Crown: Chapter 3: III: Iridescia
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Chapter 3: Lora
Section III
Iridescia – The Desert: Indas
“It’s not fair.” It was a lot more than unfair. Iridescia stomped her foot for emphasis, wobbling her reed stool. The movement ruffled the side of Roewyn’s tent.
She glanced to where Oran stood watching her and blood rushed to her cheeks. With his eyes on her, the bunched-up, lumpy loincloth beneath her dress might as well have been a diaper. It made the fabric of her dress all wrinkly.
“No, it’s not fair.” There was a weary patience in Roewyn’s voice like the tone Iridescia had used to use on Tobi when he’d pestered her. Roewyn lowered her gaze back to the loincloth she was working on, tugging a thread through a particularly thick patch of fabric. “But you wanted to be a woman, didn’t you?”
Iridescia screwed up her face, at first in protest, but then because of a wave of pain from what must be her womb doing somersaults. She cupped her belly and bent over, trying to squeeze the pain quiet.
“There.” Roewyn cut the loose end of the string and held the ugly white loincloth up to the light. “It should fit better now.”
Iridescia would have signed thank you, but she was too busy gripping her waist. Instead, she let out a whine.
“That can’t be comfortable,” said Oran.
Roewyn glared. “The tighter they are, the better.”
“The tightness wasn’t what I was referring to, Sese.”
Roewyn huffed. “I can’t wait to hear yoursuggestion.”
There was a pause. “Papyrus. In Eq-Anout, most people use papyrus or soft grass rolled and then—”
Roewyn cut him off with tch. “The last place I want a paper cut is—” She stopped herself short of finishing.
At the pat of Roewyn’s footsteps, Iridescia looked up.
Roewyn stood in front of her, holding out the menstrual loincloth.
Iridescia pinched it between thumb and forefinger.
“It’s not a snake. It won’t bite you.” Roewyn reached out and smoothed out the wrinkles in Iridescia’s skirt, her tone softening. “You can learn to wear it well, so it exsentuates your hips.”
“Exs—”
“A-c-c-e-n-t-u-a-t-e-s.” Roewyn shaped each letter with her fingers. “It means it emphasizes. It makes them look bigger.”
Iridescia’s frown deepened.
“You’re pouting,” Roewyn accused with a smile. “I thought you wanted hips, the way you stare at mine.”
Iridescia squeezed the loincloth so tight she thought her knuckles might pop.
She had wanted hips though; Roewyn wasn’t wrong. She’d wanted to be all grown up. Why growing up meant being in pain all the time though wasn’t clear. Maybe before the word of Adonen had come, there’d been a story to explain it. Usually when bad things happened to girls it was because some goddess in the distant past had burned someone’s dinner or opened a cupboard too fast. It must be hard being a goddess; everyone seemed to know when you so much as put on a mismatched pair of socks.
Iridescia was always opening things she wasn’t supposed to and when she bothered with socks at all they were unmatched. Maybe this was her comeuppance.
Roewyn knelt down, meeting Iridescia’s gaze. “Iridescia?” She cocked her head at Oran. “Have Sidi brew a tea and bring it to me. She’ll know the one. With mint. And fennel.”
The tent flap swished as Oran left in search of the tea.
“Iridescia—” Roewyn’s voice was a sigh.
Iridescia bit her lip. She set the loincloth on her lap.
Whatever the reason for the pain, it wasn’t Roewyn’s fault.
“Thank you,” Iridescia managed.
Roewyn leaned forward and kissed Iridescia’s temple, then pulled back so both their foreheads touched. “Just breathe.” She sat still and quiet, and Iridescia’s pain seemed to flow out of her through Roewyn’s skin. Outside, the wind rumbled the sides of the tents—a thick but gentle sound like the sails of river barges billowing as the boats drifted downstream. Children twittered like sparrows and laughter filled the air.
If she closed her eyes, it was almost like . . . almost like . . . .
Her head tilted to the side, heavy, and she shook herself back awake.
It had almost been like Ipsis. Home.
And the pain was waning.
Life went on. Life was peaceful, even in the camp.
Roewyn squeezed Iridescia’s hand, then pulled back. When Iridescia opened her eyes, Roewyn’s cheeks were damp.
