Water spills from a pipe into a trough when I open a spigot. I fill a cauldron with water and set it on a hot stove, drops of moisture sizzling and dancing across the metal surface. Freshly kneaded bread rises on long shelves. At this hour, aside from cooks and kitchen boys, most faces here belong to soldiers, newly relieved or preparing to head to the walls. Cullan wanders in, dropping his weapons on a table and stripping his coat off as quickly as he can. He sees me sitting nearby, a cup of steaming tisane in my hands.
“Angel?” he asks, often unsure but usually correct.
“Major Cullan.”
A smile kinks his lip as he scrounges himself a cup and joins me. I smell the sweat on him even across the table. “I don’t see much of you lately.” he says, taking a sip and propping his elbows on the wood surface.
“I spend most of my time outside the gates,” I reply. “Planting and weeding.”
“Sending families to the Colony?” He studies me, with a pensive crease to his brow, his oily hair hanging loose over his shoulders. To me, his words and expression remain unreadable. I can’t decipher whether he approves or disapproves.
“I force my will on no one,” I assure him, rather firmly. “That’s the role of the Fortress.”
A chuckle rumbles up from his chest. “Point taken.” He clamps one hand over the other and rests his chin on the fist. “Whatever your role, Angel, beware. This place is small enough that rumors reach all ears. It’s hard enough to grow our numbers without citizens leaving.”
“Perhaps you’d have more citizens if you didn’t slay so many of your prospects.” Though I wear a smile on my face, this topic chafes like a shoe full of sand. “You’re all deceiving yourselves if you think violence wins you cooperation and gratitude.”
The major drags in a breath and heaves out a sigh. “Your sister included?”
The words sting, but they’re the truth. “She is so broken, Cullan.” Tears wet my eyes. I look up and blink, breathing deeply, attempting to press them down. “This place, all this death, this insane murder, will destroy my sister; you’re killing my twin.”
Wearily, Cullan glances at the other soldiers in the room before his gaze returns to me. “I’m sorry, Angel. I don’t care for it either, but we’ve little choice.”
“I hate that,” I retort angrily. “There are always choices, Major. Choose to stop, choose to open your gates to all people, choose peace. You might surprise yourself and find peace the more powerful force. To say you haven’t choices is deceitful. If you elect death, at least admit it.”
His eyes narrow as he takes offense, but he knows I’ve spoken the truth. For a few moments, I think he might storm off and leave me with my fury. Instead, he empties his tisane down his throat with his pride, mulling over something. “Tell me about the place you call Sanctuary.”
“Why?” I ask, guarding my words.
“I understand it’s the last of your Gardens and it’s falling.”
This news shouldn’t surprise me. The fact that its wall still stands is somewhat remarkable. “Why do you want to know?”
A hand raking through his hair, Cullan leans toward me and lowers his voice. “Just something Rimma mentioned to me once, and I’ve been thinking. When the wall collapses, if the People arrive first, you know better than I what will happen.”
My hands tremble as I return a small nod.
“None of your people were Touched, right? So there’s no fear for our soldiers going in, no sorting of acceptable and unacceptable by Fortress standards.” I mug a sour face, and he holds up a hand stopping my intended commentary. “Just listen for a moment.”
When I cinch my lips together, he continues, “What if we arrive first, before the wall comes down, before the People invade? And lead them here, peacefully, to join us?” He folds his arms and waits for my answer.
In the kitchen’s damp heat, a miscellany of soldiers, cooks, and stronghold inhabitants eddies around us like water skirting stones. I think about what he’s told me, a fingernail in my teeth, oddly reluctant to concede the wisdom of his proposition as I cling to my anger. I find no flaws in his reasoning, no call for compromise, no need to weigh the decision despite my desire to do so. “When do we leave?” I ask, letting it all go.
“I’ll talk to Mikel,” he replies. “He’ll warm to the idea. And you
should
come with us, Angel. You and Rimma could convince the people of Sanctuary to leave and join us.”
“They’ll be terrified,” I whisper, remembering the denial in Heaven. “They may not want to leave.”
