Beyond the Red (27 page)

The guy pulls out a knife. Its edge is sharp and uneven, like metal teeth. There’s a name for that kinduv edge and I know it, but I can’t think of it right now. I can’t think of anything right now.

I think I’m tired. I think if I had some sleep, I would remember more.

“You’re going to tell me where my sister fled, or I’m going to make this even more uncomfortable for you. Then these men will make sure you don’t bleed to death, and we will inject you with accelerated healing nanites and start over. And you will not sleep. And you will not eat. And I will keep you down here and cause you a great deal of pain until you tell me what I want to know. Do you understand?”

I blink. He expects an answer. I’m supposed to tell him yes or no or maybe something else, maybe something he wants to hear. That would be good, because he has a knife. But I’m not sure what he wants to hear. Maybe I would know what he wanted after some rest. Maybe if I just close my eyes….

“I need to sleep,” I breathe.

He smiles. Pats my cheek. “Tell me what I want, and you will sleep for a very long time. Forever, in fact. How does that sound?”

Amazing. That sounds fucken amazing. I think I say, “
Sha.
” Because he’s Sepharon and they don’t speak English. He smiles and says he knew I’d be cooperative, but he doesn’t put the knife away.

“Now tell me,” he says. “Where is my sister?”

I blink hard. Stare at the knife. It’s strange, because a mo ago there was just one knife, but now there are three. Or two. They fade in and out and merge into each other and split again.

The man takes my chin and lifts my head. Bores into me with his strangely colored eyes. “My sister, half-blood. Where is the traitorous
Avra
, hmm?”

Sister. He has a sister. I know his sister. At least, he seems to think I do, so I must, but my head is swimming and my body is numb and burning and painless and agony.

“Sister …” I say.

He scowls. Squeezes my chin. Maybe it should hurt, but it doesn’t, not really. That’s good, probably.
“Sha,
you brainless idiot. My sister. Kora. The former
Avra d’Elja
, remember?”

“It may be the sleep deprivation,” the familiar-looking white and red man says. “It’s been known to cause short-term memory loss.”

“I know that, Jarek,” the brother snaps. His breath smells like salt and some kinduv spiced meat. He slaps my cheek and brings the tip of the knife to my cheek. “Think. You remember Kora, don’t you? You were her personal servant until she attempted to kill
ken Sira-kaï
. You attacked my men. Do you remember this?”

Kora. Her name fills me with something hot that eats away at the numbness and I try to shove it back, but it opens like a flood within me. It breaks over my chest and seeps into my arms and legs and I’m shivering again and my teeth are clattering and there’s an ache inside me I can’t place. A pain I don’t recognize sits between my lungs and drips into my stomach.

Kora.

I’m drowning in images, memories I don’t want to see. Kora and Serek, twisted in each other’s arms in the crowd of dancers. Screaming and the prince convulsing on the floor and Kora crying. I think I pulled her away. I think I brought her to her room. I think I was holding her and we were so close and there were things I wanted to do. Things I couldn’t do.

Waiting. The guards. Running.

Here.

I take a shaky breath. “I remember …” I whisper, but my mouth is so dry all I can manage is a hoarse wheeze.

“Sha?”
Dima steps toward me, his nose just inches from mine. “Tell me. Where is she?”

I switch to English and whisper nonsense words, blending vowels together until he leans closer to try to pull out my words.

“
El Avra
—” Jarek begins, but Dima holds his hand up to silence him.

I switch back to Sephari. “Kora …” I say softly. “She …”

He tilts his head closer. Closer.

“
Ve
, I truly don’t—”

I chomp down on his ear. My teeth rip through skin and cartilage easier than I thought they would, and a horrible scream explodes from Dima’s lips. Blood and saliva floods my mouth and something breaks off in my teeth. I gag and spit the long chunk of pointed and notched flesh onto the floor. Dima is doubled over cradling his ear and purple blood coats his fingers and I’m going to vomit, but at least my mouth isn’t dry anymore. Jarek and the other guard raise their phasers to my skull, but Dima throws his free hand out and shouts, “Don’t kill him!” My lips and chin are warm and wet. I spit at Jarek and his friend flinches half a step back.

