Chapter 8

The four remaining Handmaidens walk slowly and gracefully. They lack Anuket's stride of confidence; instead, they move as if in a trance, going about their work without a real sense of purpose. Their eyes gaze at us, childlike, with no hint of Anuket's cold, calculating stare. Somehow, it's almost as intimidating. The less I know about someone, the more dangerous they are. The Handmaidens give away nothing.

"Road Warriors," the thin, blonde woman greets us quietly.

She says the title with awe in her voice, like she's never seen people like us before. But Three has been here before, so that can't be true. Maybe she's new. Or maybe it's part of the act.

"We have dinner prepared in the back and shall run a bath for each of you shortly," she continues. "Is there anything else you will need during your stay?"

I'm momentarily distracted, trying to remember how long it's been since I've had a bath. Five hundred days? A thousand? I can't even remember the last time I had the luxury of washing my face, never mind my whole body. Maybe staying here won't be so bad.

Once again, I'm pulled out of my thoughts by eyes. The Handmaidens are all looking at us expectantly, and I can't seem to maintain eye contact with any of them for very long. What's worse, I find my gaze drifting downwards toward the translucent gowns. Cord's voice suddenly echoes in my mind, bubbling up from somewhere in the back of my memory.

"Womenfolk don't usually 'ppreciate others lookin' at their womenfolk parts," Cord had once explained to Simon very slowly, as if talking to someone with half a brain. My unfortunate Utopian friend had just gotten smacked in the face by a woman who still had her pride if nothing else. "We're here on o-fficial Road Warrior business. No more wandering eyes, yeah?"

I stare at my boots instead, trying to think of something I might need. I notice the bandages wrapped around my leg, now just as covered in dirt as the rest of my clothing. Anuket mentioned the wound, though I'd all but forgotten it since arriving here. Eden is full of distractions. Remembering it brings back a dull, throbbing pain. That gives me my answer.

"I, uh…" I look back up at the Handmaidens, determined to keep eye contact this time. The blonde woman's grey eyes meet mine, unblinking. "Could use some clean bandages for my leg."

"Only the best medical care for our guest." She motions another Handmaiden, the scribe with dark hair and blue eyes, towards me. "Trace, please clean the blonde Road Warrior up."

"Please, follow me, Roman." Trace's voice is gentle but somewhat distant - as if she had just woken up from a daydream.

The freckled scribe turns and walks toward an opening on the opposite side of the throne, politely motioning for me to follow. I follow her without so much as a glance back at Three and Chuckles. I'm sure they can handle themselves.

I enter a narrow hallway carved into the rock wall. The space is dark, especially compared to the well-lit throne room. The air grows musty, and the patches of moss become more sparse as we leave the water source behind. My eyes dart around, peering into every shadowy crevice in the stone. Hallways make me nervous. Of all the things that could possibly bother me in this crazy world - hallways. What if I need to move at a moment's notice? There's hardly room to breathe, let alone dodge an attack. Not that I think this Handmaiden would attack me, but I can't be certain of anything in a place like this. I wish I had my knife. I catch myself adjusting and readjusting my scarf as I walk. Nervous habit, I guess. Frustrated, I force my hands to my sides and try to distract myself by focusing on the Handmaiden.

Trace walks with perfect posture, swaying her hips in a steady rhythm as she moves. Her bare feet barely make a sound, making my bootsteps seem like gunshots by comparison. Her dark, slightly wavy hair hangs halfway down her back, swishing from side to side with every step. Behind the curtain of hair, I can see her back through the thin robe that doesn't really seem to serve a practical purpose. As the hair bounces back and forth, I catch glimpses of a large tattoo stretching across her entire back. I squint, trying to get a better look at the ink on her dark skin in the dimly lit hallway. After a moment, I realize it's all words. I have no way of knowing what it says, but I'd guess it's the details of her slavery. Cord had a tattoo like that - descriptions of his blood, condition, where he came from, age. This one might be the same thing. Simon could read it to me if he were here. He's the one who taught me to read numbers. He was going to teach me more - letters, how to spell my name, words - but the way things turned out, we never got the chance. Besides, it's not much of a useful skill for a Road Warrior.