“But it would save lives, wouldn’t it?” he asks me, well aware of the answer. “So we might choose to try.”
**
Rimma and I march, the horses reserved for officers and scouts. She smiles at me, a genuine smile seeming to rise from a secret abyss inside her, warming me. It’s too long since I witnessed something besides melancholy in her eyes or the dead visage of emptiness. I know no one else here sees me, and though the niggling ache of this strange existence wheedles into my chest, I’m happy to trudge in Rimma’s shadow, to see her slip a toe into happiness.
Sanctuary lies four weeks away, almost due south, and if all goes well, we’ll arrive at its walls with the full flush of summer. According to Cullan, the “Liberation of Sanctuary” is the largest effort the Fortress has undertaken since its initial formation at the world’s breaking. Newly promoted to colonel with a red, diamond patch on his shoulder, he leads almost half of the Fortress’s soldiers.
We’ll follow the edge of tall cottonwoods and sloped forest skirting the waste. This early in the summer, the waste wears a sheen of hazy greenness in new grass and sage, displays its blooms of yellow mustard and primrose, sweeps of purple lupine and horsemint. The creeks still gurgle with mountain melt, carving deeper gullies through the sandy soil.
Eight days into our trek, we cross the crumbling road leading east to the Colony. I shutter my mind to thoughts of Priest, how desperately I wish to redirect my feet and scramble up to the canyon’s mouth, down between the painted walls. I would, sure of it, but this mission to Sanctuary brims with hope, a worthwhile endeavor with something significant to accomplish. I’ll see it through.
Beyond the fork in the road, we slip between hill and forest where we once traveled with the River Walkers on our way to the North Tradepost. The land rises, broken now by copses of white aspen, hills ascending on our left, steep-edged, dotted with junipers and short, twisted pines, towering firs higher up, serrated teeth against an azure sky. We pass the shaded woods where Rimma killed Rune and Mag, where she was beaten and raped, where Priest saved us and shepherded us to the Colony.
“We might meet packs on their way north,” I say quietly as I stroll beside her. It’s common knowledge between us, but I need to speak it aloud.
“There’s a chance,” she replies, glancing at me. Her eyes are cold steel despite the heat of the day.
“What will you do?” I ask.
A sigh blows out of her. “Whatever I need to, Angel. But we aren’t out here to capture Biters; we haven’t the men to deliver them back, and I’d rather not shovel any graves.” She smiles, a lovely sight in the filtered sunlight, her flaxen hair in a long braid at her back. “Maybe I’ll rescue someone on this journey instead of burying him in the ground. I like to think it’s possible.”
“I believe anything is possible,” I tell her.
“You’re more optimistic than I,” she admits. “But I’m worn-out, Angel, weary of filling a pit and peering over the rim to learn it’s bottomless, just a long, dark plummet to Hell.” She walks with her eyes on her feet, and I don’t interrupt her; it seems so long since I’ve heard her heartbeat. “I swore an oath to you,” she continues, “but I’ve fucked things up, placed you in greater danger more than I’ve saved you.”
“What happened, Rimma?” My voice is scarcely above a whisper, a quiet invitation to draw out her words and the roiling feelings bubbling to her surface.
When she stops and looks at me, a cavernous pit yawns open in her eyes. “I killed the Touched in the raid last fall in the timbers,” she replies. “They were building shelters and cooking, tending their goats and feeding their children. All winter long, I hunted Biters down in the waste, aimed first for the Touched, didn’t hesitate. Men like Priest and Glory, women like Chantri and Shy, children, Angel, just for being different, regardless of whether they fought or ran, or cowered and cried. I peppered them with bolts, stabbed them, and cut their throats. You helped me wash the blood of innocence from my hair and clothes.”
My face must reflect the venomous horror strangling my breath, because she averts her eyes and starts forward again. No thoughts or words form to convey the utter loathing and revulsion I feel for her, the rampant fury ripping through my veins. I haven’t the speech to tell her how much I love her and forgive her, to express my relief that she finally sees, for how else will she reconcile her pain, let it all go and change? I say nothing and follow, praying to a dead God that the packs will hide in the forest and let us pass.
