The scene after The Jewel of Al-Dukhan Maybe this will become a short story.
Burning. My skin—burning. Eyes open—bright—lids screaming. My stomach jumps, throat open, roaring out—splashing. Crying.
Burning. Red. Blisters all the way down—naked—arms reach, cover. Burning.
A voice—”Not my doing—silk don’t survive the Black River.” A shape in the light.
A man, hair dark. A roar echoes in—hooves pounding.
“They’re looking for you. I best be off.” Metal gleams—motors rumble.
“Take me...” Throat burning, tongue thick. “With you.”
Roll, pull up, blisters popping—stinging—on the stones.
His head shakes and he unhooks something from the mount, brings it—scritch-thump, scritch-thump. “You need a healer, and I don’t heal. Drink.” The canteen sloshes.
Clutching it, my fingers scream, he unscrews the cap. Water burns all the way down. “I can’t go back... help me.”
“I already did. The king rides with the black plume on his helmet. He thinks you’re dead, princess Zareen. His grace has to be better than the backend of my mount.”
I squint, his face won’t come clear. “You know... who I am. My father’s grace already—” Tears sting my face. “—failed me. I am promised to Malik... Hadid. He’ll drag me... rape me. Chop my fingers, knuckle by knuckle until I yield.” Head shaking. “I will never yield.”
He glances past me, lips thin. “I believe that. But I made my own promises to the Iron King. I suggest you hide—plenty of places in this canyon.” He turns. “The water should last until they give up looking for your bones.”
I shuffle forward; flesh scrapes. “Please, I can pay.”
A laugh. “With what... the silk off your back?”
“I was running for the Rust-Gate. Queen Laila is my good friend—take me, and she will honor you as a hero.”
A snort. “Laila the Queen of Whores. We have... debts. I’d rather face Hadid.”
I fall on my arms. Burning. Everything fogging out. “Please, all debts... paid.”
Scritch-thump—he’s in front of me, kneeling, lifting my chin. “If I’m caught in the badlands with the jewel of al-Dukhan, they’ll cut off both my hands. I’m sorry, princess. You’re on your own.”
He’s gone—scritch-thump, scritch-thump—metal creaks and hooves swish in the sand.
My stomach drops out, but I pull every muscle tight. Burning.
And I’m back on my knees—lift—one foot under me, the other. I rise—teeth clenched. Grains skitters down my body like nails. “When they find me, I will tell them of the man with the club foot who pulled me from the Black River, and I will tell them how he soiled the jewel of al-Dukhan. Do you want their chase, or my gratitude?”
His head shakes. Hooves clatter around the bend.
His mount walks closer. A bundle falls to my feet. “Get dressed.” Then drops something from the saddle—a helmet. Black and red. “Tuck your hair—blisters will hide the rest.”
My chest shudders. “You’re one of them.”
“And now you are too, if you want to live.”