“Did you feel it too?” Iridescia asked.
Roewyn’s cheeks were puffy, but maybe that was good. Puffiness meant they were full and flush. And her black hair had grown long enough to reach just past her chin now. She looked nearly herself, like the herbefore Star had thrown her in the dungeon.
“For a moment, it was like we were home in Ipsis.” Roewyn paused. “The march was just a dream.”
“No Hadrianus and Star though.” Iridescia couldn’t help but smile back, but with the smile came tears of her own. “A good Ipsis, with people in it. Miqipsi and Leri and Thia and Djori and Tobi’s parents and the Onion Lady and—” A sob broke from her, like a stone had rolled all the way up her throat and tumbled out.
Roewyn wiped her own cheeks clean. She chuckled, one thick black eyebrow raised. “The Bulbous Lady?”
“Onion.” Iridescia started to laugh, but she was still half-crying and it came out as a snort. “You’re worse than Liberio. You need to pay attention.”
Roewyn poked her in the stomach and it turned into a tickle. “You need to shape your words more carefully.”
Iridescia folded in on herself, trying to stop Roewyn from getting her, but when that failed, she pinched Roewyn’s sides and tickled her right back.
Roewyn squealed and leaped to her feet. “All right. That’s enough. I need to work.”
Iridescia frowned. “What work?” She shrugged, arms wide to indicate the tent, the camp—everything!
“There’s still sewing. More sewing, actually.” Roewyn walked back to her stool. “Maybe that village we’re nearing will have seamstresses. Most of the soldiers have basic skills, and a few of the children, but even so.”
Iridescia stared down at the loincloth. “Do you need to make a new one for you?” Iridescia had taken it from Roewyn and all she’d thought about was herself. Now that Roewyn had altered it, it wouldn’t fit her anymore.
“No, Iridescia.” Roewyn looked away. “Not for some time at least.” She looked up again and smiled, close-lipped like when she wanted to cheer Iridescia up, even though Iridescia was already cheered up.
Maybe it was for herself.
The tent flap folded open and Oran stepped inside. He was holding a pouch.
Roewyn hurried to her feet. “I asked for tea.”
“No water.” He held out the pouch. “Sidi said she could chew this. It should have the same effect.”
Roewyn snatched the pouch. She loosened the knot holding it closed and tilted it so she could see inside, then sniffed. Her grimace didn’t fill Iridescia with hope. “Hmm. Yes. This is fine.”
Iridescia hopped off her stool, setting the loincloth aside. “Why isn’t there water?”
Oran sighed. “Your brother, in his great wisdom, ordered his men to empty everything we found at that nawet onto the sand.”
Roewyn glared. Without turning to face Iridescia, she held the pouch out in Iridescia’s direction. “My husband, in his wisdom, saw that the water was poisoned and is sparing the men a terrible a sickness.”
“Water is more precious than blood on the sands,” Oran pressed, a seriousness in his voice.
Roewyn turned on him. “And we’ll have it once we reach that town. There’ll be wells along the road now. Just because you didn’t get sick, doesn’t mean others wouldn’t.”
Oran scoffed. “What evidence do we have that others would? Liberio’s shit turns to soup and he blames it on the one thing keeping the men happy. If there’s a riot, he’ll have a lot more on his hands than an upset tummy. Sese.”
“Stop fighting!” Iridescia hopped off the stool.
But Roewyn wasn’t looking at Iridescia. “We’d be better off if you’d never come to Ipsis.” A choked sound—almost a sob—followed.
“If I’d never come to Ipsis,” said Oran. “You’d be dead. You’d probably all be dead.”
Iridescia shivered, feeling the winds of the Haven prickle her skin like they had the night she’d summoned the shadows.
“You can leave now,” said Roewyn. “We don’t need you.”
“Then I’ll find someone else in need of a servant to order about after tea.” Oran left without looking Iridescia’s way at all, so swift it was clear he wanted to be away from Roewyn.
A chill swept past the tent flaps and Roewyn marched to the opening and tugged it closed, drawing the ties that belted it shut as tight as it looked like they could be drawn.