I look away from Trace as the hallway changes. A few large holes appear in the walls, pouring some light out into the hall. Doorways with no doors. I glance inside one to see a pantry full of fresh fruit and vegetables. My mouth waters at the sight. Didn't the blonde Handmaiden say something about dinner? Another doorway reveals a small room with a single desk and a few shelves full of books breaking apart at the binding - like a tiny version of Mend's library. A different hallway branches off through another opening. The final set of entrances lead to modest living quarters lit by electric lights. They might be the Handmaidens' rooms, or maybe they're spaces for other guests. I don't know if anyone else actually lives in the palace. I haven't even seen any Crocodiles since we passed through the front door. They must be hiding around here somewhere; I doubt Anuket would be stupid enough to leave herself so unguarded. Then again, her pride might make her overconfident. She seems completely secure in her power. Is that an act, too?

Trace eventually stops at one of these entrances. The hall continues beyond her, turning a corner and preventing me from seeing anything deeper in the palace. The scribe stands beside the doorway and turns around, looking up at me with innocent blue eyes. With one arm, she motions me inside.

"Right in this room, Roman. It shouldn't take me long to dress your wound."

I narrow my eyes, shooting her a wary look.

"Just need bandages," I protest. "I can do the rest myself."

"It won't hurt for me to at least look at it," Trace replies softly. "You would not want that to get an infection. A silent killer."

I give a noncommittal grunt and step into the room, blinking against the bright, electric light coming from a bulb overhead. The walls, floor, and ceiling are the same stone as the rest of the palace, this time clear of moss. There are no hanging plants or decorations of any kind. Several dressers line the walls, along with a few tables, all made of wood. A lot of furniture for such a small space. Against the right wall is a wooden bed frame supporting a mattress without sheets. Unlike other I've seen, this bed isn't full of holes or rusted springs. It looks soft, clean, and comfortable. In fact, everything in the room is in good condition - perhaps the cleanest I've seen since Utopia. Much more inviting than the dark hallway.

"Please, sit down on this bed so I can remove the bandage," Trace insists gently. I hear her feet softly brushing against the floor as she enters the room behind me.

"Fine," I reluctantly agree, mostly because I really want to sit down.

I lower myself onto the edge of the bed, marveling at how soft it is. Shame I probably won't be able to get much rest here, thanks to my paranoia. Trace steps forward and leans over to examine my leg. This close to the Handmaiden, a smell washes over me. Unlike the mysterious smell in the throne room, this one I recognize: cucumber and olive oil. Haven't smelled either of those since Utopia. The gardens of East Eden must be very good if they have enough crops leftover to use for their bodies.

Trace silently begins to unravel the red-stained bandage around my thigh. The wrapping is partially stuck to my skin and pants; the sticky cloth makes a grotesque ripping sound as the Handmaiden pulls it free from my leg. The process seems to take ages; Three must have really overdone it. I conceal a wince as the musty air of the room hits the now exposed wound.

"Oh my," the scribe gasps slightly. "Unfortunately, Roman, you are going to need stitches. It's a pretty nasty gash." She throws the dirty bandages on the table and opens one of the dresser drawers, digging for supplies.

I look down and feel a surge of pain, as if my body had been suppressing the feeling until I became aware of the severity. The spear wound is about the length and width of my pointer finger. The entire area is caked with dry blood, preventing me from seeing how deep it is. It's far from the worst scrape I've gotten, but Trace is right: it needs medical attention.

The quiet Handmaiden returns from rummaging through the dressers. She sets a tray of medical equipment on the bed before kneeling on the floor beside my leg. She picks up a bottle and a cloth from the tray. I clench my teeth as she pours water onto the would and begins working at it with the piece of clean fabric.

"This is just to clear out any debris before I begin giving sutures," she explains. She sounds almost completely different now, speaking clearly and attentively. Seems she's out of whatever daydream she was having earlier.

After she finishes cleaning out the wound, Trace trades the bottle and cloth for a hook-shaped needle threaded with a thin wire. She also picks up what looks like a tiny clamp with long handles.

"This will hurt a little, but it isn't much compared to what you are used to, Road Warrior." She says 'Road Warrior' admiringly, just like the blonde Handmaiden. Makes me uncomfortable.

Trace inserts the needle into my leg. I watch her work, ignoring the pain by focusing on her skill. She clearly knows what she's doing. A medic as well as a scribe. I wonder if all the Handmaidens have this kind of training. Trace ties off small knots in the wire with the clamps, working so fast with the tiny tool that I can barely see what's happening. She administers six stitches in a little over a minute. Once finished, she cleans the area of any fresh blood.

