Terrible fear about Rohzah lashed through her.
“Good morning, sister!” Sweet Lady! That was Rohzah’s voice. Shahron threw off her blankets and leaped up.
Then it was a dream, all a dream. Once again, tears flooded Shahron’s vision, and she held out her good arm to her cousin, who took it . . .
Or was this woman who looked so like Rohzah truly her cousin? she wondered suddenly, horribly, as the girl pressed her hand, smoothed her hair as gently as a sister would, and offered to bring her food—but all in Ahrmehnee so thickly accented that Shahron could scarcely make sense of it. Rohzah did not speak that way.
But Ehrikah did.
The happy tears dried in Shahron’s eyes. Other things about this “Rohzah” came into her mind. This girl strode; the cousin whom Shahron had spent her life with sidled. This girl spoke out; her cousin’s voice was very soft. Now, “Rohzah” grinned; and that was not at all like her own cousin’s smile.
Madness threatened, dancing at the borders of her consciousness. Shahron was captive to Witchmen and Witchwomen. They could do anything. And, apparently, hideously, Ehrikah had. This was not Rohzah, who stood before her, but a terrible masquerade in Rohzah’s flesh.
“Jay was right,” murmured the Witchwoman in her cousin’s body. “You’re brighter than you look. Why’d you have to break the damned arm?”
“Where is Rohzah?” Shahron faltered out before the force of Ehrikah’s gaze silenced her.
She gestured at the familiar face, the familiar dark hair, dark eyes, and aquiline profile, even the torn, stained clothes that Shahron knew as well (and had come to dislike as much) as her own garments.
“No.” Shahron shook her head stubbornly. “Where is what makes Rohzah herself and not you? Where did that go?”
Ehrikah shrugged. The very indifference of that gesture made Shahron tremble.
“Gone?” She was going to go mad, but before her wits left her, she would refuse to scream or plead. Beneath her panic ran a tiny, treacherous thought: This is why she hit. me. This is what she wanted me for until I broke my arm. She felt a passionate, shameful gratitude for the pain in her arm, the pain that had damned and destroyed her poor cousin.
That came close to breaking her.
“Does it matter where your cousin’s . . . surely, let’s not call it a soul . . . went? She’s gone, but I am here,” Ehrikah said. “Here, and ready and willing to be your loving cousin, to return with you to your family. They go, I believe, to seek the God Milo?” Her lip curled scornfully around the venerable name; and that too was unlike Rohzah. The familiar, strongly marked features seemed suddenly strange and hateful. Once again, Shahron longed for a knife and two good hands. On which of you would you use it? she asked herself, and was honest enough to admit that that was another thing she did not know. But she was stronger than Rohzah, and she knew it. Perhaps even one-handed . . .
“I wouldn’t,” said Ehrikah. “I have a Black Belt” —whatever that meant, Shahron thought—“and even in this body, I can probably break your other arm before you even pull my hair.
“Sit down.”
Shahron sat. Outside the tiny room in which she had been pent, so unlike her own room of thick, whitewashed walls and colorful blankets, she could smell hot food cooking. Abruptly, sickeningly, she was hungry, and she hated herself for that too. Rohzah was dead, or worse than dead, her mind was stolen—and all that Shahron could think of was food.
Well, maybe not quite all.
“I won’t take you back!” she told Ehrikah, too angry and too afraid to spit or to shout. “I won’t betray my family.” At least, not more than I already have. Then, more cleverly, she continued, “Besides, just listen to yourself. You can scarcely speak Ahrmeh-nee. You know nothing about Rohzah, about us, our family. How do you expect to be Rohzah in front of the people who have known her all her life?”
“You have known her all her life. You can teach me.”
“No!” This time, Shahron did shout.
“Anything wrong in there, ma’am, miss?” came a drawling voice that Shahron recognized. It belonged to Jay Corbett’s young soldier.
“No!” snapped Ehrikah.
“Then, with the doctor’s approval, I’ll be bringing in breakfast—”
“Get out of here!” Ehrikah ordered, nearly hissing in anger. “Look. I haven’t time to sweet-talk you into this. You’re not a total moron, so I’ll give you all the facts straight, and I’ll only do it once. Either you coach me and bring me in, or you will wind up like your cousin Rohzah. Or worse. For example, there’s a man I know who told me that he’d like to try walking about in a female body. He likes to play rough, too. Do you know what I’m talking about?”
Just as well that Shahron hadn’t eaten after all, she thought, even though the idea of fouling Ehrikah’s boots still appealed to her. She tried, in any case. Bile spattered out. Dimly, through spasms of gagging and dry heaves, she heard Ehrikah swear and footsteps retreating fast. Then gentle hands held her head, and the words “Let it all out,” rumbled in her ears. Finally, those same hands wiped her mouth and eased her back down to sleep.
Why was a man as important as the Witchman’s general standing guard over her?
When Shahron woke again, she was truly hungry this time. Hot breads and smoked meats steamed gently on a plate that the trooper Cabell was setting out. “Afternoon, miss,” he said easily.
“Why do you call me this ‘miss’?”
Inexplicably, Cabell looked disappointed. “The doctor .. . she says she has to be called that or this ‘Miz’ thing. The general says that ‘miss’ is a title for a young lady and a guest, so I call you miss.”
“I am a prisoner, not a guest.”
Cabell shrugged. “Well, I reckon that’s something you’ll have to take up with the general, miss. He said that you were to eat this, all of it. I could help you with soup and cut up your meat for you, if you’re feeling too poorly to do for yourself, though.” Shahron remembered what Jay Corbett had told her about the three young fellows who’d fight to accept her, even without a proper dowry. Could this young man be one of them?
In his presence, Ehrikah’s threats seemed very far away—and the food was close at hand. This Cabell couldn’t be more eager to see her eat than she was to try. The meal tasted good, and she found herself careful not to spill on the clean white napkin that Cabell tied kerchief-fashion about her neck. Finally, she pushed back from the emptied tray.
“Now for a face-wash,” Cabell said, and, much to her surprise, did so. “Lord, you clean up pretty. How’s the arm?”
“Better.” Shahron didn’t need to see Cabell snap upright, his face suddenly a mask of duty and attention, to know that there was another man in the room.
“Excellent. And you, Cabell, anytime that you want to be a nursemaid, just say so.”
The trooper looked straight ahead.
“And you, Shahron, do you think that you’re all over your sickness?”
“How did you—”
“How did I know that you were awake?” asked General Corbett. “Let me tell you, child, that there is nothing about my camp that I do not keep aware of. Nothing at all.”
Including what your Ehrikah plans for me? Do you know about that, and do you approve? Do you know that I would rather die?
“You could let me go,” she attacked doggedly.
“Where would you go?”
“I don’t know. But at least I would be free. And safe from ...” she grimaced.
“I cannot. I have oaths I cannot betray.” He paused, and the silence was long and heavy. “I am sorry, child.”
He might be a general, but as he left her room, his face twisted with distaste.
All that day, Shahron was left alone to sleep, to dream, to wake, sweating, and to fear all over again. Sunset came in a blaze of red, and she began to await . . . someone. She was afraid that Ehrikah would come, but instead Cabell entered.