“That’s not what happened!”
“Shut up!” he yells. “I don’t know what game you two are playing with each other, and I honestly don’t care! Do you understand what may have happened if Morgen killed Ramses, destroying three generations of overlord bloodline? The Deathlands could have revolted against us! As it is, Solomon’s healers couldn’t help him! They had to smuggle him into Mediah last night in order to save him! Do you understand how many strings Solomon had to pull, how many people had to be bribed, had to die, to make that happen? And even then, there’s only so much the Medi healers can do … only so much they will do for a Deathlander.”
“So I was supposed to just let him rape me?” she screams.
“You put yourself in that position!” Aldrik retorts. “And sometimes, sacrifices need to be made!” He steps closer. “Next time you’re that stupid, you lie on your back and take what’s coming to you.”
“I would rather die first,” she spits.
“That may very well happen.”
Nazirah stalks out, fuming. She ignores Solomon calling after her. Safely in her room, she hunches against the door, breathing hard. Standing up, she rips off Adamek’s clothes, practically running into the bathroom. Right now, all she wants to do is get under a scalding shower and wash the memories from the last few days away.
All of them.
Nazirah scrubs herself raw, humiliated, infuriated, and entirely confused. Standing before the bathroom mirror, she wipes away the condensation droplets and stares at her battered self. Her limbs resemble a morose watercolor painting. Her face is a portrait of abuse. It won’t inspire thousands of intermix to join the rebellion. If anything, it will send them running for the hills. She feels no physical pain, as promised. But there are some aches so deep, not even MEDIcine can cure them.
Nazirah groans in resignation. She dresses in a long sleeve shirt and dark jeans, covering what bruises she can. Just as she finishes lacing up her boots, Nazirah hears a soft rapping at her door. From the politeness of the knock, she knows it is Solomon. As soon as she lets him in, he wraps his small frame around hers. Nazirah immediately bursts into tears. She collapses onto the plush rug, sobbing into his arms.
“This is my fault, Miss Nation,” Solomon says, eyes glistening. Dark circles frame his eyes. “I invited Khanto’s extended family. I should have known better. I am truly sorry.”
Nazirah gently takes his hands. “I don’t accept your apology, Solomon,” she says, “Because you have nothing to apologize for. You’ve been a true friend … my only friend, lately. I won’t let you blame yourself.”
Solomon shakes his head sadly. “I thank you for that,” he says. “But it is a kindness I do not deserve. I was there during the final battle between Mr. Morgen and the overlord. I heard his last wish. I should have realized his son would try to honor it.”
“Wait,” she says. “The Khan’s last wish was his dying wish?” Nazirah remembers Khanto hovering over Adamek, speaking quietly, sadistic fire in his eyes. Those words sparked something inside Adamek, making him finally fight back. That was considered the Khan’s last wish? Why hadn’t Adamek told her that last night?
“Yes, Miss Nation,” Solomon murmurs. “As I said before, there are men of honor and there are honorable men. In those final moments, the Khan was neither.”
“What exactly did he say?”
“Very bad things,” Solomon whispers. “You must understand. The Khan was not evil, but his desire for vengeance locked evil inside his heart. So his final words were rife with hatred, tarnished by rage.”
“And they were?” Nazirah presses.
Solomon clears his throat. “I believe it was something along the lines of ‘Victoria is a pretty whore. I will spend the rest of my life hunting down everyone you care for and making pretty whores out of them. Starting with your intermix bitch.’”
Nazirah is appalled. “The Khan said that?”
“He did,” Solomon replies. “I do not believe it was Khanto’s true intention, but his eldest boy took those words quite literally.”
“You think?” she asks, giving a teary laugh. Even Solomon chuckles, just a little.
#
They depart after breakfast, silent and quick. Solomon gives Nazirah a lengthy, sniffling goodbye. Even Olag embraces her gruffly at the door. Solomon assures Nazirah that their friendship is only beginning, that they will see each other again. She hopes he is right.
They travel north by train for several hours to the furthest reaches of Solomon’s influence, exiting at the last stop before crossing the Ziman border. Nazirah looks around the platform, dropping her luggage in surprise.
This is still the Red West?
