"Roses From Dunes" by Emily Kirsch

The street was empty.

"Choose one," the man said. His hands were hovering over the end two boxes.

What could it hurt?

The voice came from my left and I lifted a trembling brow.

The man smiled.

Something in his neck popped.

"I . . ."

He leaned forward and his smile grew; I saw teeth rotting through cracked lips.

I swallowed hard and pointed to the one in the middle. He leaned back and set his hands at the edges of the lid, lifting it part way – but he dropped it after a moment’s hesitation.

"I’ve a story to tell you."

His nose quivered.

I nodded.

A few grains of sand trickled over her bare toes, caressing them for but a moment. She lifted a dark-skinned hand to her brow and squinted through the rippling heat waves. The sun’s beams sank into her shoulders as she stood and she knew they were threatening to turn her arms the crimson-red tint that the night always brought. Stray strands of scarlet hair fell across her view; the clear, bright blue sky momentarily obscured.

"Ten."

"You think?"

She shook her head. "No."

"Then what?"

"More."

"Mm. Many more?"

She squeesed her eyes shut. Already the warmth was making her squirm and the conversation – if it could be considered as much – was stealing away what remaining strength she had.

"Maybe."

Her companion seemed satisfied, and turned the steed toward the rising sun, nudging it to a considerably slow pace. She remained still, following the lines of the distant sloping dunes with her eyes. She crossed her arms about her stomach and felt the onslaught of heat-sickness rising up in her throat again. She gagged, for there was nothing to cough up, and after she steadied herself she turned her animal after the last.

The wind asked her why she followed, but she could not answer. She ignored its pleas for her to turn around and ride for the dunes.

Still the faint questions rang in the background, like the pitch of a noisy clock under a thick blanket that only aids in obscuring the sight but never the sound. She dug her heels into the blood-red animal’s flanks, urging it to catch up to then ride past her companion. He didn’t give her so much as a cursory glance when she rode a few paces ahead.

Her hair trickled into her view again. She blew it out.

The moaning of a far-off sandstorm beckoned her to turn her head to the dunes again. As she rode she watched them remain sessile against the horizon, blocked only by the sparse intervals when sand grains accompanied the winds’ fingertips across her line of sight. Even through this she was able to see, and even through this she could watch.

The sands had called to her as long as she could remember. There was never a moment when she didn’t long to leave her duties and spur her horse in the side, setting off in the direction of the beautiful hills. The sand storm screamed again and she shut her eyes to the whirling mass of dust and dirt, blocking out all of her senses to avoid losing control of herself and racing away.

She glanced over her shoulders and to her companion, watching him in silence as he rode.

"Atrus."

He looked over at her, ignoring a shock of hair that flapped across his eyes.

"Hm?"

"How far back are the other traders?"

He didn’t turn to look over his shoulder. His eyes were locked on to hers and he didn’t even seem to be considering.

" ’Couple miles."

She pursed her lips together and turned back around in her saddle. Her hand ran down the blood-red coat of her horse and she held the steady pace she’d set, but only for a moment. Her fingers tightened around the horse’s reins and she clenched her knees together, spurring him to go faster. After a moment of delay the beast’s feet pounded more furiously upon the ground, sending clouds of dust hissing up around its hooves and her, encasing her in the semblance of fury the sand held. She coughed. The back of her throat tasted dry and she felt the urge to drink her whole canteen of water, but that would’ve been foolish. Their ride was a long one and she couldn’t waste their precious lifeblood on impulse.

The night sky fell upon them in minutes and her pace relaxed. Atrus was next to her in two breaths. She looked over at him but expressed none of her curiosity as to how he’d managed to catch up to her so quickly. She was still not used to how it seemed his horse rode on air; the animals’ hooves had never made noise unless they were creeping along in a crowded marketplace. During those times she longed for the freedom and arid heat of the desert, but she yearned for the comforting din of the market when she had to hold herself up to avoid spilling from her horse and onto the sandy ground, where no one but the vultures would find her. In this respect she was thankful for Atrus’ company, though he provided poor conversation.