Dima slowly straightens, his body shaking as he presses his slick hand over what’s left of his ear. “Leave him,” he hisses, breathing hard through his nose. “We’ll see what a few more sets on the wall does to his resolve.”

Someone is poking my cheek.

“I think she’s dead,” a child’s voice says.

“You think? Someone should tell Gray.”

“Tell him what? There’s a dead alien lady lying here in a dress?”

“It’s a pretty dress,” a girl says quietly.

“Naï
it’s not—it’s all ripped and sandy.”

“Sha,
but it was pretty. You can tell because it’s sparkly, see?”

“Lucky she didn’t get eated.”

My eyes flutter open. There are three fuzzy figures standing over me, but they must not be looking at me because they haven’t noticed my eyes are half open. My lips feel like they’re glued together and my entire body aches down to my bones. I try to clear my throat, but all I manage is a slight hiss through my nose, followed by a gravelly groan.

The blobs jump back and I blink hard. They come into focus as the tallest of the three—a young boy with light brown skin and strange orangey hair standing straight up on his head—leans toward me. He has a long stick in his hand and he wears loose, layered clothing, like scraps of fabric sewn together like a quilt. Not unlike the little girl Eros and I saw in Vejla—Uljia.

Rebel children. Clothed like people from my own city. Speaking Sephari.

“She’s alive!” the smallest exclaims. His hair is pale, and he seems too small for his age, but then again, I haven’t seen many rebel children before. He jumps beside me and red sand flies into the air. I squeeze my eyes shut and cover my face with my arms—the quick movement sends hot pain across my shoulders and into my fingers.

“Aren!” the girl exclaims. “Stop it! You’re going to hurt her!”

“Naï,
look! She’s awake, see?”

“Sha
, I think we got that,” the oldest says. I open my eyes again and slowly sit up. Sand slips off my face; I’m coated in the stuff—dusted red from head to toe. The boy with the strange hair squints at me and points the stick at my chest. “Who are you?”

I open my mouth to answer and my lips crack. Pain and warmth blossoms over my lips and slides onto my tongue.

The girl wrinkles her nose. “Ew. I think she needs water, Mal.”

“We can’t just give a stranger—”

“Her lips are all bloody! She can’t talk like that, stupid!” The girl snatches a leather flask from the boy’s hip and offers it to me. I take it without hesitation, washing my lips off first, then drinking deeply. Warm water has never tasted so sweet, so perfectly wonderful. I drink until my pull comes empty and lick my lips when I’m done.

The children are staring at me with a sort of wide-eyed horror. I must seem like an animal to them, covered in sand, barely able to speak, and drinking their water like … well, like someone lost in the desert without water.

I sigh and offer the flask back. “Thank you.”

The red-headed boy frowns. “You’re not supposed to do that. Mamae says if we get really thirsty, we have to drink slowly or it’ll make us sick.” I glance at the flask. Back at them. I try to return it, but they step back and the tallest boy shakes his head. “Keep it. I don’t want it anymore.”

I stand, slowly, carefully. For a moment, I’m sure my legs won’t hold, but then the shaking in my knees subsides. These children are smaller than I anticipated. The tallest of them barely reaches my chest, but he doesn’t seem intimidated by my height. He holds the stick out like a sword, keeping his distance, his free hand held out in front of the younger children.

“Hi,” the smallest boy says. “What’s your name?”

“We’re not supposed to talk to strangers, Aren,” the girl says.

“You’re also not supposed to say each other’s names in front of strangers,” the tallest boy says, frowning at the girl.

“Oops.”

“Kora,” I say. “My name is Kora.”

The girl looks up at me. “I like your dress.”