Rubiyat was chimerical, strange and fabulous and wild. This landscape is barren, desolate, and empty. There is no warmth, no dust, no snow, no spice or song, no life. It is not quite the Deathlands, but not quite Zima either. Nazirah thinks it is a transition area, unable to make up its mind, lacking an identity of its own.
“Intermix,” she whispers. Nazirah wraps her arms around her body, shivering, hopping from foot to foot. A bitter chill hangs in the air, warning them of what lies ahead.
Aldrik marches up to her, fidgeting uncharacteristically. He twirls his beard nervously and licks his palm, slicking back his straggly hair. “It’s not that cold, Nation,” he scoffs, glancing around.
Nazirah’s chattering teeth disagree. “You’re from Zima,” she snaps, not wanting to talk to him at all. “You’re used to this weather.”
“This isn’t even Zima,” he says, readjusting his eye patch. “Let alone NoZima. It’s about to get a whole lot colder.”
Nazirah only huffs in response, watching her breath condense before her. She blows again, fascinated, but stops when she notices Adamek staring at her in amusement. She forgot he’s trained in Zima too.
A wiry woman, wearing a fur pelt and tall boots, strolls up to them. Her hair is bone white, skin translucent, eyes liquid silver. She appears harsh, with deep angles, emaciated. Nazirah cannot tell if she is twenty or sixty.
The woman circles Nazirah slowly, inspecting her face, all visible bruises. “Weak,” she says.
“What was that?” Nazirah asks, offended.
She stops directly in front of Nazirah, sterling stare. “I said … you are weak.”
“I’m not weak,” she snaps.
The woman harshly grabs Nazirah’s chin, running a pallid finger over the bruise on her cheek. She releases her, looking at Aldrik. “This is the face of our rebellion?”
“Luka, relax,” Aldrik says gruffly. “It’s been a trying few days.”
“Okay,” Luka says. “I’ll relax.” She walks up to Aldrik, inhaling deeply and spitting on the ground. “You stink, Aldrik. I do not know which foul odor is worse … the slut or the cheap wine.”
Nazirah glances questioningly at Adamek, who watches their interaction in uncontained amusement. “Nation,” Aldrik mutters, coughing, “This is Luka, Lady of Shizar … my wife.”
“Wife?” she asks, bewildered.
“Estranged wife,” Luka corrects. She unstraps her pelt, dropping it onto Nazirah, who struggles to hold it up. “You are a tiny thing, aren’t you?”
Nazirah’s eyes narrow. She already loathes this woman. “I’m big enough.”
“We will find out, won’t we?”
“Yes, you will.”
Luka ignores Nazirah. “Hello, ‘Renatus,’” she says in a mocking tone. “I can’t say I am pleased to see you, either.”
Adamek nods stiffly. “Luka.”
Luka leads the three of them to a large white truck. It has fluorescent headlights, black windows, and huge snow tires. She nods at Nazirah. “Southies first,” she says.
Nazirah scrambles inside the truck, which she guesses will lead them safely through Zima and into Shizar. She never imagined that the Lord of Shizar would be a Lady, much less Aldrik’s wife. And Luka is so incredibly unpleasant. She and Aldrik make a perfect couple.
Nazirah wraps the pelt around herself tightly. Adamek get in beside her, while Luka and Aldrik speak outside. “What’s her problem?” Nazirah asks quietly.
“Many things,” Adamek responds, “Chiefly, her husband’s philandering ways.”
“She knows?”
Adamek nods. “How do you think he lost that eye?”
“Are you serious?” she whispers, perplexed.
“As a slum fire,” he says. “Don’t worry too much about Luka. She truly cares about her people, but she’s a complete witch.”
“Yeah,” Nazirah mutters. “With a capital ‘B.’” Adamek snorts. “So,” she asks, “Aldrik is Lord of Shizar?”
“No,” Adamek replies. “Shizar is Luka’s birthplace, her childhood home. She returned there after she finally left him. Slome’s from SoZima.”
“Where?”
“Southern Zima,” Adamek says. “When they first got married, it was a huge deal. The fact that he was of a lower class was already an issue. But a NoZiman marrying a SoZiman is practically unheard of.”