"We should rest, Syrai," Atrus said, breaking her thoughts in pieces and scattering them about the hooves of her horse. She looked over at him. "The morning will bring hard riding."

Syrai nodded and glanced to the mountains once more before sliding from her horse.

* * *

The cobbled streets were overflowing with people of all races and ages – from children ecstatic with the prospect of getting a new toy to old men huddled in doorways, offering their foretelling of the future. One of them reached up and gripped Syrai’s horse’s leg and looked up at her through mats of once-brown hair, pleading silently through bags of wrinkled skin. She nudged the reins and as soon as the horse started in motion the man’s hands fell back into the folds of his robes. Syrai looked at him for a moment, but her concentration was called for when a shout came from somewhere in front of her. Atrus seemed to be battling a merchant who was demanding the stable Atrus’d just led his horse into. Their gestures were erratic but when the man slipped Atrus a full change bag it was settled. Syrai rode up next to him, mentally shaking her head.

"We’ve a few more minutes," he said, not meeting her eyes. "There’s some less-than-decent stables a few streets down."

"How far’s the market from there?"

Atrus’ stone face broke. "A street over from where our stables are."

Syrai didn’t share his smile but she was relieved. The desert had taken its toll on her.

They arrived a good hour later, when the sun had stained the sky a vicious amber-red. They had encountered a persistent rug-seller halfway to where they would stop, who had followed them through the mazy side-alleys that they had tried to use to get away from him – he didn’t leave until a more wealthy pair of travelers came up behind them.

After they had stopped it was a struggle to park their horses and to leave the busy stables with their wares – which consisted of medicines and poisons that only they knew the use of. Syrai felt immediately uncomfortable and caught Atrus on his shoulder when he was passing her.

"I’m going to look around," Syrai said, and Atrus nodded absently. The wares were more important than her. She turned without feeling offended and pushed her way through the throes of people and onto the main road. A sharp desert wind hissed through merchants’ booths, drowning out their calls and offers to drop the price in half if one had the proper look about them. Syrai wandered toward the end of the street, running her fingertips over random silks and pale desert-wear as she passed by the booths.

A man near the back of the street – where the travelers were more spaced out and people weren’t fighting for space – waved at her from an awning that covered most of what was in his shop. He tilted out into the sun and squinted at her, holding a dark brown hand over his eyes.

"Madame!" he called, and leaned back under when he knew he had her attention. She stepped toward him. Every other person around her seemed to flicker or fade, as if they were the deserts’ mirages, only serving purpose as to provide a semblance of a busy street. When Syrai reached the man she hesitated, peering into the confines of his booth.

Roses.

Roses as red as a flushed maiden’s cheek; roses that were never supposed to exist in the desert’s heat. Her mouth fell open and she near-stumbled to the counter, a hand raising instinctively to brush across the forbidden petals. The man was inspecting her silently.

"Skeleton earrings," the man said, and nodded a knowing, bearded head. She narrowed her eyes and lifted a hand to finger the eight silver hoops that covered the length of her ear; she hadn’t realised he’d been watching her. The man nodded once more and made a slow, deliberate lean forward to gain a better look. She didn’t move an inch to assist him.

"Skeleton earrings," he said, again, and that time she smiled.

"I suppose they are," she responded, and looked passed him and to the roses.

"How do they survive?"

He shrugged at first, then seemed to consider. His lips danced around the beginnings of words then settled; he narrowed his eyes thoughtfully at her and a grin of sorts came about his lips.

"They are given life when a person takes one of them and finds themselves with its aid. When their sister’s job is done, they flourish."

Syrai glanced at the flowers for a moment, her hand still lingering near the petals of one near her. She parted one of the side petal away, revealing the next one to have a brown, wilted colour at its base. Upon seeing this she looked back up at the man.