Finally, she turned around and faced Iridescia. “I miss my work,” Roewyn admitted, almost timid. “I hate this place. I hate moving constantly. I hate being confined, being guarded by that . . . .” she searched for the word before smiling conspiratorially at Iridescia, “shit.”
Liberio was at least as much of a shit these days as Oran, but Roewyn was acting more like her old self than she had in months, and that was worth celebrating.
“He’s not all bad,” Iridescia signed. “He smiles at me. He let me brush his horse yesterday.”
Roewyn pulled the red shawl that warmed her shoulders closer. “Be careful. We don’t know anything about him, except that he’s a hired killer. What kind of man chooses a life like that?”
“Maybe he didn’t choose.”
From Roewyn’s frown, it was obvious she’d already made her mind up about Oran. She didn’t understand him, even though she was just like him. Roewyn hadn’t had a choice either.
A wave of pain, like someone had taken a rolling pin to Iridescia’s stomach, forced her hands silent as she hugged herself.
Roewyn stalked over to one of the ornate cedar chests in which she kept her fabrics. She hadn’t been able to bring most of her tools with her.
“Liberio’s doing his best.” Roewyn opened the chest and began rifling through it. The messiness of her movements made it seem like she didn’t even know what she was looking for. She was just doing it for something to do. But then she unwrapped an earthenware pestle. “And I don’t care what that thug says—no water at all is better than a sea of poison. When I lived in the south, I saw a whole caravan fall within a fortnight of drinking from a soured spring.”
Maybe this was her chance to change the subject and learn something. If Roewyn had been to the south, she might know about Tintellan, where Omid the necromancer was from. Close to where Buqqus had seen the shadows for the first time.
“Have you ever been to Tintellan?” Iridescia wanted Roewyn not to look so sad anymore.
Roewyn retrieved her mortar from the chest. She carried everything to a small table. “Once. A long, long time ago―long before you were born.”
“It can’t have been all that long ago. I’m almost your age!”
Roewyn smiled, making sure to look up from her work every so often. “Okay then, but a long time ago. I must have been about five, maybe younger.” The pestle ground and thunked against the mortar and the rancid smell of Sidi’s herbs filled the tent. “It was just after the Lora took me. We’d landed in Ipsis, but the slaver brought us South. At the time, I didn’t know why, but I think he assumed we’d fetch a better price in Tintellan, where the Feislanda weren’t so common. In the end he sold me to a caravanner heading back north anyway. I wasn’t in the city long. The slaver―I think his name was Metas―knew he’d sell me quickly. I spoke some of the language, and he said I was young and pretty.”
Iridescia smiled. “You are pretty!”
Little dimples appeared in Roewyn’s cheeks as she laughed, and Iridescia was taken back to Ipsis, to Roewyn’s shop, to wading at the river’s edge, and climbing to the rooftops to slip amongst the dyeing vats. Miqipsi had used to scold her so, when she returned with dye-stained hands. If she kept it up, he’d say, they’d mistake her for a tanner’s girl, for the dye would never wash out.
A knot tightened in Iridescia’s breast as she watched Roewyn’s pale fingers, the faded blues, and greens, and oranges soaked into her skin like water into earth. Her dyeing vats must now sit still and unused atop the roofs of Ipsis. Maybe they’d even dried up in the sun.
Iridescia swallowed down the thickness in her throat. “Tell me about Tintellan. About The Arghad,” The Arghad—the spear—was famous—a great tower so tall it was rumoured to pierce the clouds.
“Very well,” Roewyn teased, “but I never saw the inside, you know. They don’t let wild little Feislanda slaves inside palaces.”
“You were wild?” It was impossible to picture Roewyn as a savage.
“Well, no, not really. I was mostly scared. I missed my family―my mother and father, and my older sister.” Roewyn hesitated, her lower lip betraying her with a tremble. “They died. My parents did. I suppose Vivaen did too. I didn’t feel lucky back then, but I was.” The pestle stilled in Roewyn’s hand.
Iridescia worried at her lip, pressing her skin inside the gap in her front teeth. She tasted the unmistakable tang of iron as the skin broke. She stopped. “What if she’s not dead? Maybe she’s in Lorar, or the Feislands. We could try and find her.”