Nazirah sighs. “There’s even racism between pure Zimans?” she asks. “Life for intermix in Zima must be unbearable.” Adamek doesn’t respond. “How do you know her?”
Luka and Aldrik enter the truck, preventing Adamek from answering. The engine roars to life and they begin traveling down the desolate road. “It’s been a long time, Luka,” Aldrik says, peering nostalgically out the window.
“Not long enough,” she snaps. “What happened to your hair?”
“Salty wench.”
Luka focuses on Adamek. “Don’t think your siding with this rebellion erases the past between us,” she hisses. “I am the laughingstock of Zima because of you! Shizar took you in when you were younger, not that we had much of a choice. Yet you repay our kindness by killing countless NoZimans, under the guise of maintaining the Median order? It is a pity you have amnesty; much of Shizar is eager to see you dead, myself included.”
“I know it,” Adamek says simply.
Nazirah observes their interaction closely. Solomon said that Adamek trained in Zima. Could it have been in Shizar? It would make sense why Luka hates him so much.
“Aldrik,” Luka says, “what updated news of the southie rebellion? I have heard of the turmoil in Eridies.”
Aldrik shakes his head. “You’ve heard of the slum fire, then? And the redistribution of food? Eridian intermix and refugees are migrating to headquarters by the thousands, essentially seceding from the nation. The Chancellor is in an absolute uproar. He’s dispersed troops throughout the southern half of Eridies, trying to quell the turbulence before the rest of Renatus realizes what’s happening.”
“What?” Nazirah cries, panicking. “Rafu is in anarchy?” Nazirah thinks of everyone she’s left behind, of Cander and Caria and the remaining Caals. She thinks of her small cottage, waiting in solitude on the beach. She thinks of home.
“It’s a very recent development,” Aldrik says. “A small battalion, spearheaded by Ivan Grigori, Lord Grigori’s bumbling oaf of a brother. They have started a slow march towards Krush, burning everything in their path from homes to infrastructure. It is a scare tactic, Nation, an attempt to intimidate us. The Commander did not want to burden you while still on campaign.”
“Screw my brother!” Nazirah shouts angrily. “We need to go back and help them! The rest of my family is there!”
“If you’re talking about the Caals,” Aldrik says, “they’ve already been relocated to the compound, yesterday afternoon.”
“But why are we continuing with this campaign?” she cries. “If the troops are marching to Krush, they are clearly preparing to attack headquarters! We should return to the compound and fight!”
Aldrik is abnormally patient. “Nation,” he says, “our role all along has been providing the catalyst for these outbreaks to occur, which we have accomplished in two territories. Osen is already on the path by itself, but we can forge valuable alliances in Zima. Everything we do on campaign will help the rebels much more than three extra soldiers in the field ever could.”
“I know, but –”
“The Commander has dispersed support forces and aid throughout lower Eridies, including many Deathlandic mercenaries. He’s recalled the recruits from assignment. The compound is well guarded … it can withstand much more than you probably think. We need to continue this campaign for a few more days. Giving up now will only help the Chancellor.”
Nazirah pinches her arm under the pelt, keeping the tears at bay. “I understand,” she says.
They ride in silence. The truck hums along, singing doldrums. Outside, the landscape erodes, turning glacial. Once they make headway into Zima, the light weakens. Even in midday, it slants and shatters, losing intensity. Deep fir trees shadow rolling hillsides, covering them like an emerald beard. The road elevates and the truck gains altitude. The hills become steeper, morphing into mountains … a range of dusty peaks.
A strange white cloud forms on the ground. At first, Nazirah assumes it is cotton, but quickly realizes it is snow. She yearns to jump out of the truck, to touch, play, roll around, and sink into that foreign powder. Sink so far into its soft embrace that no one can ever find her again.
The wind picks up, whistling around them. It shakes the vehicle as they continue scaling the mountainside. Nazirah peers out the window, staring into a chasm dropping hundreds of feet below.
Luka smirks. “It is a very deep ravine, southie,” she says.
“That’s not my name,” Nazirah snaps.