"No one has taken one in quite a while," he explained, and she saw his shoulders rise and fall in a sigh. Her eyes trailed across the crows feet at the corners of his eyes, searching for a measure of laughter. She found none. She knew not to take pity on the merchant – it was most likely a ploy to get her to buy a bushel of the flowers. But they were so very unnatural . . .

"How much are they?" she asked, reaching up and brushing a fire-golden strand of hair from her brow. Although dawn had quite passed and the nights’ coolness was upon them, the heat from the ride in the midst of the desert was seeming to catch up to her.

The man didn’t answer her for quite a while, but finally his lips parted to allow words through.

"Are you truly interested?"

She opened her mouth to respond automatically, but stopped herself. She was, she realised; the mere fact that the flowers survived the unforgiving desert was a miracle in itself.

"I am," she told him, and she almost saw a flicker of a smile trace across his lips. He turned to the counter behind him and drew a cracked, dry-clay vase in his hands. The bottom appeared slightly damp and the roses’ petals were moist with dew drops that lay beaded along the silky surfaces. He tilted his neck around the flowers, inspecting them before setting them down on the counter in front of Syrai.

"Then take one," he said, looking at the flowers but not at her.

She clicked her tongue on the roof of her mouth but didn’t turn down the man’s offer. Her eyes fingered the roses before she reached out and picked one, wrapping her digits around the stem just below the petals and lifting it out. Her other hand reached up to catch the base, and a stray thorn caught the tip of her finger and ripped through the delicate skin. She didn’t flinch, merely unhooked her skin from the thorn and brought it to her mouth, where she sucked to draw the coppery taste off of her skin and down her throat.

"Do you have a cloth?" she asked the man, once her mouth was uncluttered with fingers.

The man shook his head.

"You’ve just chosen your destiny," he told her, voice tinged with pencil traceries of enigmas.

She sucked the rest of the blood from her finger and tilted a brow upward.

"Have I?"

The man nodded and his eyes flickered to hers for a moment or so; she could see fires blazing behind his pupils and was forced to look away. The coppery taste all but disappeared, replaced when a sharp, desiccated gust of wind slithered down the road and swirled around her bare ankles. She was reminded of something.

"There are tales of ancient burial rites gone wrong that often circle around firesides across this land and others. Tales that tell of sands that cry and moan to passerby – the banshees of the desert. It is said that when a traveler hears these cries they will be drawn toward them, and when they reach where the cry originates from the line between death and life will become corrupt and fail at only that instant, allowing the deceased to draw the traveler into their arms and take them into the darker side along with them, condemning them to a life of sorrow and pain. They will never be free. The cycle goes forward and forward but never meets the other end, where it began – it will grow until the world ceases to live. Only then will the people be free. Or as free as one can get, from an unceasing rest."

The man’s hand wrapped around the base of the vase and he turned and replaced it among the others on the back counter. He studied Syrai, scratching idly at the back of the neck as her lips remained closed. She asked no questions.

"It is also said that someday the sands will grow angry, for the souls in them dance along the very barriers of insanity; sense is long lost to them. They will refrain from remaining quiet and still, and will rise and wreak havoc on whoever dares try and stop them. The people who know this live in constant fear. But some, the few that know the rest of the tale, have faith.

"Centuries ago two desert guilds – mere, untrained traders and merchants versus renegade men that made their living by ransacking and pillaging passing caravans – were engaged in a bloody feud. They had both long occupied the same land but the merchants and traders feared for their safety and business every time a caravan was attacked. Instead of talking to the savage men a war ensued, leaving the merchants dead.

"There was another desert people that tribal and ritualistic in nature – but they were not peaceful. The sight of one of them could send a grown man into hysterics. They were the ones that found the bodies, and they were the ones that buried them.

"The wars were on their lands, and they did not appreciate it. Out of vengeance they arranged a mass burial and ritual for the deceased men and women. Once all preparations were made the bodies of the merchants and traders were dumped into a deep pit and the ritual was performed – the dead would not sleep, but would be trapped forever under the sand as a reminder of the anger the men felt against the war that was fought on their land. There have been no battles since, but the people who were buried feel an immense hate for the tribal people.