“And leave Liberio?” The chilliness returned to Roewyn, words cold as her mood.
“I didn’t say that.” She hadn’t meant it that way. She thought. Liberio could come with them. Probably.
“I thought you wanted to run away to Tintellan.” Roewyn made it a statement, not a question. She continued as though the subject of her family had never come up. “The Arghad rose up like a great tree from the centre of the city. I’ve never seen a building so tall―Metas claimed it had seven storeys, but I think there were even more than that. It made the rest of the city look flat, and small, even the huge eghri, and the river, and the caravans outside the city walls. People from all over southern Indas came there to trade―people whose language was so different from the Inda of the North that Metas had to pay an interpreter. They worshiped all kinds of gods, too. Strange, desert gods. There was even a caravanner who said he’d come all the way across the Sajit, from a land beyond the Western Desert.”
Iridescia licked her lips, leaning forward. “There’s nothing beyond the Western Desert,” Iridescia asserted, but she couldn’t hide the awe in her eyes. “Was he a cannibal?”
Roewyn shrugged. “He ate goat, and beer, and onions when he supped with Metas. He had gold wares with him, and strange yellow fruits that were soft inside when you peeled them.”
A land of gold, beyond the Western Desert. Beyond Wewandjis. “What about where Star came from? Was there anyone from there? Did they say what it was like?”
Roewyn smiled a kind but disappointing smile. “I didn’t speak Inda well. And Metas kept me close. The eghri where I was sold was crowded with tribesmen though. Some of them must have known Wewandjis.” She smiled distantly, as though remembering something. “There was a statue of Buqqus and his Qarnaaman—”
“Hiempsal,” Iridescia signed. “Hiempsal eq-Afqad.” Her chest burned with a fire like how she’d used to feel when Miqipsi promised to take her down to the river to play.
“If you say so,” said Roewyn. She set the pestle aside with a clunk, then picked up the mortar and approached Iridescia.
Whatever was inside Sidi’s concoction stank, making Iridescia’s nose feel all clogged up. When Roewyn held out the mortar though, Iridescia took it. The tarry black gunk at the bottom was stuck through with long seeds.
“I promise it’ll help.”
Iridescia slumped her shoulders dramatically, which at least made Roewyn laugh. She swabbed the tar with her finger and plunged it into her mouth before she could convince herself not too.
Ich!
It tasted like anise and stink.
“Chew, Iridescia. Don’t swallow.”
Iridescia wished her hands were free so she could ask whether she’d die if she did swallow. Some of the tar had definitely gone down her throat.
But instead, she chewed.
Roewyn smiled. She took the mortar from Iridescia. “There.”
Iridescia stuck out her tongue, but Roewyn already had her back to her. As Roewyn set her mortar on the table, Iridescia eyed the chest. She still had to figure out how to open Star’s chest—the one with Omid’s name carved into it. There’d been no time though. Mostly they were marching and everything was packed up.
“How long do I have to chew?” Iridescia asked, once Roewyn was looking at her again.
“Chew till the pain goes away,” said Roewyn. “Then chew some more.”
Iridescia crinkled her forehead. “You sound like Miqipsi.” Probably the nasty herbs didn’t even work and it was a just a distraction.
But she had been distracted from the pain for a little while. She stared down at her bunchy dress, unable to see anything but the loincloth beneath, which made her skin feel thick and lumpy too. And on top of everything else, she felt wet. She lifted her leg slightly, checking to make sure the blood hadn’t soaked through.
It hadn’t.
Iridescia frowned, filled with purpose. “Could you make me a dress?” she asked.
“You have lots of dresses, Iridescia.”
“No, I know. But I want a dress like yours.”
Roewyn sat down. She looked so tired. “How would I make a dress in the desert without my things?”
Why was Roewyn being so stubborn? “A linen dress is simple. You have fabric, and thread. A plain linen dress―no dye, no embroidery.” Liberio had given Iridescia a nice, grown-up dress back in Ipsis, but it’d still been dyed, so not as grown-up as the pale linen Roewyn wore.
Roewyn hugged her belly. “Why?” she asked pointedly.
