Of Dreams and Rust by Sarah Fine

least a hundred of them, and they have a few packhorses to carry supplies. Several of the rebels are women, as dirty faced and ragged as the men, but also as sturdy and determined-looking.
    I recognize at least two of the rebels as men from Melik’s village, men who worked at the factory last year. One of them is the man who wiped blood from my face and hands after finding me in the lower levels of Gochan One with Ugur, who had been killed by one of Bo’s spiders. Baris, I think his name is. He is short for a Noor, but built strong like a bull, and he and Melik embraced when they met on the ridge. Now all the Noor have separated into camps, and their fires, fed by scraggly brush, dot the ridge.
    I tear one long strip from my skirt, then another, then another. Above us the stars glitter like chips of ice. My head throbs with the effort of blocking out memories that could bring me down, but I will not let myself collapse and give up. I am best when I am working, so I will work. By the time I am finished, the hem of my skirt is three inches higher than it should be. Ordinarily, that would be quite shameful, but I am wearing long boots and my overcoat, so nothing is revealed.
    I get to my feet and slowly approach Bajram. He is guarding us while the others, Melik included, eat dried beef and hard biscuits with their commander. They are clustered on the boulders just up the ridge, where they have built their own fire. They no longer seem to have a fear of detection—we are deep in the hills, with a clear view of the slope below us and the path on either side. From the dramatic gestures and loud laughs, I suspect they are drinking more than water.
    Bajram’s brow furrows when I hold up the strips of my dress and wave them under his nose. He has hollow cheeks and a soft-looking mouth that he has tried to hide with a scraggly beard, and up close it is clear to me that he is Melik’s age, maybe younger. He looks down at my shortened skirt peeking out from the folds of my overcoat, and then at the scraps in my hands. He steps away from me cautiously, as if he believes my behavior is part of a bizarre Itanyai mating ritual.
    â€œBandages,” I say, then point at the bedraggled group of young prisoners, some of whom are dozing with their heads on their knees. Their comrades sit around them, shoulder to shoulder, but we are Itanyai, and Itanyai men do not lean on one another. I run my fingers along my throat and then point to them again, saying I want to help in clumsy Noor. “Yorh zhaosteyardie.”
    Bajram gestures with the nose of his rifle. “Go.”
    I place my hand over my heart and turn my palm to him, and he rolls his eyes and mutters something in Noor. Biting my lip, I inch past him and kneel next to the nearest soldier, who has blood crusted in his ears and the rims of his nostrils. He stares into the fire as if it is the only thing he is aware of. We are in the open, sitting on a mountainside at the edge of the massive, deep canyon that connects the Ring to Melik’s village, linking the west to the east. It is a grand sight, lit by stars and moon, brightened by cold, but the young man next to me is focused on the flames. “How are you?” I ask softly, and he flinches.
    Slowly his gaze slides up to mine. “I told my father I would be back before Third Holiday,” he says. “I promised him that we would feast together.”
    â€œAnd maybe you will.” I settle in next to him. The flesh of his throat is chafed and raw from the rough pull of the rope. Now that we aren’t walking, the Noor raiders have bound the soldiers’ feet and hands instead. “I can bandage your throat for you.”
    â€œWho are you, sister? Why do you talk to the Red One as if you know him?” he asks, confirming that although Melik is not the man on the poster, it hardly matters. The title fits, after all.
    My fist closes over the thin brown strips of cloth. Now it is my turn to