never hire you for that. Unless they wanted to keep the struggles of their prodigy quiet.

"I'm Dawid's tutor, Sona."

Bishu and the King share a drawn look. You should have said nanny, much more plausible. Too late now.

A sneer pinches Bishu’s already cramped face. “That doesn't preclude sorceress.”

“It’s not worth the risk and no one will pay much heed to a missing servant. Get rid of her,” The King says.

A suffocating stillness envelopes me, nearly drowning out Bishu's next words.

“The boy seems fond of her."

King Shuttarna II scrunches his brow.

I douse the spark of hope before it can do more than smolder. Even if I survive for now, it will take one conversation to find out the thief lied and I’ll be right back here.

“Perhaps another solution.” Something sparks in Bishu’s eyes, like the seed of a forest fire set to devour numerous towns. “Our dear Princess Kiluhepa leaves for the east at the next half moon, send the girl along. We make it known she's being given the honor of serving her country, then if it turns out she is as they say it will no longer be our problem."

My heart slams to a stop. A slave to a spoiled princess, in some foreign land. No say in anything to do with my future. I scramble for my powers but there's only the chirp of a lone cricket in some indeterminable location.

The King’s lips twist. “I knew there was a reason I kept you around Bishu. Though it does seem an odd thing to announce publicly."

Bishu stares long and blank at a torch burned to a glowing nub. "Pose her as the first volunteer for your gracious endeavor to lead the widows from poverty to new opportunities in the east."

The King shoots a breath from his nose. “Perfect. See that it’s done. And get that out of my sight.” He jerks his chin in my direction.

The guards haul me up, eliciting a muffled squeak, and out the slim servant’s door.

“Why don’t you just give her a tour of the place,” Bishu says.

The guards exchange a confused look. “Consoler?”

Bishu exhales a sound somewhere between a growl and a sigh. “Cover her eyes.”

“Oh,” the one on my right says. A sweat sticky palm smears over my face and heat floods my neck.

They drag me up a flight of stairs, around a few corners, down some more stairs, past a wind chilled outcropping and another set of corners.

We halt. There's rustling, the creak of hinges ripe with rust and a sliver of light peeks through the fingers. Then I'm hurled forward, hands grating on rough stone.

I’m barely to my elbows when the door slams with shuddering force. Trapping me in a vaguely circular room, lit by a minute widow-gouge near the ceilings. It contains a lone cot with a few scraps of floor visible around it.

The bar slides home with a scrape and Bishu’s voice trickles through the wood slats. “You heard your King, she's no sorceress, so act like a trained soldier! If she escapes I will see much worse done to you than she could ever dream up.”

After a murmur of assent, one set of steps shuffles away. The depths of my stomach writhe, the edges of my vision blurring. With shaking hands I pull my sack off and hurl it against the wall. The resulting soft fump snags on the edges of my frayed nerves and shreds them.

Twigs and stones ambush my feet from the shroud of impending night, tearing at flesh and jarring bone. The knife slaps a painful rhythm against my thigh but I don’t slow.

I skirt the onion fields, noxious fumes searing my eyes. Pass paddocks of goats and chickens clucking as they settle in to roost. My parent’s house comes into view around the shack of the leathery farmer who tends them.

I crest the knoll, sweat clinging to my brow and patter up the walkway. The vegetables like a snarled forest encroaching from either side. Thin smoke sputters from the chimney but a hollow silence reverberates within.

My chest tightens. What if the guards arrived first and took Mother and Father in my place? Not possible, they don’t know where you live. Yet. I could have been followed. Or that guard might recognize me in town. They may even search nearby houses. I can’t stay here. I’ll have to disappear until the wedding, when I leave this town with Yoel.

I push inside, the creak of hinges echoing around the deserted room. My parents must have grown sick of waiting and gone to look for me. My heart throbs but I can't waste time awaiting their return. I dig a sack from beneath the bed and rack my skull for the few survival tips I’ve siphoned from my studies.

Defiantly food. I pop open the storage cupboard and my gaze catches on my skirt, stained red where I knelt the thief's blood. Fishing the sheet of pictographs from my waistband, I peel off my soiled garment. With a grimace, I scrub the river damp hem across my knees, working into every nook and crease. Then I toss it into the fire. As Father had done the last time I returned covered in blood.

It had been one of those precious days, between gallons of sweat each hour and bone gnawing cold. The whisper of a breeze played through the trees off the Tigris, fragrant with early hyacinth blossoms.

