And that older, cursed image that had haunted her since childhood, which she could never place. The dead horse on a dusty road, its entrails spilled, the stench of shit and blood, the screaming in the background.
It was important, it wascrucial, it refused to let go. She was always too afraid to go back to that moment, to allow herself to be pulled into the vortex of death. For years and years, she had been too afraid to remember.
When they pulled you out of that heap of corpses, her father had said.
And Melia remembered.
• • •
The riders hadmaterialized out of the whirling cloud of dust tinted red by the setting sun. Melia only saw them because she had nothing better to do than look out of the carriage window. Her nurse was dozing, head thrown back at an awkward angle, a thin line of dried saliva in the corner of her mouth. Mother and Teya were whispering about the upcoming arrival of some delegation to Syr and Father’s expectations and the difference between southern and the northern hospitality. Melia didn’t understand half of it, and that’s why she was watching the arid hills outside, counting the stunted trees, hoping to see some interesting animal.
The hot wind lifted clouds of fine dust that scratched one’s throat and got into every crease and pore. One moment, there was nothing before Melia’s eyes but the barren landscape, the next, a group of horsemen was riding at full speed towards them.
“Mother,” Melia said. “There are men coming.”
Her mother ignored her, fervently discussing something with Teya. So Melia elbowed her nurse, provoking a sleepy grunt, and tried again: “Riders are coming.”
Her mother shot her a quick glance. “Don’t interrupt us, please.”
The approaching group was close enough now that Melia could see individual riders. No uniforms, just dust-colored wool that made them almost invisible. And small, fast desert horses, known for their sturdiness. The setting sun gleamed on the steel in their hands. Melia’s curiosity now gave way to suspicion that something might be wrong.
“Mother!”
“Melia, stop it! There’s no one around—”
Shouts from their escort cut her off. Horses neighed, and the carriage plunged ahead. One of their soldiers shouted through the window: “Hold tight.”
Melia’s nurse woke up with a cry. “What?”
“Brigands,” Melia’s mother said, a thin crack of uncertainty spoiling her perfect poise. Beside her, Teya’s golden face paled to sickly yellow.
The carriage sped up on the uneven country road, rattling and creaking. Melia’s teeth chattered, biting her tongue. The taste of blood, hot and metallic, filled her mouth. She whimpered.
“Oh, gods!” The nurse pulled Melia close and tucked her under her arm like a hen tucking chicks under her wing. “Close your eyes, dear, don’t look out.”
Melia shut her eyes and buried her face in the nurse’s soft flesh. But even with her ears covered, she couldn’t block the shouting from outside. The carriage flew, shaking them like marbles inside a box.
“What are we going to do, my lady?” Teya moaned.
“Nothing,” her mother said, clinging to the edge of her seat. “Our men are proper soldiers, armed and trained. These are just some desperate outlaws, looking for easy prey.”
The shouts outside turned into screams, from both men and horses. Something hit the side of the carriage, hard. It veered, throwing Melia and her nurse towards Mother and Teya, bones scraping, heads hitting the thinly padded sides. The clash of steel outside rang in her ears, together with curses, cries, and sounds she’d never heard before: the crunching, wheezing sounds of people getting cut to pieces.
The carriage skidded, leaning to the left so sharply Melia was certain they would turn over. One wheel hit a rock, the carriage swayed wildly, throwing the passengers to the other side; itslowed down and stopped. Melia lay beside he mother, shaken and bruised. She grabbed her mother’s knee, the first solid part she could reach, and her mother’s bony arms wrapped around her. Melia’s heart thrummed in her ears as her mother squeezed her hard in a silent warning to be still and quiet. She lay where the impact had thrown her, too shocked to think clearly.
It was all happening too fast for her to understand. Yet, she needed no explanations to know something very bad was coming. Like a mouse in its hole, she could smell the cats prowling outside.
The women disentangled their limbs in panicked silence. Her mother cradled her head, wincing in pain, and Teya’s arm was twisted at a wrong angle. The priestess was crying, but she pulled herself back to the seat without a whimper. Melia’s nurse was breathing hard through her mouth, the whites of her eyes flashing in the dim interior.
When the noise on the road died down, Melia hoped for one desperate moment that a friendly face would look through the window and tell them they’d continue their journey immediately. But the silence stretched out, and the women in the carriage held their breath.
Then the door opened. The dying light outside outlined the black silhouette of a man. His face was in shadow, but his clothes revealed he was not one of their soldiers. He said something in a language Melia did not understand. Her mother replied something sharp and cold. When she used that voice, people usually trembled before her and bowed their heads, but this rider reached inside the carriage, grabbed her mother’s arm, and pulled her out, throwing her in the dust. A cry escaped her lips as she hit the ground.
The man threw more words at them in his gravelly language and Teya translated: “They want us to get out.”
Melia’s legs refused to obey, but her nurse picked her up andcarried her out. Her skirt felt unnaturally cold in the wind; she realized she’d pissed herself.
In the red light of the sunset, blood looked black. It had already soaked into the thirsty dust, leaving only shadows under the bodies of their men—silent, unmoving, their limbs bent at odd angles, mouths open in silent screams. Wind brought the stench to Melia’s nostrils: blood and sweat and shit. A horse lay in the middle of the road, its belly cut, intestines glistening like a nest of snakes.
