“I’m… sorry.” Touraine clenched and unclenched her fists again, working the fingers loose. She shook her head, trying to clear away that… that darkness that was invading. With Jaghotai still on the ground, she turned on her heel and strode toward the river.
Touraine scooped water onto her face from a tepid little pond made by the irrigation and damming architecture that the Qazāli had learned from Balladaire. The water, trapped during the Hadd’s flood season and the rains, normally watered goats. The goats were gone now.
The water dripped onto her aching shoulders and soaked into her scalp. She waded farther in. Maybe if she lay down in it, she could wash away the smell of the smoke. Maybe if she kept her ears stopped up with water, she wouldn’t hear the screaming and that infernal imperial anthem anymore.
They had sometimes sung it when they marched, the Sands. Noé leading the verses while they all chimed in, variously out of tune. It was too sore for some of them, though. Instead, they preferred songs like “Jolly Soldier,” which were morbid but at least reflected the lives they lived instead of an ideal Balladaire that they would never be a part of.
She hummed as the water tickled her scalp and she splashed a handful on her face.
Welcome, soldier. Welcome, jolly soldier. How can I help you today? Can I take your boots, sir, your army-issued boots, sir? How can I help you today?
The water dripped down her bare neck and drew goose bumps across her skin. The sun was on its way down, and the night was cooling quickly.
The river was lower than usual, people said, and this pool was barely knee high, murky with mud and plants, and too still to be completely fresh. It still smelled better than she did.
She stared at the Cursed City on the other side of the river. With the River Hadd between them, patrolled by the Many-Legged, the border between Qazāl and Briga stretched anywhere from a mile to several. At first, she’d thought it bizarre, the Qazāli leaving a whole city uninhabited because of superstition. Now Touraine knew what magic could do, and she didn’t care to test it. Like Djasha had said months ago—superstitions came from somewhere.
Thinking of Djasha gave the darkness another push. It closed tight around her chest and made it difficult to breathe. She took off her shirt, waded into the water, and stopped fighting it.
Djasha, dying. Tibeau, dead. Pruett, who hated her. A sob wrenched out of her, and she turned it into a growl.
Her legs were heavy in the water. She soaked her shirt and used it to scrub herself down. She’d grown so dark in the southern sun, and her wet hair shook out in short dreadlocks and braids. She wasn’t the soldier she’d been so sure of months ago.
She laughed at herself, at the irony. She wasn’t sky-falling obedient anymore—that was certain. The easy camaraderie of the barracks was so far behind her, it might as well have been a dream. She didn’t believe in Balladaire anymore, either. She would never be content on their side. The last hope she’d had died with Luca. Luca would never make Qazāl accept Balladairan rule. It was sovereignty or nothing at all.
And she could see the shape of that sovereignty now. In the distance, on the other side of the Mile-Long Bridge, El-Wast was a sprawl of clay squares like the earth’s teeth. The skyline was missing the huge dome of the temple in the Old Medina, but there were smaller domes—smaller temples, shops. Balladairan flags waved at the different city gates, black rectangles that slowly vanished as the sky darkened.
It was easy to imagine the flags not being there at all. It might not come soon, but she could see the shape of that future in the girl she’d met in the slums, back when Touraine thought she could leave this all behind. The girl and her friends, fighting, fighting.
Touraine would keep fighting, and she would die. She could see that, too. It was coming.
It wasn’t here yet.
She dragged herself out of the canal, shivering. This must be what it’s like to stand at the edge of a cliff and decide to jump. From here on, it would be the rush of air, the speeding inevitability coming toward her, water or rocks—eventually she would make contact.
When she got back to the tiny rebel camp embedded in the slum city, she found Jaghotai in her tent.
“Jak?”
“Come in.”
Jaghotai was sprawled over a thin blanket laid right on the dirt. It was dark in the tent, but Touraine could make out the darker shadow of the other woman’s forearm across her face.
“I’m sorry about earlier,” Touraine said. “And thanks.”
Jaghotai grunted and rubbed her jaw. “Feel better?”