Over the winter I had prevailed over Father’s elbow, stretching to a wisp with an insatiable appetite, which I’ve yet to fill.

I toed the riverbank, grass tickling my ankles, listening like a rabbit on the plains to his words.

"In the shallows, like here, yields the best clay for writing. Not too sandy, so your letters dry crisp and deep.”

I grabbed a handful from where he indicated. Mud clung and squished between my fingers as I glopped it into the bowl.

"Do they use the same materials to write in other places?" I asked. He'd told me once of towns by the sandy coast, a week's ride from any river shallows.

“Most that I've heard of. Though in Egypt, to the west,” He waved a hand in that direction, ‘they use a thing called paper, made from papyrus reeds. I'm not clear on the process but I would love to see it myself one day.”

My brow wrinkled, curiosity digging hooked claws into my chest. How would one write on reeds? “We could go there one day and find out together!”

Father looked at me, a softness in his down-turned features. “That is not within the purpose Hepa has set for you?”

My fists clenched, mud oozing over my knuckles. Because you’re a girl, the extent of your adventures would be fetching wash water from the river. Hepa got to rule the sky. Why had she condemned the rest of us to serve smelly boys?

I wrenched my jaw apart to ask Father as much but the words caught in my throat, as a man staggered out of the trees.

His mop of black hair was plastered down with mud and one hand clutched a knife to a snarled cedar trunk. The other was clamped over his stomach, blood dripping between his fingers, mangled skin flapped from a row of gashes on his arm.

With a sharp intake of breath Father hurried forward. I darted up beside him, veering wide around his extended arm.

Father bent to eye level with the man. “What happened?”

“Cat. Got it. Not fast enough,” the man gulped between shallow rasps of air.

He sagged against the tree and his face twisted, as did the blade he clutched. The edge pulled to a jagged maw. Father wrenched back, eyes straining as his hand groped for me. Then the man’s lids flickered closed. I took a step closer. A notion to steady him half forming in my mind, when the blade slipped from his grasp and he tumbled into me.

My breath left me in a whimper as we hit the ground. Twigs and stones assaulted my back, our combined weight driving them deeper. I gulped on air, tried to force it into my searing chest. A pounding started behind my ears. A substance that flowed through the man on top of me, my father, was pooled nearby, thrummed against my senses. Its essence slithered over my fingers, begged me to grab hold and examine it. I blinked hard, lights popped behind my lids.

With a grunting heave the weight lifted and breath poured into my starved lungs. I blinked at the lopsided form of my father hauling the man’s arm over his shoulders.

He surveyed me through worry crinkled eyes. “Suriya, are you alright?”

Drawing myself to my knees, I prodded some of the more tender bits. I nodded.

Father sagged a little. “Good. You know the way home from here?”

I scrambled to my feet, limbs trembling. “Yeah, but I want to come with you.” Blood soaked my front, clung heavy to the fabric, tingled my flesh. There was something not right with my senses, at once sharper and blurred around the edges. And he was going to leave me alone!

Father shook his head. “This is not something for a lady to see. Go straight home and get cleaned up. Understand?”

Not meeting his gaze, I dipped my chin. They hobbled away, promptly disappearing behind a clump of trees. I gripped my hands together. It made no sense. You closed your eyes and went along with whatever you were told just cause that’s the way it was. Maybe that’s the way it was because everyone went along with it.

Well I needed a moment so I was going to have one. I plopped down and drew my knees to my chest. Let the breeze caress my skin, soothe my jittery muscles, my pulse.

But the thrum didn’t subside. It tugged, ushered me closer, in the direction of the blood spattered at the tree's base, dancing in the sunlight.

Edging nearer, I hovered a hand over the surface, wiggled my fingers. Nothing happened. I pinched my thumb and forefinger together and met a whisper of resistance. My eyebrows inched closer. I pulled up and a thin string of crimson followed. My breath stilled. I swirled, the blood swirled. I dipped, it dipped. A soft laugh escaped me. This was fantastic. Perhaps Hepa did have something else in store for me.

A rustle shuddered the trees and I tensed, the blood sliding back to a smear. Plan or not, I didn’t know enough of this new power to stake my life on, so I scooped up the man's fallen dagger and clutched it tight. Not that it would have served me better, small and untrained as I was, against wild cats, snakes, men, or any other fanged creature that hunts lone girls at the edge of a wood.

It was best to get home before Mother started to worry, or worse, father beat me there. I tucked the dagger in a fork of branches, high in my favorite climbing tree, and hurried off.