"You can cut those out in a few weeks," Trace directs as she wraps clean bandages around my thigh. She speaks much more confidently now. I guess stitches are more interesting that notes. "Come see me in the morning so I can check one more time before you leave. You probably won't need more bandages, but just to be safe."

I nod, but she isn't looking at me. I don't think she cares much, though, since she doesn't press me for a response. I guess whether I take her advice or not isn't really her concern. She's just doing her job. If I die, Anuket will just find another Road Warrior to do her work. Trace finishes with the bandages, but she doesn't get up. Just kneels there for several moments, staring at her handiwork. I start to feel uncomfortable, but just as I open my mouth to say something, she speaks again.

"Um… Roman…" she mumbles. Her voice is quiet again, but not distant. She sounds sheepish this time - alert but nervous. "What's it like? Out there?"

Her question takes me by surprise. Has she really never left the palace? Maybe she means outside of Eden. I figured she was bought from a slaver or captured by warriors, but maybe she was too young when it happened to remember much. And even if she were born here, she must have heard stories about the Wastes. Even within the white walls of Utopia, I heard what the outside world was like - and it was never anything I enjoyed hearing about. I narrow my eyes at her, but she stares at the ground.

"It's, uh… It's…" I struggle with my response. It occurs to me that I don't have to answer her at all. But then again, she did just fix my leg up a thousand times better than I ever could've done, so I guess I owe her. "It's… bright."

She doesn't reply, waiting for something more. I almost wish Anuket had cut out my tongue. I take a breath and try again.

"It's… like this." I point at my bandaged thigh. Trace looks at it, paying close attention. "Hurts. World can kill you instantly, or it can take its time. Sneak up on you. Silent killer, like you said. Except there's no one to fix it. No one put stitches in it or cover it over. It won't get better. But you can't just sit and wait for it to get you. You have to survive because… because… you just have to, yeah?"

I shut my mouth, suddenly realizing I've said too much. Guess it's a lot easier to talk when she's not looking at me with those eyes. Maybe it's because I'm jealous. If her question is genuine, it means those eyes have never seen the horrors of the Wasteland. My eyes are dark - full of death and destruction. Maybe even madness, like Anuket said.

"That makes sense," Trace whispers, finally getting to her feet. The shyness is gone from her voice, replaced by a calmness that doesn't seem completely sincere. "It's just… I wish there was someone to fix it. The world wasn't always like this, you know. It was pleasant once…"

She trails off, lost in thought. Those books I saw in the small library must have plenty of pre-Fall knowledge. I was never much interested in that stuff. Why bother with the past? Can't help much now. We're stuck with what we have. No going back.

"You aren't like other Road Warriors I have met," Trace continues after a moment. "Not like Three, or Bishop, or Fetch. Those awful things Lady Anuket said - they aren't true are they? Surely there are still good people…"

She goes silent again, this time seeming to be at a loss for words. I've heard this kind of thing before. It's the talk of someone at the end of their rope. Someone who knows the world is dead but still doesn't want to believe it. Yet, she speaks quietly and calmly - in full control of her emotions. Her face isn't sad or happy. She looks almost content.

"Even good people have to do bad things to stay alive," I reply as images of Cord and Simon flash in my mind. "Doesn't make them bad people. Not if they can shoulder the regret without letting it drive them insane."

I'm not sure if I'm reassuring her or myself. Both, I guess. This sort of thing is what I used to tell myself every day. But I've crossed the line more than a few times by now. I'm not a good person anymore, but I like to believe they still exist out there. Somewhere.

Trace nods, absorbing my words. She folds her arms over her breasts, as if suddenly self-conscious about them. Or maybe to make speaking to her a bit more comfortable for me. I look at her carefully, studying her face as she gazes at the floor. Why is she still here, talking to me? And why am I telling all this to someone I just met? What do I know about her? She's a slave, Handmaiden, and assistant to one of the most powerful people in the Wastes. She can read and write, is skilled with surgery, and has pre-Fall knowledge. Her vapid expression is possibly a cover; it's impossible to know what she's thinking. Her unblemished skin, innocent expression, curiosity, and education means she's from some remaining bastion of humanity, much like me. But instead of being pushed into the harsh reality of a Road Warrior, she was pushed into a life of servitude. I learned how to fight, and she gained knowledge. Both can be lethal in their own right.

"But what about you? Are you a good person, Roman?" She avoids eye contact as if embarrassed or fearful, but her voice remains serene. "Can I… trust you?"

Trust. A dangerous word.

