The Liberian

Chapter 44

“I didn’t read them,” Hardy said softly. “Your correspondence with the prince isn’t my business.”

“How did you know they were from him?” Halle asked dumbly.

“I’ve known the prince a long time. He is a talented and powerful Firebearer. It’s hard for him to make anything without leaving a little trace magic on it. It’s faint enough that even most magical people wouldn’t know much by it, but...” she shrugged, not really finishing.

Halle ran her fingertips over the top of the stack wistfully. If only she could return to those days.

“Did you hear the verdict?” Halle asked, shutting her wardrobe.

“The minister just told me you were part of the Tower now.” Hardy shook her head.

“I was found not guilty for half—the better half—of my crimes. But for what I was found guilty for... I’ve been drafted into the army. I’m property of the Empire now. I will leave with the soldiers as they head back to fight.” Her tone was level and dull, the numbness hadn’t worn off yet.

“Property?” Hardy gasped. Halle simply nodded at her. “Do you know anything about combat?” Halle shook her head. “Have you ever fought someone before in your life?” Halle shook her head again. “They’re trying to get you killed.” Hardy was brave enough to say it aloud.

“Yes, I think that’s the plan,” Halle agreed weakly.

“They march soon, I hear.” Hardy sat heavily in the room’s single chair and took a moment to let it sink in.

“Well, you can have my room when I’m dead,” Halle remarked darkly. It wasn’t as though she deserved as nice a room as this.

“You will not die,” Hardy announced, determined. “We will heal you and then, when you march, you will be trained in the legions. I’ll speak with Prince Derek and Major Gales.”

“Major Gales?” Halle swallowed. She wanted to share the woman’s determination, but that would mean everything happening to her was real.

“Major Gales is one of the leaders of the White Legion under Prince Derek and Head Major Jax, though I think Jax is still at the front. Major Gales is here, and she will be marching back as well. The march will take two or three months headed north,” Hardy explained. “It only took a month to get here, but the men were lighter loaded with enough horses to go around. This time there will be new recruits, so they will be marching on foot. There will also be heavily burdened pack horses and carts bringing food and supplies. And the army will stop to pick up additional soldiers from the West at the Crossroads, I hear. You’ll gain some time there also. All that time you will be training.”

As Hardy elaborated, her confidence became infectious. It seemed less impossible and marginally probable that Halle might learn enough to keep herself alive. That is, until the memories of the Northerners in all their ruthless resolve came back to her. Halle, bit her lip, it was hopeless to think she would be able to do anything.

“Come, we’ll speak on this later.” Hardy stood as if sensing her shifting determination. “Let me show you the baths. I’m sure you’d like a wash.”

Halle nodded; there was little that appealed more in the world than bathing. Perhaps she could scrub her skin away and find a new person beneath it.

Just like everything else in the Tower, the baths were a significant upgrade from the servants’ baths. It was communal, unlike the lavish private room she had used to bathe in before the Gala. But here too, there were spigots with hot and cold water; two in each of the ten stalls that sat ready for people to wash with before soaking in a steaming pool that covered the back third of the floor.

Halle hadn’t even wanted to touch her clean clothes, she felt so filthy. Hardy had been kind enough to carry them for her, and the other woman placed them in a small changing area before a large mirror. Halle stopped and looked at herself for the first time in almost four days.

Her hair was a bird’s nest, sticking this way and that. It was a good three inches shorter with all the knots. Her face was streaked with blood, soot, and caked makeup. Her eyes looked tired and worn, and her cheeks a more hollow than she remembered them being. Halle ran a finger down the gash that ran between a White eye and a split lip, beginning to laugh.

“Halle?” Hardy asked gently, her concern evident.

“I’m a mess. No wonder the senators had little difficulty seeing me as a crazed killer,” Halle continued to laugh. It echoed through the empty hopelessness she found within her. She shook her head.

“I need to see your wounds, Halle.” Hardy pressed her fingertips together. “I’ll go get whatever salves are necessary once I know their status.”

Halle paused a moment as the other woman waited expectantly. Hardy was telling her to undress, she realized.

With a breath, Halle pulled the sack over her head. Her hands trembled as the air hit her skin, and Halle forced herself to be brave. With an angry grunt she threw the burlap ball and underclothes into a corner.

“Burn it, Hardy,” she barked, a dark tone in her voice that tasted heady and almost sweet in its rough tang.

Hardy nodded, and with a glance it was consumed in an orange flame until nothing was left but a small White spot on the tile.

The Western woman rounded her and seemed to be making a mental list. She looked closely at Halle’s shoulder, pulling away the remaining bandage that Halle hadn’t fussed with. She moved to her head next, taking off the soiled gauze.