When I slipped through the front door Mother glanced up from her vaguely bowl shaped lump of clay, and a moment later was on her feet, the spatula clattering to the ground.

"What happened? Where's your father?"

As she ushered me towards the wash basin, I gave a brief recap, careful not to divulge anything that might hint that I'd directly disobeyed Father. I could tell them of my new found powers at a less incriminating time.

I was scrubbed and just stepping into a clean dress when he returned. Shaky and blood spattered.

"Build a fire," he told mother.

She crooked a brow but did as he asked. While, in a low voice surely not meant for my ears, he told her how the injured man had worked iron with his bare hands.

Mother squeaked out a gasp. "Why didn't you run?"

"I had to protect my girls. Get him to the proper authorities so they could put a stop to him."

The cabin chilled, veins popping in the hands knotted in my skirt.

"He's dead." I failed to keep the tremor from my voice.

Because he had powers like mine. He must have poisoned me with his affliction! I ran my thumb over where I’d contacted the power’s resistance. No, the contentment that filled me back at the tree-line was not of something foreign, my body knew this power. Didn’t it?

Father picked up my soiled garments. "Don’t worry, he won't be able to hurt anyone now." And cast them into fire.

I don’t watch the fabric crumble to ash this time, merely return to the cabinet, donned in fresh clothing. Wrapping a few portions of dried meat in cloth, I stuff them in my bag, along with a water skin, some flint and a thin blanket. I glance at the paper from the graveyard, still crumpled in my hand, and add that too. As I tie the sack and loop the extra rope from neck to shoulder, footsteps sound outside. My heart sputters. The door bangs open and Mother bustles in, Father close behind. Their gazes frantic, until they fall on me.

"Oh thank Hepa." Mother wraps me in a suffocating hug.

"Listen." The words come out weak, muffled by her cedar-oil scented shoulder. Over it, Father regards me, his relieved expression faltering.

I force my dry tongue to work. “I have to leave for a bit.”

“What?” Mother loosens her grip to get my face in view, a crease forming in her brow.

Father places a hand on my arm. “Tell us what’s happened. We can help you.”

Like he helped that dying sorcerer? My throat constricts. “That's not necessary, it's more of a precaution. I won't even miss the wedding.”

“You think I'm worried about that? I've been dreading you leaving since you were born.” Mother’s voice catches on a sob. "But more than that I want you to have a future.”

Unshed tears sear the back of my throat. I force my spine straight. "I'll be careful. And I will return." I give her a final squeeze and pull away.

I dip my chin at Father and he nods back. We stare in silence for a few breaths then he pulls me close and I bury my face in his chest.

"We'll be waiting for you."

Words lodge in my throat so I squeeze in response. We break apart, too soon but I've wasted too much time already.

I wrench the door open and step into the night. The murmur of wind conceals my steps, tentative with my light-stung vision. The garden path begins to give way to scattered stones when rough hands close around me, dragging my arms to my back.

My captor yanks my hair, forcing my face level with his. “Gotcha witch.”

Blood wells on my finger, pain prickling up my wrist from the minute gash. Perhaps tablet-cuts are why father says knowledge is dangerous. I pick up the fallen tablet, cautious of the jagged edge this time. The letters are still crisp on this word puzzle, a nice change to the others I've worn to the brink of being illegible.

I place the clay square on the stump with the other pieces and read across.

A whoop escapes my lips. “I did it!”

Yoel starts, the silence that follows a buzzing reminder that he’d been speaking. His beard is kept trimmed to a narrow tuft beneath his chin, I suspect because it's the only part of his face void of wispy patches. His brown eyes are hooded beneath thick brows but his rosette face is smooth, as if it's never known the shape of disdain.

"Have you ever seen a horse up close?"

I haven't but I nod in the desperate hope it will keep him from a description of tedious proportion. They're large enough I can't have missed much of import.

"It is a sight. The way their muscles ripple beneath glistening coats." He releases a hearty breath. "Of course, their grace is diminished here in Mitanni, too much bustle and noise for their comfort. It's why I keep my herds outside."

"Well, that and so they don't eat your bed."

He tilts his head, expression blank. Oh common, that joke wasn't even complex.

Father rounds the side of our squat little home, an armload of firewood accentuating his lean scholar's muscles. His gaze falls on us and a warm smile lifts the corners of his black beard. 

I stand, prepare to present my accomplishment. But Yoel cuts me off.