"If you're smart, you won't trust anyone," I say, leaving the bed and moving to lean against the opposite wall. Sitting was making me feel like I was being interrogated. Maybe I am. But there's no harm in telling her what I already told Anuket. "That stuff I said about my friend who went mad? Almost killed me because I trusted him."

I go quiet for a moment, thinking of how Mend used to worry about the Sovereign's sanity. How more and more people were getting banished for madness. Something in our blood, Mend said. Simon's blood. My blood?

"Someday I'll snap, just like he did. Any good left in me now, it'll all be gone when that happens."

Trace looks enthralled by my words, her placid expression now changed to one of intrigue. What could be interrogation could just as easily be a sheltered person fascinated by an outsider. I haven't decided if she is a threat or not, but her body language and expression seem to put her slightly more toward not-dangerous.

"You are from a city, aren't you, Roman?" She makes eye contact with me briefly before shifting her gaze slightly to the left of my head. Maybe she knows her eyes make me uncomfortable. "A real city. One not completely ravaged by raiders, slaves, radiation, and War. You're too honest, too kind, too full of regrets to be a born and raised Road Warrior, are you not?" She speaks faster, and her eyes suddenly seem to glow with excitement. "Please, tell me all about it! No one else will hear of it." She stops and swallows hard, looking slightly embarrassed. "I… write in my free time."

I don't bother to hide the look of surprise that flashes across my face. She went from no emotions to several in less than a minute. I told her that I'm going mad, and she still wants to know more about me. She called me kind, but I haven't done anything nice for her. Haven't done anything bad, either. Maybe 'not bad' is still better than she's used to. It's strange having someone actually want to talk to me. But it's also kind of… nice. Relieving, in a way. At the same time, it's suspicious. There's a good chance she'll run straight to Anuket to report everything I say. Did a Handmaiden ask Three these same questions? Maybe that was the start of how he lost his eye.

"I'm sure Three has more exciting stories than I do," I respond, narrowing my eyes at her yet again. "Why are you so interested in me?"

"I already told you," Trace responds quickly and excitedly. "You aren't like other Road Warriors. You aren't as rough, savage, or stupid."

I raise an eyebrow, unconvinced. The freckled Handmaiden leans against the bedside table, clasping her hands below her waist and regaining her composure.

"It's just that… I don't really talk to a lot of people other than Anuket when she gives me orders, the other Handmaidens while we are working together, or brutish Warriors who only talk about killing, pillaging, and sex." She speaks quietly again, returning her gaze to the floor. "And you haven't proudly talked about how many tribals you brutally murdered, bragged how many gallons of guzzolene you stole from a struggling village, or fucked me with your eyes. You may be right about not being able to trust anyone, but I figure you are at least as close as I can get."

They must get some nasty types in here if I'm the first person she's been able to consider trusting. I still think it's kind of a stupid idea, but if it means I don't have to spend all my time here alone with my thoughts, maybe I could give it a shot.

"Fine," I agree. "Won't tell you everything. Probably couldn't if I tried - don't remember it all."

I pause, trying to remember what she asked me before. I take a deep breath, and suddenly she's looking at me. Meeting my eyes. Waiting. This time it's my turn to look away. I choose to stare at the medical supplies on the bed as I begin.

"You're right, I'm from a city. Big one, far away from here. It was clean - cleaner than this place, even. Perfect. If you weren't perfect, you got kicked out. Simple."

I pause, trying to decide how much to say. Simon's face appears in my mind, smiling like he did in the years before Mend got banished.

"My friend - you would have liked him, I think. He was smart - a lot smarter than me. He could read and write. He learned all sorts of things from a very old man. One day that man got thrown out for going blind. We went after him. Ran into a Road Warrior who was burying his corpse. He taught us how to survive - made us Road Warriors ourselves. The three of us were..."

I trail off, deciding I don't want to talk about Simon and Cord or the bond we all shared out on the Road.

"Well, uh, you already know the rest."

I glance up at her face, suddenly feeling nervous. Did I say too much? Trace's eyes are wide with what looks like genuine delight.

"So you were considered perfect? What was this city called?" She doesn't bother to pause between questions. "You can't read? I could teach you! Why didn't you go back to the city?"

She stops abruptly, her bright eyes filling with sadness. She looks at the ground again.

"That was inappropriate of me, I apologize," she mutters, tracing a circle on the stone floor with her bare foot. "I'm sorry to hear about your friend. I'm sure he was a great man."