Normally Halle would not feel very comfortable being n***d in the presence of another woman. Hardy had a clinical manner to her, which made it all the easier. But Halle saw the remnants of Rat and Mole’s a***e, the purpling of her abdomen, arms, and legs. Hardy spared her any unhelpful coddling or pointless anger, saying nothing of a***e.

“All right, they don’t look too bad, physically at least,” she said thoughtfully, after another turn. “I’ll go get a few things and be back. Go ahead and start washing up. I asked the other girls to stay away for a bit, so you should have privacy.”

Halle sat in a stall and turned on the hot water. She doused herself the second the bucket was full. The water was scalding, and Halle took a breath, repeating the process. It couldn’t be hot enough, and after the fourth bucket her skin was bright pink and slightly steaming.

Working a bar of soap to a lather, Halle found a small pumice stone and used it liberally. She applied all the pressure she could. At first, it was for the thick layer of grime but each time she stopped, the thought of Rat and Mole’s assault raining down on her consumed her. Eventually her skin was splotchy with raw—almost bleeding—spots where bruises once were. Halle threw the stone away before she could harm herself further.

She poured water over herself again and turned to her hair. She lathered in soap with delicate fingers, working on the tangles and scabbing at her scalp. The water ran red with dried blood, so Halle washed it again. After the third washing she found a small brush and attempted to comb through the hopeless mess.

It was slow going; each time she put the brush in her hair, it hit a snag. Halle started with the crown of her head and began working downward. Around halfway, all the knots began to stack on each other and she couldn’t work the comb through. Halle attempted to brush from the bottom, but to no avail. She tried the left side, then the right side, but found no luck.Halle threw the brush against the wall and buried her face in her hands. She didn’t want to cry anymore; she was tired of feeling weak and sad. She was tired of feeling hopeless, tired of fighting, and tired of feeling like the world was against her. Standing, she walked back over to the mirror, looking at the mass of knots halfway through her hair.

A glint of silver caught her eye, and Halle picked up a razor. Grabbing a hunk of hair she took a breath. The wet clump that fell to the floor was one of the most psychologically beneficial things she’d done in some time. Halle grabbed the next fist of hair and the razor glided through it effortlessly, then the next, and the next.

She would cut it away. She would cut away the anger, the pain, and the frustration. She’d cut and cut until she was sculpted into something better, something stronger. They wanted to kill her, so this Halle would die, she resolved, and a new Halle would be born from her ashes.

“Halle?” Hardy’s faint voice broke the silence. Halle wondered why her shoulders wouldn’t stop shaking.

“It was a hopeless mess; I didn’t really like it anyways.” Halle shrugged at the pile of hair on the floor, as though she were indifferent to the length she had always carried on her head. Her fingers went easily though the remaining hair now, short enough that the nape of her neck showed.

“Sit,” Hardy instructed, motioning to the stool in the stall while retrieving the straight razor. Hardy proceeded to apply a more masterful hand to her hack job. “Do you want bangs?” Hardy motioned across her own forehead at the hair that landed right before her eyes.

Halle shrugged. “Anything is fine.” She didn’t care much now; the healing part of her haircut was over.

Hardy hummed a moment and then worked with the hair around her face. Halle thought she should feel nervous with someone holding a knife so close to her eyes, but she felt completely calm near Hardy. The dark-skinned woman cut a low swoop that left the hair almost falling over her right eye, and began to touch up her work.

“There.” Hardy stepped back. “Come here, look.”

Hardy held her hand, gently leading her to the mirror. Halle did not recognize the person staring back at her. Dull skin and listless eyes had a dangerously piercing quality about them. She brought her fingers up to her hair. Halle had never worn it this short before, and she wasn’t sure who she was with it cut so severe.

“Thank you.” Halle didn’t know what else to say.

“You’re welcome.” Hardy smiled kindly and placed a large towel around her shoulders. It felt like silk after the burlap.

Hardy instructed her to sit again on the small bath stool and began to apply salves to her wounds. Hardy handed her a bottle of liquid to drink that created a momentary fire in her veins. Her shoulder required closer inspection.

“Who stitched this?” Hardy asked, reaching for a small tub of white paste.

“Prince Baldair,” Halle answered.

“Prince Baldair?” Hardy repeated, raising her eyebrows. “That sounds like a story.”

“He said his brother called in a favor,” Halle repeated his words, but left out the remark of him wanting to do it for his own reasons as well.

“Those two... One of them is always claiming a debt of the other.” Hardy clicked her tongue and shook her head.

Halle decided to let her questions slide.

She pondered her own relationship with the crown prince. Was she indebted to him? Could he be indebted to her? Either notion made her feel uncomfortable. She didn’t like feeling like there was a score being kept. She would do almost anything for Derek, it didn’t matter if she owed him or not.