“If Suriya would give us a moment. I wish to have a word with you," he says, not quite meeting father's eyes, hands twisting over one another.

"But I…"

"Please go help Mother with dinner," Father says.

I grit my teeth and gather the puzzle. Father's not in the market for a horse so it must be about me, yet I'm the one who must leave.

I round the front garden, and step through the open door into choking heat. The stack of tablets spills across the table with a reverberating clatter.

A log pops in the stove, ejecting a dull orange ember. Smoke joins the pressing air. I cup a tawny hand over my nose but it doesn't stop the burn seeping into my eyes.

Mother jabs it back in place with the poker. She's wearing her best spun dress, its pale green vibrant against her brown skin, a shawl draped across her shoulders even in the sweltering house. Her lush gray streaked hair is tied in a thick knot at the base of her neck. 

"Suriya, put that stuff away. Dinner will be ready any minute."

She tosses a towel at the washbasin that occupies the one other bit of floor not consumed by beds or a set of rickety floor to stooped-ceiling shelves.

I heave out a breath and pull the clay tablets toward myself, easing each into Father's teaching satchel. "Are we really eating in here?"

The spoon clacks on the sides of the pot as Mother stirs, wafting out the smell of pheasant stew, with a tang of pistachios. Was today some special event I forgot? She replaces the lid and wipes her hands on her apron with more force than is necessary. "Of course. I would poke a sleeping hippo before I'd let such an important guest dine on the ground."

Ah, explains the soup. Though with Yoel's strange demeanor outside will he even be staying for a meal? Or at all. 

I've gotten better at biting my tongue when the men in town say something inexcusably misinformed, but I still hear the whispers. How it's not natural for a girl to be so smart. It doesn't matter that I study each day, always complete the lessons Father assigns. While they spend every spare moment of their youths hitting each other with sticks. But no, their shortcomings are my fault. If they want to be smarter why don’t they think!

It will be a relief to no longer have to listen to Yoel prattle on about himself, or the weather, or whatever, while I hold a painful, endearing smile and nod whenever there's a pause. He was such a good candidate though. Now I'll have to start it all again.

I shake my head. That's a worry for another time. Sandals crunch on the pathway and Mother stills, ladle halfway to a bowl.

I hang the leather satchel on its nail and turn to find only Father on the threshold.

He steps through the narrow opening, his nose working at the air. "Is that what I think it is?"

Mother dips her tight jaw. "Where did Yoel go?"

"Come sit down and I'll tell you." Father hooks a chair out with his foot and plops down. I help Mother with the bowls and we cram in on either side of him.

Father takes a hearty bite. Mother and I lean in, the air in the room drawing taught. 

He looks up to our fervent gazes and swallows with a grimace. "Yoel asked for Suriya’s hand!"

My lungs constrict, the spoon slipping from my grasp. 

"Really?" The disbelief in Mother’s tone burrows deep.

Not that you ever imagined it would happen so soon. Eventually, sure, but I’m supposed to have more time before I leave my home, my studies. I wind and unwind a strand of hair around my finger and shove it over my shoulder.

"Would it be alright if I copy the tablets before I go? Or perhaps take them with me, and return them when I finish?”

"I wouldn’t worry about that. You’ll be perfectly busy with a wedding to plan." Mother's eyes mist over. "Then there’s getting to know each other, your new home. And before you know it, with children. You won't have time for such frivolous things."

My heart plummets, leaving an aching, jagged hole in its wake. I want to learn, certainly more than I want to be a stupid wife. But this is normal, what every girl wants. At least that's what they claim. So it’s what I must want, to fit in, to survive. But what if in getting close he learns the truth and turns you in? Ash coats my tongue, grits and sours my meal. I won't let that happen.

“Is something wrong?" Father asks.

I shake my head. "Too much good news to take in at once I guess. Would it be alright if I took a dunk in the river?"

"Certainly." Father waves a dismissive hand. "We'll have plenty left to discuss when you return."

Fucking spectacular. I tie up my blanket of wavy brown hair and wrench the door over the lump in the floor. 

“Your necklace,” Mother gasps.

With a grimace I remove the bulky string of beads and toss it to the floor pile near my bed. A token of Yoel’s love, I can’t seem to ruin to save my life. Which it’s nearly taken a number of times; caught on branches as I descend a tree, wrapped around a goat’s horn, hooked on the slat of a fence. Eventually it will succeed in my demise but at least then I won’t have to wear the hideous thing anymore. 