I glance down at what’s left of my gown. It’s a miracle it covers me anymore, considering how tattered and torn it is. It’s ruined. “Thank you,” I say. “How do you speak Sephari?”

“Our Uncle Eros and Daddy taught us,” the girl says, standing up straight. “We were practicing, that way we can—”

The tallest boy covers her mouth and frowns at me. “What are you doing in the middle of the desert … in a dress?”

I hesitate. But I can’t think of a good reason not to be honest to them, so I open my mouth just as something warm and hard presses into the back of my head. The dull hum of a phaser buzzes in my ears. A woman speaks to the children, but I don’t understand what she’s saying. They do, however, and they nod and scamper off somewhere behind me.

I don’t move. Someone whispers behind me, then the pressure of the phaser disappears.

“Turn around,” a man says. “Slowly, with your hands where we can see them.”

I do as he says, and face three rebels—two women and a man, all dressed in similar layered, loose clothing. The women are armed with phasers and the man carries a knife as long as my forearm.

“Who are you?” the man says in fluent Sephari. Before Eros, I was under the impression that rebels didn’t speak our language, but that’s clearly not the case. How many of them speak Sephari so fluently? Furthermore, how did they learn our language to begin with? As we don’t speak their tongue, it would seem, as far as languages go, the rebels hold a distinct advantage.

The only advantage, as far as I know.

“I am Kora Mikale Nel d’Elja,” I say, holding my hands out. “
Avra d’Elja
. Or … I was.” The three narrow their eyes; maybe sharing that bit of information was not my most intelligent move, but it’s too late now. I clear my throat. “Do you have water? I don’t know how long I’ve been wandering, but I’m very thirsty.”

The man says something to one of the women, and she tosses me another flask. I drop the one the child gave me and just manage to close my fingers in time around the new flask. I empty that one as well.

“Eros sent me,” I add, and the man frowns.

“
Avra
.” His gaze runs from my eyes down to my toes. “As in, the ruler who ordered the slaughter of our people.”

My stomach twists. I can’t very well deny it, though—the truth is mirrored in the sharpness of his gaze and the tightness of his lips. “I was led to believe your people attacked me first. It would seem I was mistaken.” I’m not sure he’ll believe it, but it’s the best defense I have. I can only hope that if Eros was able to accept it, his people will, too.

“A convenient story,” he says. “But not a believable one. Our people have never entered the city, let alone started any violence.”

The scarred skin on my arm prickles like miniature pins pressing into me. I picture the pale man with his knife and wild beard, but it’s hard to reconcile the assassin next to these people. Eros was right—his people are deeply bronzed by the sun, and the man’s face is clean and his hair kept trim, not unlike our military.

But then where did the assassin come from?

I nod. “It would seem I was deceived, and for that I am truly sorry. If the decisions I made were based on false information—”

“If?” The man steps toward me and quirks an eyebrow. “If you thought for a second we’d waste precious lives trying to start a war that could only end in the destruction of my people, then I promise your information was off.”

Eros’s disapproving gaze echoes in this man’s eyes, and my heart sinks. I try not to think of Eros, who I left behind. Of the bloodstained sand and tears streaking paths down his ash-coated cheeks when I pulled him from Jarek’s grasp so many moons ago.

I was so wrong, but there’s nothing I can do to give back the innocent lives I’ve taken.

“I can’t make this right with words,” I say softly. My knees hit the sand and I pull my shoulders back and meet the man’s eyes. My voice shakes and my whole body trembles—I don’t want to do this, but I pray
Kala
will honor it nonetheless. “If taking my life will help to right my wrong, I will not fight.”

This is the right thing to do. This is what
Kala
would want; this is what honor demands. Blood for blood.

But none of that calms the panicked sea rising inside me.

He watches me for a long moment, his dark eyes searching mine. The redblood influence in Eros is more obvious than ever—in the wideness of his eyes, the single true color of his irises, the silent strength in his face and posture.