"They were buried many miles from civilisation, so none heard them but the occasional traveler. During the years sand has been building up to form the dunes that we call K’ree Shinon – the Dunes of Sorrow. Not even a grain of sand is allowed on the backside of the dunes – all is trapped when blown against the K’ree, forming the dune shapes that are now seen.

"Many ancient scrolls have been found, each predicting a date when the dead would finally rise from their earthly bed and take their own revenge out on the nearest men – and the first prediction, and the one most believed, is on the night of the next full moon."

He paused his tale and gazed at Syrai thoughtfully. She still remained silent.

"It is said that already one of the dead has crossed into life, and he is waiting patiently by the dunes until the night comes and the rest rise. There is to be a hero of sorts that will meet him and stop the hero from fulfilling his destiny – to stop the dead from rising. The people of this land have long counted on that hero to arise, but our hope has dwindled . . . until now.

"Madame, I am much surprised that you chose that rose. It is that mere action, you see, that prompted me to tell you any of this. Perhaps you will guess what comes next."

Syrai’s expression had before been one of mere consideration – one of a listener taking pity on the storyteller and listening to his tale only to earn his appreciation. At the man’s last words her face had tightened and the skin about her lips had grown white with the pressure she was putting upon them.

His quiet decorum broke when he saw her face and a laugh issued from his mouth.

"Correct, madame! Your blood has spilt. You will be our hero."

* * *

Syrai had moved through the rest of the day in a haze.

She’d gone back to where Atrus had set his booth up and sat in silence next to him as he sold heat medicines and drugs to passerby. He didn’t question her until the next morning, when they packed up their bags and were back out in the desert. The sun was beating unmercifully down upon them and Syrai felt as though she was going to faint; Atrus had to choose that time to talk.

"You smell of roses," he said, but when she looked over at him she saw nothing but the curtain of braids that was usually tucked behind his ear. She was silent for a good while, concentrating only on shielding her eyes from the sand that was thrown up from the beasts.

"Do I," she responded, after a while, and looked aver at him to see the deliberate nod.

"Aye," he said. "Very much so."

She was not satisfied, but questioned no more.

They rode on, and it wasn’t until her eyes trailed across the distant but distinct shape of the K’ree Shinon that she spoke, fighting to keep her voice steady.

"I have to go, Atrus."

"Why?"

"I have to do something."

"What?"

She squinted her eyes at the shapes, which wavered in the desert heat until she forced herself to look away and at Atrus. He met her gaze for the first time since their last ride.

"I have to do something," she said again, avoiding his question for she did not know what it was that she had to do.

"Let me come," he said, and she knew he wasn’t pleading with her. He was more telling her that she had to, but still she shook her head. When she gazed back at the dunes he rode nearer to her, reaching out and taking her hand from its steady grip on the reins, holding it up in front of his face.

"Your fingers are so frail," he said. "Like a birds’ wings. How can a bird survive alone?"

"I have done it before."

"How long has it been?"

"What do you mean?"

"How long has it been since you were alone?"

She tugged her hand from his and replaced it on the rein, tugging it slightly to veer the horse toward the mountains.

"I’ve always been alone," she told him, and without a word of warning, dug her heels into the horse’s flanks which set him off at a dead run to the edge of her horizon. She could hear the sands calling to her, far off in the distance.

Her hands flew over the ruby-coloured silk, shaping and molding it to her desires. A fire flickered in its pit in front of her. She glanced at this every so often, stirring only when it looked as if it needed another of the dry kindling she’d been lucky to find on the bare desert terrain.

The night was cool. Stars littered the inky skies above like salt, standing out sharply against the pitch black canopy. Syrai felt strangely at peace.