I slip outside and my bare feet carry me along the worn path without direction. The gradual slope engulfs houses, until only the tallest spire of the temple remains. I wind between the trees that cling to the banks of the Tigris, parting before the expanse of water, so perfect in its rage to appear at ease.

I stick my feet in and the water bites at my ankles, cools the blood seething beneath my skin. I tilt my head back. A warm breeze, thick with the scent of late blossoms, skims the underbrush.

You knew a day would come when there would no longer be time for studies. That there is no future if you never move forward. I can play this part. Though for how long?

I wade deeper till the bottom of my skirt is drenched and heavy, let the river swirl around me, the chill nipping at my thighs. 

Twigs crunch at my back. I whirl around to find Ninva ambling up to the bank, a jug clutched in her bronze hands. Her blue kissed dress dips at her curves, a fringe escaping the cream colored cloth tied over her hair. She lives a few houses over — since she married the merchant Father buys goat-milk from — and always chats with me when we encounter each other.

She smiles at me and I nod back. Hoisting her skirt from the water's reach, she drops onto the bank. A breath hitches in my throat. An effect of my jittery nerves. 

Ninva rakes a gaze over me. "What plagues your thoughts this evening?"

Only my entire future. I suspend a hand over the water's surface. She could have insight into what you're experiencing. "Did you ever feel like you weren't ready? To get married I mean?"

“I heard of your proposal,” she says.

I groan. Information shot through this town like a trader with a price on his head.

She leans back on her hands, her bound hair swinging. "Starting a new life can be scary but after a while it becomes a new normal."

That doesn't sound possible for someone like me. But I nod.

Ninva stares down the river, the slosh against its banks the only sound for a time.

Then she straightens, focus returning to me and her tone hikes up. “Oh did you hear about the bodies?” 

My head snaps up. “What bodies?” 

Ninva’s voice drops to a whisper, “Last night fifteen bodies were taken from the cemetery.”

I mouth the number. “How? Why?”

Her brow crinkles. “Does it matter, as long as the culprit is done away with?”

I shrug. Were those not necessary answers to acquire in doing away with?

Ninva glances at me from the corner of her eye, then at the orange streaked horizon. “It will be dark soon, I better return home.” She stands and gathers her jug. “As should you. It’s dangerous out.”

“Yeah,” I mutter at the churning water.

The shuffle of her steps fades and I continue to stare down the river. So many corpses in one night, would take about as many men. How had no one noticed?

I roll my shoulders. I should take Ninva's advice and go home. Well, home till you move outside of town with Yoel. Far enough that opportunities to return here will be scarce. My insides writhe. Best I don't leave anything behind.

I scramble up the bank, mud clinging between my toes, and climb my favorite tree. 

The knife is right where I left it, blade jagged as a snaggle-toothed cat. As is the scabbard I made from scraps of leather I squirreled away over the seasons. I secure it at my waist, snug and out of sight. My only opponents so far have been unsuspecting bushes so it’s ideal no one knows of its existence until the right moment. It's lumpy and knocks my leg as I walk but its presence eases the ragged edges of my nerves. 

#

Purple overtakes the sky as trees give way to the jagged spires of the temple. Built to reach toward the goddess Hepa at the height of her power and protect us in her absence each night. Behind it, tidy rows of gravestones, from rocks to hulking mausoleums, stretch into the distance. 

Fifteen bodies, vanished in the night. There has to be some explanation. Surely the task of pretending to be thrilled while my parents gush about my upcoming wedding can wait.

I vault over the split-rail fence. Warm wind scuttles leaves across the grass with a hollow moan. A shiver crawls the length of my spine.

I draw my arms close and approach the nearest plot. A cracked slab of clay, inscribed with a name and a poem about conquering death. Its plant growth is sparse but undisturbed. Not surprising, any grave-robber worth a bent stick would work farther in.

I plunge on, stopping whenever a particular marker snags my attention. I examine all sides of a marble casket. Climb a statue of a blocky goat to check the crumbling top of a mausoleum. Search for tunnels around a child sized slab of stone. 

There's nothing to indicate a single missing body and shadows have begun to devour all but small swaths of the trail. I huff a breath out my nose and turn to leave but my gaze catches on a strip of white peeking from loose earth.  

I kneel and tug at the sinewy material. The corner tears, ripping apart the silence and I pull back, glance in each direction. Even the bushes are still and quiet. I begin to scoop away the soil, cool and damp against my palm, until the thin fibrous sheet slides free. It’s crumpled, unfamiliar picture script written across it.