Iridescia puffed her cheeks out. “Why not?” She laid her tea down beside her.
“Women don’t make faces like that,” Roewyn countered.
Women didn’t have squashed little bodies or goofy smiles with gaps between their teeth. Women could speak, and laugh, and sing.
“If you’re doing this because of the Qarnaaman—” That hard, cold note had returned to Roewyn’s voice. “I won’t do it. Not so you can get yourself in trouble. He’s mad, Iridescia. The Qarnaama are a tribe of madmen.”
What could Iridescia say? “That’s not why I want the dress.”
“Fine. Why do you want it then?”
Why did she want it? Why couldn’t she have it? Why was it wrong? Girls Iridescia’s age often wore linen dresses in Ipsis; the translucent fabric a sign of wealth and status. It wasn’t status Iridescia wanted though; she had that, if nothing else, in Liberio’s camp.
The knot had returned, tight and gnawing beneath her ribs. The heart was where thought lived. Thought, love, and desire. Iridescia’s heart slithered like a ball of coiling serpents trapped inside her, as Roewyn stared at her, waiting for an answer Iridescia couldn’t give.
Iridescia bolted up so fast she jostled the stool. Tears pooled in the corners of her eyes.
“Oh, Iridescia.” Roewyn stood up as though to embrace her, but Iridescia fled, tugging free the tight knots Roewyn had made to hold the tent flaps closed.
She darted fast as she could away from the source of her wounded pride, feet beating the rough, hard earth Liberio had led them onto. The sand and the air and the sky were all hot on her skin. Tents, and soldiers, and children blurred past her, but she couldn’t stop, not even to spit out the tarry herbs.
No one she knew was going to see her being a child. Why couldn’t she control her emotions? Why was she even upset? Nothing Roewyn had said had even been that bad.
It just made it worse, worse, worse.
Iridescia.
The voice from the Haven gripped her with the strength of a hand reaching out and pulling her back by the elbow.
She jerked to a stop.
The tents around her were a maze of tan hide—full of bellowing Lora voices laughing and barking. From inside one of the tents, a young woman’s coy voice cooed unintelligible words. Coins rattled along wood. Ahead of her, past the rim of the camp, soldiers rolled barrels—empty barrels like the ones they’d filled at the nawet—back toward the camp.
Big, sweaty soldiers ambled past her like she wasn’t even there, knocking her shoulders, nearly stepping on her feet. She glared after them, but they didn’t notice at all. She’d wanted to run somewhere where no one knew her.
Well, now she was lost.
Her womb gave a turn and Iridescia clutched her waist. The laughter of the woman—no, women—in the tent with the soldiers was like metal scraping metal. She squeezed her eyes shut.
And like a wave, the pain in her abdomen ebbed away.
Iridescia opened her eyes. She was a grown up now. A woman—hadn’t Roewyn said so? She’d wanted to be here and now she was. She just needed to orient herself and then she wouldn’t be so scared.
Turning round and round, Iridescia scanned the camp. Liberio’s war tent was by far the biggest landmark. If she found that—There!
Her heart gave a leap, warmth spreading through her.
Liberio’s tent billowed in the wind like some strange, flat cloud. If she kept it in her sights, she’d have no trouble finding her way back. She could explore all she liked.
But Roewyn would be worried; she’d say this was no place for a girl.
Damn Roewyn.
Iridescia rubbed her tears away with her fist. She wasn’t going to cry anymore.
Maybe the camp was dangerous, but no more so than Liberio was dangerous, and certainly no more than the Haven or the hills surrounding it.
All she had to do was pick a direction.
East—she’d head east.
As Iridescia walked, the wind tickled her neck, tossing her braids lightly in the air as though some spirit had delighted in her beads and was playing.
She could go anywhere. She was free. No one would ever tell her what to do again. She’d never marry if she didn’t want—she could even pay one of the Lora soldiers to continue her studies.
And it was like she’d said to Roewyn: she could leave the camp at any time and go anywhere in the world. Maybe she’d find Oran and ask him to take her to Tintellan, and they’d find that Southern merchant Roewyn had mentioned, and journey beyond the Sajit to whatever marvels lay undiscovered on the other side. Men with three eyes, giants, dragons, monsters, and beautiful queens on thrones made of crystal and gold.