What’s left of the old, black road disappears occasionally, broken and buried beneath dirt and scrub. We hook up with the stream that pours from a cleft in the hills, cool and clear, the fresh water welcome. Three days later, our shallow stream converges with the larger river tumbling in a torrent from the eastern mountains. I spy the metal and stone bridge in the distance, arcing gracefully toward Heaven. We’ll camp in the freeland, trek one more day, and then march to Sanctuary the next morning.
Near dusk, we build cook-fires between the ruins of block buildings. They feel haunted, hollow, and only the bravest and most foolhardy among us venture into their dark corridors. Cullan gathers his high command, beckoning Rimma to join them. “Where’s Angel?” he asks.
“I’m not sure,” Rimma replies as she glances at me. “Exploring.”
“Why are you two never together in one place?” he mutters. “Fill her in, will you?” At Rimma’s nod, he scratches his stubbly jaw and begins, “Sometime before dusk tomorrow, I suspect we’ll be a couple hours ride from Sanctuary. Rimma and ten men under Sergeant Mace will scout the Garden and report back. If everything looks good, we’ll organize a show of force the next morning—give them something to think about as we present our solution to their problem. Rimma, Angel, and I will approach them with Major Javlan and one squad under Sergeant Dex. We’ll attempt to make contact and gain admittance, convince them to come with us at best, to talk with us at worse.”
“Can you assess the condition of their shield by sight?” Javlan asks my sister.
“Not well,” Rimma replies. “The shield wall around Heaven degraded slowly over a couple years. The challenge wasn’t estimating when the wall would collapse, but believing it would fail at all. Until the moment it did, many denied it ever would.”
“What are the chances they know their Garden is the last?” Cullan asks.
“That’s hard to guess.” Rimma raises her eyebrows at the uncertainty. “In Heaven we had no contact with other Gardens until Paradise died at our gate.” The men exchange quizzical expressions for a moment and let it pass. I press my lips between my teeth, watching her.
“So they may believe all is well,” Javlan says, shaking his head.
“They may,” Rimma agrees, “but they’re wrong. I believe I can convince them that they’d rather not fall to the packs.”
“We’ll know more by nightfall tomorrow,” Cullan says in closing. “Any questions?”
When no one responds, he dismisses us. Rimma turns on her heel and walks away.
I trail her to the river where she stands on this side of the bridge, gazing across the water toward Heaven, three days distant. She absently picks flakes of rust from the metal spans with her fingernail.
“Do you wonder about Heaven?” I ask her.
“Sometimes,” she replies.
Our conversations have stuttered over the past few days, ever since she told me what she’d done. Her smiles have withdrawn, a lonely inevitability seeming to weigh her down. “Would you want to go back and see it?” I ask.
A shrug lifts her shoulders. “Three years have passed. I doubt we’d recognize it.”
“I don’t blame you,” I say to her, reaching across the rift between us to touch her shoulder. “I forgive you. I love you, Rimma. Peace, Sister.”
Slowly she turns to face me. “You have hope to spare, Angel.” Stepping close, she holds my face in her hands, our foreheads touching. “I had planned on saving you, but I think at times it’s your burden to save me.”
2
7
~Rimma~
Twilight, stained green and pierced by white-hot stars, unrolls across the savage land. I hear the fracturing crackle of Sanctuary’s wall, watch the dome’s peak spitting blue sparks into a thickening darkness, even from here. Something about the light isn’t right.
“We should advance on foot,” I inform Cullan, keeping my voice low, though our small party rides yet a half mile distant. “Something feels wrong.” He nods and passes on an order. We dismount, leaving the horses behind with three soldiers as we creep up the small stone ridge that blocks our view.
Holding my breath, I slither on my belly to the top, the gold light filtering into the darkening sky around the Garden squirming into my skull. I know what it is; I know. My stomach churns on the verge of heaving. As I peer over the stone rim, my blood congeals, fear and despair draining my strength, leaching me of any vestige of courage. Scores of fires burn beyond Sanctuary’s borders, its bone wall; hundreds of Biters await its imminent fall.