C6 Chapter 6

She turned a corner down a side road that would take her to one of the smaller gates in the inner wall, then ran straight into a man. She yelped and jumped back.

”Excuse me, sister,” said the man. ”I didn't—”

Pari prepared to plead for her life when she looked up at the man, and all her anxiety drained away. ”Iqbal! Brother, thank God!” She threw her arms around her older brother and felt her heart flutter like butterfly wings down to a calmer pace. Behind her, the footsteps stopped.

”Parwana?” Iqbal said. He pushed her away from his barrel chest. ”What are you doing out here so late—alone?” He looked behind her, and she dared a peek as well.

Three young men had followed her from the crowded refugee street but stopped at the sight of her brother. Iqbal was a large man with a frightening light in his eyes and an unfortunate jaw shape that made his face appear to be in a perpetual scowl behind his curly black beard.

”Well?” he called to the young men. ”Did you want something?”

They said nothing and ran back to their tents.

”Thank you,” Pari sighed.

”You didn't answer me.”

”I was waiting for Sallah to come home, but he didn't return with the others.”

”He's fine, Parwana. You should have just waited for him at home.” Iqbal spoke without any hint of recognition of the worry and fear in Pari's voice. ”I just finished walking him to your apartment. We saw that you weren't there, and I was about to start looking for you.”

Pari's eyes grew wide, and she let out a squeak of joy. ”He's there now?”

Iqbal nodded and took Pari by the arm. ”Let me walk you home, little sister. The city is dangerous of late.”

Together they made their way through a small gate into the midlevel of Kammun, continuing to the third level beside the temple. Beside the temple was a row of apartments where those who had the prophet's trust could quickly call on them if he required their service. Sallah and Iqbal were two of these men.

They stopped outside Pari's apartment door, one of a dozen identical ones in this building. Iqbal squeezed Pari's arm.

”Be safe, little sister. You were lucky tonight.”

”I was. Thank you for walking me home.” Her body quivered with nerves. She wanted nothing more than to see that her husband was safe and in one piece.

Iqbal stood there, illuminated by the almost-full moon above, staring at her.

”What is it?” Pari asked.

”How is the baby?”

”Healthy, I assume. No problems.”

”God is good.”

”He is,” she said.

Iqbal nodded. ”Goodnight, Parwana.” He turned on his heel and walked to the end of the building where his apartment was.

Pari took a small brass key from her skirt pocket and unlocked the apartment door. It opened silently on its well-oiled hinges, flooding the inside with moonlight before she shut it behind her. It was black inside but for a small glowing oil lamp on a small table beside the sofa. Sallah lay there, fully clothed and dirty, spread out on the cushions with his eyes shut, snoring deeply.

Pari gasped and put her hands to her chest as her knees turned to liquid. She stumbled to him, yanking off her hijab and letting it fall to the floor. She sank onto the sofa and lay her top half over him. The couch creaked, and Sallah opened his eyes with a breathy shout.

”You're alive!” Pari cried, throwing herself around him. Her eyes stung with tears, but she ignored them and let them fall.

Sallah put his arms around her and said, ”My dove, you're crushing me.”

Pari rolled off of him, and he sucked in a breath of air. He laughed, propped his head up under his hand, and smiled. ”I missed you, too.”

Pari's head fell onto his chest, and she nuzzled up next to him. He ran a dirty hand through her curly brown hair.

”Why are you so late?” she asked, trying not to let her voice break.

”I'm so sorry, Pari. We were discussing the battle.”

She looked up at him, studying his tired face. His dark eyes were paler than usual with heavy bags beneath them, and his cheeks sagged with deep lines that dragged the corners of his happy mouth into a frown. His clothes stank of sweat, dirt, and blood, and almost every inch of his skin was caked in sandy mud.

”You haven't cleaned yourself up,” Pari said. ”Get in there right now.” She pointed to the washroom.

Sallah groaned and lay on his back. He put his hands over his face and sighed. ”I just got back. I'm so tired, I think I might fall through the floor. Do I have to?”

”At least change your clothes and run a wet towel over yourself.” Pari stood from the sofa, grabbed Sallah's hand, and pulled. ”Up!”

He grimaced and let out a yelp.

”What's wrong?”

Sallah pulled back his hand and rubbed his upper arm. ”It's nothing.”

Pari lifted his short sleeve with two fingers to reveal the bruise spreading from his shoulder to his elbow. ”What did you do? What happened?”

”It's nothing, Pari. Others got far worse than I did.” He stood with a groan, then made his way down the short hallway to the washroom.

Pari followed him with the small oil lamp. The room became bright, and she saw that Sallah also had a bandage on his head, hidden by his wild hair.