“I meant no offense,” Luka says. “We NoZimans consider everyone else a southerner. Especially someone from Rafu, the furthest south one can go.”
“How inclusive of you,” Nazirah says. Luka’s liquid eyes turn to steel.
Aldrik intervenes. “As Luka was saying, the Zimans must drill very deep into the mountainside. Their quarries plunge to incredible depths in order to excavate the minerals left behind so many centuries ago.”
“So our goal is winning over the mine owners?”
“Exactly,” Aldrik says, stroking his beard. “Zima is particularly rich in iron ore, which can be refined into steel. The whole of Renatus gets its steel from only a few Lordships throughout Zima. It will be a huge advantage to the rebels if we can convince them to send it to us instead of the Medis. Just think of how the territories could build the rebellion’s defense, weaponry, and infrastructure.”
“You always absurdly simplify things,” Luka scoffs. “The majority of mine owners yield to Ivan Grigori’s reign of terror. The Medis pay the Grigoris handsomely for their loyalty. The chances of them joining us are slim, regardless of the depth of Adamek’s pockets. They are inaccessible.”
“Then what chance does the campaign have here?” asks Nazirah.
“Unfortunately for Shizar, but fortunately for us,” Aldrik replies, “the Medis don’t seem to care very much about the welfare of NoZima. They have only taken pains to secure the loyalty of SoZimans closest to the Mediah border. We have a better chance of winning over the mine owners here. Morgen and I are meeting with some of them late tomorrow afternoon. If all goes well, we’ll be leaving the following morning. The faster we can escape this siren’s den, this viper’s nest, the better.”
Luka shoots Aldrik a harsh, sideways glance. “If I may interrupt your soliloquy,” she snips, “I would like to welcome the southie to Shizar.”
The truck plateaus onto a snowy road, passing through the gate of what appears to be a small city. Shizar is built into the mountainside, overlooking the ravine. It is fortified by walls of boulders, cannons, and towers. Rolling towards the city center, they pass thousands of scanty, stone houses. Men by the hundreds schlep home from their long workday in the quarry, light skin painted black with soot and grime. Burly women chop wood with sharp axes, preparing their homes for the frozen night ahead. Everywhere, Nazirah sees bright blue eyes, fair heads, flushed faces, and chapped fingers. She thinks nostalgically of alabaster cliffs, of sun dre
nched cottages, and of creaking swing sets on the beach. This campaign, now more than ever, has made Nazirah appreciate the place she calls home.
Assuming it still stands.
Nazirah sees a large stone manor looming in the distance, probably Luka’s home. “What should I be doing, then?” she asks, after a moment. Aldrik didn’t mention her attending the meeting with the miners.
“I am the steward, the protector, over all that you see,” Luka responds passionately, “as was my father before me. Conditions here are grim, to say the least. Life is hard. And since Ivan overthrew his brother … everything has deteriorated. This has been our most desperate winter yet.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” Nazirah says honestly, not entirely sure where Luka is going with this.
“You have come here in a hopeless time,” Luka continues, “a time of famine and violence. I am afraid for my people, who have nothing to eat and no prospects. I am afraid of the drastic measures they might take.”
“What are you getting at, Luka?” grumbles Aldrik.
“Aldrik, you are SoZiman and my husband,” Luka tells him. “Your presence here will go unquestioned, at least, concerning the insurgency. But there’s a huge bounty on your head, Adamek. Amnesty only protects you from those loyal to the rebels, and you have made many enemies in Shizar. And you, southie. I have no doubt Commander Nation has honorable intentions. But he was wrong to send you here. Everyone knows you. I’m not naïve enough to believe my people wouldn’t turn you both over to the Medis in a heartbeat, if it meant feeding their starving families. It has become a matter of life or death.”
“So Morgen and I are supposed to hide away until we leave?” Nazirah asks.
“No,” Luka responds, staring at Nazirah. “I’ll take my chances with Adamek. He can protect himself. But not you.”
“The girl stays,” Aldrik says tersely.
“Of course she stays!” Luka scoffs. “She’s here already! But she needs to be concealed, Aldrik! No one must recognize her.” The truck rolls to a stop and the engine shuts off. They are now in an underground garage, but no one moves to get out.