Her fingers tied a knot into the fabric and she looked at the coruscating patterns the firelight made in the material before tossing it into the flames. Her lips began moving into the memorised words before she could think about what she was saying; her hands were all too willing to follow. She rose from her cross legged position, extending her palms flat over the fire.

"Lead me," she whispered, the only words in her native tongue. The smoke promptly swung in a spiral shape out from the pit, arching over her head and far behind her, forming an unsteady path some distance over where the dunes were located. Syrai held her concentration until she was sure that the smoke had finished its trek.

Her breath hissed out of her mouth in a long, steady stream. She bent down and gathered up what little items she had and turned to face the smoke line. It was an impressive sight – the strongest she had made since she was a younger girl. Her lips bent into a crooked smile and she followed underneath the writhing grey plumes with smooth, silent steps.

After a while of walking a trance-like state fell over her and all thoughts were whisked from her mind. She thought not of what she would do once her feet brushed the K’ree, or of what she was meant to do to save the desert people from their wrath.

While she walked night merged into day and the sun overtook the sky, pushing his sister down against the western horizon. Syrai wouldn’t have noticed unless her shoulders hadn’t started to blister under the sun’s deadly rays. The rest of her skin was sore – even the parts concealed underneath the flowing white cloth native to those who traveled in the desert. Even though she was hardly ever indoors her skin was unfaithful to her – it would freckle and burn but never tan, and she was feeling the deepest pain she’d ever felt from the heat at that moment.

When the dunes came roaring into sight she almost stumbled upon the base of one. They looked massive in her state; she knew she must be delusional for she hadn’t had anything to drink since the day before; the vision of the K’ree was most likely a mirage but she took precautions and used the last of her strength to lift her arms out in front of her, feeling an almost relief when her hands touched the scorching sand. A laugh exploded from the depths of her parched throat and she collapsed, falling against the burning dune.

She felt a cool, damp sensation on her forehead. A groan trickled from the corners of her mouth and she rolled over on her side, coughing to rid her lungs of what wasn’t there. The dampness came back, this time on her shoulders, where it stung sharply. She stifled a shriek and pulled her knees up to her chest in a fetal position, hoping to be able to defend herself however she was able.

"Shh," said an unfamiliar voice, and a hand came to press against her cheek. Syrai felt comforted and turned her head to look up at a dark face; the only thing she was able to make out was chiseled cheekbones. The face smiled at her and she fell back into a disorienting sleep.

The humming reached her ears first.

It was a tune she remembered from childhood and she listened to it in silence for a while. When she moved her shoulders she realised they didn’t sting, and she felt a considerable amount calmer. She took in a deep breath and found it was still tinged with the sharp undertones of sand, but moist night air trickled into her mouth as well. She rolled over and opened her eyes.

A man sat a few yards away. The chair he was seated in was merely crude pieces of wood strapped together with what looked like leather from a horse’s reins, but with the man upon it, it looked like a royal throne and quite out of place in the dry terrain.

The man himself was the human form of the word elegance. His form was clothed in black cloth which Syrai at first thought to be a trick of her mind. Not a soul wore black cloth in the desert. But when she narrowed her eyes together she knew there was no mistake – his garments were long sleeved and black.

She could see his cheekbones from where she lay and knew them to be the same ones as she saw during her brief wakening. Her eyes fluttered up to his hair; it was threaded into a make-shift braid and was a honey-brown colour. He reminded her of a friend she had when she was young.

Syrai was able to push herself into a siting position with little trouble. The man noticed her stirring and nodded slightly in her direction.

"You’re up," he remarked, and she feigned a marveled expression at his capability to perceive her actions. She returned his nod after a while, and stood. The moaning of the dunes seemed louder from her now-elevated position and she cringed as the sharp cries stung her ears. The man seemed unaffected.

"Who are you?" she asked, and he turned to look at her.

He smiled and said only, "I am who has awakened." He seemed to examine her for a moment, and when he seemed satisfied with her condition he averted his gaze again.

His words sparked something inside her and she rose to her feet, knees wobbling until she was able to keep herself steady.