”And what about that?”

”Please don't worry about it. Help me.”

She helped him out of his dirty clothes. He was stiff and sore, covered in bruises and small cuts. His shirt was crusted with dried blood.

”Most of it isn't mine,” he said.

She didn't ask him about the Northerlings whose blood it must have been. There was no desire to hear about the men her husband had killed.

Pari filled the carved stone basin with water and soaked a towel, then gently ran it over his skin, scrubbing where necessary, but always being gentle with his injuries. She combed his hair, being careful of his bandage as he sat on the edge of the bathtub with his eyes closed, nodding off as she cleaned.

When she was done, she asked, ”Are you hungry?”

He opened his eyes and smiled just enough to move his ears. ”Yes. But too tired to wait for it.”

”I'll get you some bread, at least.” She took his hand and led him into the bedroom, sat him on the bed, and left him for a moment to fetch a small loaf of naan and a jar of berry jam.

When she returned to the bed, Sallah was propped against the headboard with his fingers laced together over his chest. His eyes were closed, so she set the naan and jam on the nightstand and crawled onto the bed beside him. She wrapped her arms around him and put her head on his undamaged shoulder.

”Today was difficult.” Sallah spoke so softly that Pari almost didn't hear him, though her head was close to his.

”What happened?” she whispered.

”I thought you'd have been on the wall with the others.”

”I can't bring myself to do that.” Pari never had the desire to climb the wall where the vantage point allowed you to see for miles in every direction, including any battle that was ongoing between the north and south mountains. ”I brought you bread and jam.”

Sallah lolled his head over at the food on the nightstand. He grabbed the naan and took a bite plain. He chewed slowly, swallowed, and set the rest aside.

”I don't know how much longer I can stand it,” Pari said, her ear against his chest, listening to his slow heart.

”None of us will be able to much longer. Kammun is running out of food, and we're all exhausted. The soldiers want to return to their farms and families.”

”Is there anything you can do to end it sooner?”

Sallah stared up at the ceiling. ”I thought I recognized someone today in the middle of everything. One of the Northerlings.”

Pari raised her head to look him in the eyes. ”How do you know any Northerlings?”

”It's a long story. But I think it was him. It's not impossible, you know.” He opened his mouth for a long, deep yawn. ”I wonder if he'd remember me.”

He turned back to the nightstand and reached for it. Instead of grabbing the bread or jam, he pulled open a small drawer and removed a small wooden box. It was simple, with a small metal latch and a light carving of a sprawling tree on the lid. He admired it for a few seconds, then flipped the lock and lifted the lid.

Inside was a necklace with a pendant made from the tooth of a cow. It was four thousand years old and had not been touched since ancient times until Sallah had found it in the desert last year. It hummed in the box.

Pari stared at it and whispered, ”Are you thinking of using it?”

Sallah took a deep breath and let it out slowly through his mouth. ”As a last resort?” He shrugged with his good shoulder beneath Pari. ”The last man to wear this died four thousand years ago, and he didn't die from old age...”

He closed the lid without touching the necklace, flipped the latch closed, and put the box back in the drawer.

”No,” Sallah said. ”I'd sooner die than wear it.”

Pari lifted Sallah's hand and placed it on her belly. ”He's kicking!” she whispered.

”He?” Sallah felt a tiny thumb beneath his palm and grinned. ”How can you tell?”

”I guess I don't know for sure. Did you come up with your idea for a name yet?”

”I'm not good at that sort of thing. Let's just go with your idea.”

Pari nudged him with an elbow. ”If it is a boy, we can name him after your father.”

Sallah snorted. ”That better be a joke, dove.”

Pari lay on her husband's chest and fell asleep while smiling.

That night the Northerlings brought back their spoils from the village and also their dead. Every soldier that had stayed behind for the raid was needed to carry back the wounded and fallen. They piled the bodies in a heap after cutting their hair, then lay wood on top of them from broken wagons and torn down houses from the village. It formed a giant pyre, and they poured over a dozen barrels of wine over it. They waited until nightfall to light the fire, so they ate while they waited.

In all, the Northerlings had taken over one hundred goats and sheep, ten pigs, and five horses that were too weak and small to ride into a battle, so they were used for carrying things around camp instead. There was also the flat, tasteless bread called naan that the people of this country loved so much, and a small variety of spices and dried fruits. Of course, there were more beans than anything—boxes and barrels of beans, the staple of every Kalaean dish. And the most valuable thing taken was water, barrels and bags of it, all clean and had been stored no more than a week judging by the taste. It was most likely delivered across the mountain pass, where the Karsya river flowed down from the north into the White Sea to the west.