Chapter 11 – The Veiled Girl

The cell is dank and musty, surrounded by stained and rusted bars. Bales of straw scatter the floor, meant to absorb the smells but only making everything worse. A dozen or so men occupy the cell with us, some wounded and worn out, others in good condition. It makes me wonder how long each has been here.

“Let’s sit,” I say to Papa as we move towards a rickety bench. A man sleeping nearby grumbles and turns over when our movement wakes him.

I notice a cut on Papa’s hand and wipe the blood with my sleeve.

“Stop it, Neeka,” he says. “I’m fine. Nothing but cuts and bruises.”

I continue examining him like a mother hen and notice the sole of his shoe is torn loose.

“Let me see your foot,” I demand. “You might have stepped on a rozkur and got poison rot.”

“If I had poison rot in my foot, I think I’d know about it, thank you very much.” His grumpiness betrays how worn out he is from the forced march.

“I guess your feet are fine,” I admit, “though you should check them anyway.”

“I think that fellow has the right idea, as a matter of fact,” he says while ignoring my statement. He points to the man curled up on the floor nearby, before curling up himself and drifting off.

Pacing the cell, my mind races with the events of the last couple of days. Ambrose’s death keeps replaying in my mind, his kind face twisted in pain. The bandits, the brutal march across the wastes, Papa’s limp – it all swirls together like a sandstorm. And now we’re in the Fat Man’s arena, where death is entertainment. I touch my proths, grateful they haven’t been taken away. At least I still have my speed if things go wrong. But what kind of fights await us here? Even with my training, I’m not sure I can protect both Papa and myself in whatever sick game the Fat Man has planned. A deep voice behind me interrupts my dark thoughts.

“I remember you.”

I spin around, ready to defend myself. It’s the big guy. The only other survivor from the airship drop.

And then there were three, I think to myself.

“Yeah, I remember you too,” I respond and push past him to the other side of the cell. I squat down over some moldy hay and pull out a few dry pieces that aren’t rotting. “You’re the coward that shot a man for a tankard of water.”

“No. I meant I remember you from back in Eden,” he says, stepping closer. “I caught you sneaking out of the royal garden. I yelled at you to stop, but instead, you took off running faster than anyone I had ever seen. It was quite impressive, actually.”

I remain silent, afraid denying it would make him suspicious, afraid confirming it is a trick.

“I’m Braam, by the way,” he says and reaches out to shake my hand. “Braam Wrayburn.”

“I don’t shake hands with killers,” I tell him and continue working on my makeshift bed.

“I think survivor is the word you meant,” he says, squatting down and speaking as if explaining something complicated to a child. “Someone who survives.”

“The poor man was running away, and you shot him in the back.”

“Look,” he snaps, “how many of us are left from that drop? Three: me, you, and your father. Maybe a fourth if that initial runner survived the Wastes. That poor soul I shot was as good as dead the minute his feet touched the ground. My only chance of survival was to get as much water as possible. I wasn’t counting on getting caught by these plugtails.” He stands in frustration, meaty hands on his hips as he stares down at me.

I know he’s right about the man he killed. I knew it the moment I saw him—his scared eyes, his nervous tics. The quick death from a bullet might have even saved the man from dying a slow and horrible death in the Wastes, but I won’t admit that to Braam.

“Besides,” he says. “I saw you kill a man this morning.”

“That was self-defense,” I argue, looking up at his hulking form without fear.

“Self-defense, huh? Isn’t that just another word for survival?”

A guard opens the door and steps inside, silencing our standoff. He points out three guys and puts a collar on each before escorting them out. Braam and I know what that means, making our argument seem frivolous. The three men are solemn and nervous, knowing they’ll soon stare death in the face.

I give up finding any hay that doesn’t reek of sweat and urine, resigning myself to sleeping on the hard floor. I lean against the wall with a sigh. Braam stretches his stiff legs before folding his thick body onto the floor near me.

“Were you a protector?” I ask, still unwilling to admit I remember the incident he mentioned.

Braam nods. “I protected zones in every district. From Vanvale to Fairebourne to Coghaven. Did it for years.”

“Funny way to describe it,” I say. “You protected zones in every district? I never met a protector that actually protected anyone. They’re all oversized brutes that do Solomon’s bidding. I don’t expect you are any different.”

“Where I come from, someone like me has limited choices. I was born in Vanvale, a Middler by birth. A man of my size from Vanvale has two choices: become a protector or be forced to leave Vanvale and become a Pleb.”

“Where I come from, I had one choice: to be a Pleb.”

“Every female of Eden has the option to become a servant of Solomon. Someone with a face like yours could have been a Royal Flower…well, before you lost your legs you could have.”

“Like I said, the only choice for me was to remain a Pleb. I would never serve Solomon.”

“We do what we must,” he says with agitation.

“We do what we choose.” I stare hard at him.

Braam huffs and restrains a grin. He starts to say something but decides against it, leaning his head against the stone wall and closing his eyes.

“Sorry about the old man,” he says. “Seems like he meant something to you.”

I can’t tell if he actually means it or if he’s trying to insult me, but I lack the energy to figure it out. I miss Ambrose and realize I’m unintentionally searching the cell for his face. He was so kind and sweet. Perhaps too kind and sweet for a world such as this. He would have told me not to focus on my anger, to get past it, think positively and try to build something rather than destroy. But he isn’t here to appeal to my better nature or convince me to be forgiving of those who caused his death. He can’t advocate for mercy when all I have left is a thirst for vengeance.

I curl up on the floor next to Papa’s bench, my back pressed against the cold stone wall. Despite my exhaustion, sleep refuses to fully claim me. My mind drifts between consciousness and dark dreams, always alert to the sounds around me.

The sound of approaching footsteps startles me from my half-slumber. I notice Braam has opened his eyes as well. The guards return with only one of the three prisoners, one guard supporting his weight. They remove his collar and leave him to sag to the floor. Fellow prisoners rush to drag him by his shoulders to a nearby wall, trying to make him comfortable.

He has a large gash across his forearm and the right side of his face is red and swollen. Blood spatter and sweat coat his skin. Through jumbled sentences, he tells the others that the other two are dead. His hollow yet terror-filled eyes and slow shake of his head convey that loud and clear.

Another set of footsteps draws our attention. A young girl walks through the barred opening, covered head to toe in dark fabric, wearing a niqab that veils her face. Only her eyes are visible—striking golden irises that seem to glow against the dreary prison backdrop. She moves with a youthful grace unlike anyone else in this place.

A loud yell nearby makes me jump, but she doesn’t flinch. I watch, transfixed, as she kneels beside the injured prisoner. Her movements are precise and gentle as she tends to his wounds, her golden eyes radiating kindness. It seems impossible that someone like her exists in this brutal place.

After only a couple of moments, a guard opens the door with an ear-splitting screech of rusted metal. “Okay. That’s enough. Time for you to go.”

She looks into the prisoner’s eyes and gently rubs his upper arm before standing. As she turns to leave, she notices the other half-dead prisoner on the ground and leans down to help him, but the guard barks at her not to touch him. I catch a glimpse of deep sadness in those golden eyes as she straightens and walks out, her graceful movements now heavy with resignation.

She vanishes as quickly as she appeared, leaving me with a whirlwind of thoughts. I curl up near Papa’s bench and try to rest. I should be thinking of ways to get extra food, of which guard I might bribe to help us escape, about which prisoners are the most dangerous and which ones we could use for our benefit. But I can’t stop thinking about the young healer and how out of place she seemed in this horrible place.

What is her name? Why does she cover her face?

I fall asleep thinking of all the things I would like to know about her.