"What are you doing out here?"

"Waiting."

A cold hand gripped her heart and she stumbled backward a few steps. He didn’t seem to notice.

"What are you waiting for?" Syrai dared to ask, although she knew the answer before it fell from his mouth. He looked over at her once again and he winked, responding indirectly. Without looking to where his finger pointed he gestured to the Eastern horizon, where night was just beginning to touch.

"Full moon rising, dead ahead," he remarked, as if he was merely telling her the time of day.

A wind picked up around her and it began swirling the sand and dust around her form, making her wobble where she stood. The moaning grew to a before-unheard high; it shrieked and screamed and she clapped her hands over her ears for fear that she would go mad. She collapsed on the ground, shaking and trembling, while the man just looked silently on.

She could feel the stone in her hand before she opened her eyes. The dune’s howling was still at the ear wrenching roar but she could do nothing to shut it out, lest she shut out the rest of her senses as well. She wanted to raise her hands to her ears to stop the incessant plummeting of sound but that was impossible. The task rang clear in her mind.

She struggled to stand against the raging winds, and when she opened her eyes she found that her vision was clouded with swirling sand. It brought about the familiar sensation of choking but she held back a cough, for fear of giving herself away to the Watcher. She didn’t know where he sat.

She stumbled blindly through the hissing sand, her free hand lifted to her brow to block out the rushing storm. The moans grew more human-like and realistic, and she knew she didn’t have much time to complete what she had to do.

It was when she had almost given up and was on the verge of calling out to him that the curtain of sand lifted and she was allowed a glimpse of the black clothing that stood out so well against the dusty background. She couldn’t help but smile, but lost the expression when she saw that the Watcher was looking directly at her, and that he shared her grin.

"Dance with me, Syrai. You can be saved if you wish. How many people do you really care about in the world?"

She clenched her teeth against any reaction that might provoke him further, and advanced a step.

His expression didn’t waver.

Syrai managed to step forward a few more steps, her hand closed like a protective vice over the stone. Her features were set in a determined mask and she didn’t let her feet waver from their path. It was simple, it was simple . . .

The Watcher looked on with amusement before he turned his back on her, lifting his arms above his head. An obscene chuckle issued from his lips and exploded into the night sky, filling the dust cloud with the vile noise. She could feel a faint thread of power – it was warm, like a flame – swarm down from the chaotic throng of dirt and melancholy and attach itself to him. He spun with it, then, and Syrai feared she would never be able to make it close enough to have him touch it while he was moving.

Then

everything stopped.

The noise quieted to a dull roar that echoed in the back of Syrai’s mind, like a very fresh memory. The bitter taste of sand stuck to the back of her throat like she was recalling a taste so vividly that she could feel it in her mouth. She had to look down and see the rose-coloured stone in her hand to assure herself that she hadn’t just woken up from a heat-induced mirage. When she lifted her head the Watcher was standing a breath away from her.

"And what are we going to do with this?" he asked, and reached forward to pluck it from Syrai’s hand.

At that moment the world seemed to fall around her.

An unmistakable depression settled heavily over Syrai’s shoulders, cloaking her in darkness. She felt her white garments bleed and her sleeves turned a deep blood red – changing in accordance to her surroundings. The sky was drenched in a thick crimson that she could almost smell and the grit around her had turned to black seeds of nothingness, all spewing from the Watcher who stood in front of her.

His face contorted into ghastly expressions that seemed to defy all logic. His mouth rode up his cheekbone and his forehead split open; she could see maggots and scorpions writhing inside. She felt an incredible urge to retch and rid herself of the darkness that’d penetrated her skin but that was impossible, then. The sky was far too leaden with the fear and terror and pain and anguish and hate of the dead to allow any goodness to shine through, but even through the chaos she could feel a sense of order. The darkness was being drawn into the stone.