Oran must know the way―he came from somewhere out in the desert after all. Everyone knew the Qarnaama lived in a hidden palace beneath the sand, where they were beholden to no king or queen, neither to Indas, nor Lorar, nor anyone else.
Grains and small rocks bumped along the base of her foot, wedged in her sandals. She stopped and hopped onto one foot, balancing like a heron. She pulled off her sandal and shook a cascade of stones and grit onto the ground.
Iridescia would ask Oran about Tintellan when she saw him. And she’d apologize for Roewyn. Roewyn didn’t really hate him—she couldn’t hate him. She was just jealous because he wasn’t afraid to say what he thought about Liberio, and she couldn’t because she was all in love with him and—
“What are you doing wandering so far from your king, little princess?”
Iridescia stumbled, dropping her sandal. She turned toward the familiar voice.
Aeornus Sardo stood far too close.
The Butcher’s fingers were hooked in the belt that split his tunic at his waist, his Lora sword hanging threateningly at his side. He wasn’t wearing his armour though, and at least he was alone.
If only that didn’t also mean Iridescia was alone with him.
“I was exploring,” Iridescia explained.
Sardo parted his lips enough to let his breath whistle past them in a sound that was half-laugh, half-hiss. “Can’t believe Hadrianus didn’t have better luck marrying you off. A silent wife is hard to come by.” Sardo took a step toward her.
Iridescia took a step back.
As she retreated, one of the stones she’d emptied out of her sandal jabbed her foot. She stumbled, wincing.
Sardo bent down and retrieved her discarded sandal. He turned it over in his hand.
Iridescia wanted to check that her foot wasn’t bleeding, but she didn’t dare take her eyes off Sardo.
“So small,” Sardo mused, palm stroking the base of the sandal. “I’ve skewered girls bigger than you on my gladius.”
Iridescia clenched her fists, frozen in place but ready to run. There would be no help from the surrounding tents if Sardo decided to do something; they were filled with Sardo’s men.
Sardo grinned. He was enjoying her fear, that was obvious. If only she could hide it better. “You’ve heard about me, haven’t you? I’m sure your father told you all about the Butcher of Lera.”
Hadrianus hadn’t told Iridescia anything at all. If he’d known Iridescia was his, he hadn’t cared enough to tell her, let alone sit her on his knee and regale her with stories. Liberio was proof she was better off for it.
“You’re shaking.”
Iridescia spared a glance at her right hand. It was shaking.
Stop it, stop it, stop it.
“Are you afraid of me?” Sardo continued. “No need. You’re not from Lera.” He bent toward her. “Once we get there, you’ll see just how lucky you are.”
Iridescia shook her head. She took another step back, her foot stinging as dirt scraped along her cut. She fell back, just catching herself with her palms.
Sardo laughed. “No need to jump.” He beckoned Iridescia to stand. When she didn’t, he reached for her arm. “I’ll take you back to your brother.”
Iridescia scrambled back, tangled in her skirts and the bunchy loincloth. “I’ll find my own way back.”
Sardo glared. He wriggled his fingers. “Come here. Now. I’m not a patient man.”
The clop of hooves from somewhere behind them.
Iridescia craned her neck up.
Oran was on horseback, several cubits away. He dismounted with a flourish. “She says she doesn’t want to go with you, Loran.” He approached with his usual, lazy swagger.
Iridescia would have liked to say she didn’t want to go with either of them, but it would have been a lie. She hurried to her feet, reluctantly turning her back on the Butcher.
Sand scoured her foot and her walk turned to a limp. She bit her lip.
“What happened to your shoe?” asked Oran.
“It fell off,” Iridescia signed. “He took it.”
Oran pushed past her. Without a word, he snatched it from Sardo’s hand.
Iridescia smiled. That’d show the Butcher.
Oran returned the shoe to her and she lifted her leg to slide it back on. As she did, Oran laid a hand on her arm, stopping her. “You’re bleeding.” He looked her straight in the eyes. His own were so odd―red, desert eyes. Rough fingers smoothed the underside of her foot, dislodging dirt and grit.