How did this get here? In freshly-turned dirt. I squint against the dark. My insides plummet as the snarling pit comes into focus, a hands width away. When the thud of my heart is no longer painful, I shove the note into my waist tie and crawl to the lip. It's not much wider than a human torso, its depth enigmatic in the dark.

Were the culprits interrupted before they finished? The dirt is cool and damp. This can’t be from last night but why would they return to the same graveyard, where security is sure to be increased? But it's not. That's odd. The ground crunches nearby. Every fiber of hair stands at attention.

I spring to my feet and sprint back the direction I came. The dark weighs on my vision, plucks heat wherever it touches. The graveyard’s edge is indistinct but visible. I clutch at the fence, splinters driving into my fingers as I clamber over. I’ll take a different route home, less direct but far clear of the graveyard. A cedar rises out of the din, then disappears in my wake. My skin prickles again… still? Is that the crunch of rocks? Rustling fabric?

A moan sounds, distinct and imminent. My steps falter, hand hovering at my waist.

There, crumpled at the base of a tangled trunk is a lumpy form, elbow crooked to one side, head slumped on a shoulder.

I flex my fingers, run a palm over my clammy face. You should continue home, Mother and Father are sure to enter the panic stage of worry soon. The figure stirs, scrawny and a bit pathetic. Ah crap. I shuffle forward.

A boy's face focuses out of the darkness, a handful of seasons younger than myself, judging by the fine scruff surrounding his mouth. Stark bruises split his pimpled face. One eye is swollen shut, rumpled dark hair spilling over the other. I brush it aside and his lid flutters open.

I paste on an encouraging smile.

“Go away,” the boy croaks.

My expression folds into a glower. "Don't be an idiot. I can help you." I kneel, something wet seeping into my skirt, to brush the hair from his eyes but he grabs my wrist. A tingle runs up my arm, a pulsing gush that pulls at my senses. Unsettling in its familiarity, like recognizing a face you’ve forgotten. I blink at the boy.

His one eyed gaze intensifies. “You have to go, now! Before…”

Steps crunch behind me. "Shoulda known more of you would scurry out of your holes. Like cockroaches, you are."

My chest constricts and I twist to face the speaker, a sturdy man in a palace uniform. Shit, this won’t go in my favor. He closes the distance between us and his scrunched gaze travels over me. "Oh, a girl." His stance loosens. "Little thing like you shouldn't be out after dark, helping thieves.”

My whole body trembles, but I clamp down on the words frothing up my throat.

The pulse at his temples intensifies. “I asked you a question bitch.”

Not really. Now is not the time for a lesson in proper word usage. He sees you as a weak, timid, girl, use it to your advantage. I shuffle back, careful to keep my gaze down. 

“I, Uhm, didn’t know he was a thief. I got turned around, thought he might know the way. If you could tell me which way is south, I won’t bother you again.” The words sour on my tongue but I keep my head bowed.

The man grunts and points east. “Now get going, before I bore of him.” 

“Thank you,” I breathe and scramble to my feet, a buzz reverberating inside my head. When I get home I should barricade the door and hide beneath a pile of blankets until next spring.

The palace guard hauls the thief up, limp and oozing. My feet don’t move. He won't survive this. It’s not your concern, and there’s nothing you can do about it anyways. 

That's not true though. This thrum in the air is just like eight seasons ago. I draw myself up. This better work.

"Hey, he's had enough."

The guard halts, looks up slowly. “Volunteering to take his place are we?” He drops the boy, a leer twisting his scruffy features as he starts towards me.

Invisible tendrils slither over my fingertips, smooth yet sticky, like candle wax. I curl my hand around them and pull. A drop of crimson clings to the corner of his eye, pools along the lid. He stills, head cocked, and blinks. Blood spills in twisted ribbons, from his tear ducts, his nose, his mouth. 

He scrambles to cup it in his hands but it dodges, weaves between his fingers to spatter on the ground. The guard sways, looking up at me, eyes popping in taught sockets. My grip falters.

“Goru, where are you at?” A voice calls from out of the dark. “Pinch it off man. It’s shift change time.”

My insides plummet. Not another one. I glance back at the guard, Goru, probably. I could take him out, and the other one too, if he shows up before I’m done. Bile claws at my throat. No, I’ll just have to hope he stays down for a while. I give the threads a hearty yank and Goru collapses.