The man went first. She didn’t know exactly how it happened, except that he was there and then he was simply gone. She still held the stone in her palm and continued to do so while the screams were sucked in – it was like a vacuum; the stone got heavier as the screams disintegrated. It took all of her strength and concentration to hold herself up as the darkness hissed through the cracks in her fingers and into the stone, changing the clear rosy hue into a dark, ruby red shade that emanated the corruption she was witnessing.

Soul after soul the stone was flooded, and after what seemed like days the darkness began to part and she could see slender shafts of sunlight tearing through the dense fog of black. Like fingernails it ripped the darkness to shreds and tossed it aside, where it flowed into the stone.

Syrai was panting for breath. She braced herself as the last of the chaos smoothed into the stone, forming a silky outer barrier that was warm to the touch. Her environs stopped moving and she fell to the ground, the stone rolling from her palm. It paused a couple of feet away and a burst of pure white light made a beeline from the blazing sun to the stone, creeping into every dark crevice before it seemed to pulsate with life. She heard a dull crack and the stone shattered before her eyes, exploding in a shower of light. The remnant glitter filtered across her vision, finding a final resting place upon the ground. She felt a momentary dread settle over her stomach; she’d been ordered to take it to the merchant, but her thoughts were brushed aside as she collapsed upon the ground. She could hear a faint laughter trickle to her ears, then – and she knew the souls were at rest.

"How long has she been out?"

"A week. Maybe more. I found her asleep, but she wasn’t knocked out. She looked almost peaceful."

"Peaceful?"

"Yes."

Syrai stirred.

There was a brief moment when chairs scratching against wooden floors was the only noise that filled the room, but when all was quiet she heard footsteps and she felt a presence next to her. She forced her heavy lids open and turned her head to look at who was crouched next to her. It was Atrus.

"Are you alright?" he asked, but there were no tones of worry in his voice.

"I am," she responded, and was startled to find that her voice was working in full. It held none of the scratchy qualities she was expecting. Atrus seemed a bit surprised as well, but he held the amasement back if there actually was any.

He did speak, though; she was a bit taken aback at his words.

"I’m glad."

"Where did you find me?"

He shut his eyes, recalling.

"It was the middle of no where, Syrai. The terrain was flat for miles around. I figured you’d gotten off of your horse a couple of miles back and tried to walk the rest of the way. It was pure luck that I found you, actually."

She sat up at his first few words, but he pushed her back down with his palm. Her tongue flapped around the words until she was able to get them out.

"There was . . . nothing around? Nothing at all?"

"Nothing, Syrai. Not even so much as a mound of dirt."

Syrai breathed a breath of pure relief and fell back onto the pillows, beginning to laugh in pure relief. Atrus gave her a confused smile and he placed a hand to her forehead.

"Perhaps you should remain in bed for a few more days . . ."

She met his eyes and smiled a genuine smile.

"I don’t think so, Atrus. I don’t think so."

The man finished his story and crossed his arms over his chest, searching my face for a hint as to what I’d thought of it.

I was looking at the boxes, but I raised my eyes back to his.

"Little relevancy that bore to my choice of boxes, sir."

"Did it?" he asked, and perked a brow.

"I believe so, yes."

He drew a cigar from a shirt pocked I hadn’t noticed before and put it in between his lips without lighting it.

"You’d be wrong, then."

His hands groped around the middle boxe’s lid for a moment, and when they found a steady hold they slid underneath the top and flipped it open. I still couldn’t see inside.

"I hope your opinion changes," he remarked in a lowered tone, and swung the box around for me to see inside.

A delicate, blood-red rose lay nestled in the fabric that lined the bottom of the box. My jaw dropped open and I met the man’s gaze, unable to force any words from my mouth.

"I--"

He nodded.

"It’s rumoured that the petals’ glass was melted with a rare crimson stone that was found far out in the desert many years ago. The craftsmanship is the manifestation of perfection." He took a puff from the unlit cigar.

"Take care not to prick your finger," he said, "or perhaps your fate will be decided for you."

He closed the box and pushed it toward me.