Iridescia broke their shared glance with a shiver.
She was bleeding, Oran was right. The dirt that tumbled from the cut was damp and red.
“Sit down,” said Oran.
Iridescia swallowed, then sat without even thinking about it. She stretched out her leg and Oran knelt to examine it. All the while, Sardo watched her with a funny expression she couldn’t read—half-grin, but different. She resisted sticking out her tongue, in case Oran saw her and thought it was silly.
“An arrowhead,” Oran said with a smile.
Pain rippled across the base of her foot and there was a sudden pressure, followed by a pop. Iridescia sucked back tears.
“A wonder it didn’t hurt more―but then, I suppose you can’t scream, can you?” Oran smiled.
Normally, Iridescia didn’t like being teased about her voice, but when Oran did it his words sounded different somehow―not cruel but like from one friend to another.
“You can go now,” Iridescia signed at Sardo, trying hard not to smirk too much at him. She wasn’t stupid―if Sardo wanted to hurt her, Iridescia was sure he’d have plenty of opportunity. Oran couldn’t be there all the time.
“I can’t understand you, you dumb bitch.”
Oran reached for a waterskin at his belt. He pulled the stopper, then drew it toward Iridescia’s foot. “Vinegar,” he said, and then he poured.
The vinegar stung almost as bad as the arrowhead, the burning sensation seeping into her flesh, pulsing.
Iridescia screwed her eyes up, hung her head back, and kicked her legs as the vinegar soaked into the wound. Once the pain had dulled she gave Oran a thump on the shoulder. “Can you tell him to leave?”
“I can tell him to leave.” Oran retrieved a bandage from a pouch at his belt. He seemed to have a lot of odd things on his person―physicians’ things. Did all the Qarnaama keep such remedies handy? Maybe it was an Anata custom.
“Will you?” Iridescia cocked her head to the side.
Oran barely seemed to look up, yet he read her hand gestures well enough. “The princess wants you to leave, Loran.”
Sardo spit to his left. “Does she? Witch. A witch and her desert rat―perfect company for each other.”
Despite his bluster, even the Butcher of Lera seemed loath to risk a fight with one of the Qarnaama. He turned on his heel and stormed off toward where the men had been emptying the barrels.
Iridescia smiled as Oran tightened the bandage and slipped her sandal back on for her.
“You have to be careful of infection,” he said, “for my sake if not yours. What do you think Liberio would do to me if you caught sick and died?”
Oran pulled away from her as though to stand, but Iridescia didn’t want him to.
“No,” she signed, and laid her hand on his shoulder. Then, before she could think herself out of it, she sat up and kissed him on his lips. As she pulled back, blood rushed to her cheeks. Her heart hammered like thunder.
Oran wasn’t smiling―he looked suddenly cold, where his eyes had previously danced with good humour.
Had she done something wrong?
Oran stood silently. He held out his hand to her.
Iridescia wasn’t sure she even wanted to take it now, but if she didn’t she might fall over again. She grit her teeth and slid her fingers between his, letting her uninjured foot take her weight as together they hauled her up.
“I’ll ride with you back to your Feislandat.” Oran tugged her arm as though to lead her to his horse.
Iridescia didn’t budge. She shook her head.
“It’s the safest place for you,” Oran said, irritation creeping into his voice. Why did he sound so stern?
Iridescia tore her hand away with great effort, rubbing her wrist and glaring at him.
“You’re mean,” she signed. “I thought you were nice, but you’re mean.”
Oran laughed. “Of course I’m mean. Now though? Taking you back is the kindest thing I could do.” Oran’s tone softened. “Don’t give men like me your kisses; it’s unwise.”
Iridescia crossed her arms in front of her chest, unmoved. “Why?”
“We don’t deserve them, and you are too young and pretty to waste such things on undeserving men.”
“You think I’m pretty?”
Oran’s smile touched his eyes, and he took her hand again. This time Iridescia let him lead her to the horse. When he put his hands about her waist to lift her onto its back she tensed, and when he mounted in front of her, she laid her palm against his back, her skin prickling all over.
“Back to your Feislandat,” Oran repeated, and this time Iridescia didn’t argue.