"Gone and done now." I hesitate, then decide to answer her questions. Maybe it'll get her to show some emotion again. "As for being perfect, guess I was good enough to stay in… in Utopia." The name comes out like a curse, surprising me. I can't remember the last time I said it out loud, but it seems I've grown bitter since then. "But no one's really perfect. I'd've burned with the rest of 'em if I stayed. Instead, I'm out here, slowly losing my sanity in this hell. Can't say I know which is better."

I have to think for a moment in order to remember what came next in her long stream of questions. It's kind of nice, being able to talk about myself. Even if I don't go into details, it makes me feel… lighter, somehow.

"Thought about going back, but I… don't think I really want to. Nothing there for me but memories I wish I could get rid of. Besides, there's probably nothing left now but a ruin full of scavengers. Good riddance."

I look up at the ceiling, resting the back of my head against the wall. I wonder if she'll write all of this down later. Maybe she'll add things in the gaps I left - make it more exciting. Maybe some of the books in the library are ones she's written herself.

"I can read numbers," I say, remembering another question she asked. "Took me long enough to learn those. Took almost all my friend's patience, too." I lower my head and look at her. She's staring at me again, fascinated. I manage to meet her eyes. "You'd go mad for sure if you tried to teach me to read words."

Trace smiles at that. It makes her blue eyes glow even brighter.

"Maybe I will," she replies, not sounding at all discouraged. "However, I do believe you are the one who said we all need to be a little crazy to survive in this world."

She tries in vain to wipe the grin off her face. Whatever act she was putting on before is completely gone. I wonder if all the Handmaidens are like this behind their facade. I find myself returning a sort of half-smile. It probably looks stupid, but it feels nice.

"How about this?" she continues quickly. "You come back from this job, and I teach you how to read to the best of my ability before you leave? If you ever want to learn more, you can just come back and do another job! You will be able to write your own story!"

My smile widens for a second, then fades away as I think about her offer. I don't need to learn to read; what good would it do me? Why would I write my story? So a group of scavengers can kill me and use the paper for kindling? And yet, I wouldn't mind spending more time around Trace. Out of everyone I've met since I left Utopia, she's the only one I don't feel is trying to get something from me - unless I count excitement. But there's something - someone - that might make things complicated.

"What about Anuket?" I ask, scratching at the scars where my ear used to be. "You wouldn't get… in trouble for that, would you? Don't think she likes me very much."

"Of course not," Trace replies, her smile mildly starting to fade. She suddenly notices the bandages on the table and starts gathering them up. "She has surprisingly few rules with our free time. She may be suspicious of a Road Warrior coming to visit a Handmaiden so often, but as long as we don't have sex, she won't be upset with having a reliable man do work for her." She places the bandages on the tray with the used needle and bloodied cloth. The see-through gown swishes as she moves. She looks down at herself, then back to me, blushing. "And, uh… I could find a coat or something if this makes you uncomfortable."

"Oh. Uh… If you want to… Uh, sure," I stammer, rubbing the stubble on my face in a poor attempt to hide a blush that mirrors hers. Some toughened Road Warrior I turned out to be. I awkwardly clear my throat. "But, uh, I guess you can try teaching me. Just don't expect me to be any good at it, yeah?"

"You're going to love it!" Trace squeals, hurting my good ear. She bounces up and down with excitement, speaking faster and louder than ever. "Reading and writing is great! You never know when you can use it! I'm so excited! I have never taught anyone how to read before! We'll have so much to talk about! After dinner, I'll come find you and we can start the first lesson!"

She suddenly realizes what she's doing and stops bobbing. She sheepishly covers her breasts with her hands and looks away, turning red.

"But uh… I'll be sure to find a jacket first."

I clamp my mouth shut to stop myself from laughing, but it still comes out as a kind of snort. Trace pouts for a moment before breaking into a small smile.

"I'd offer you my jacket, but…" I look down at the grey leather, all torn up and stained with dirt and blood. That reminds me. "I heard something about a bath, yeah?"

"Yes," Trace replies cheerfully. "The other Handmaidens are running your baths. I'll lead you to it."

She turns and heads out the door, exposing her tattoo of words that mean nothing to me. However, with some difficulty, I can make out the numbers 14679, 5, 8, and 140 in the upper left corner. The first might mean days, but days of what? She certainly doesn't look that old. The others could mean anything. Maybe I can ask her about it later, during the lesson.

I follow her down the dim hallway. Trace now has a slight spring in her step, and she walks with purpose. We take a right, entering a shorter hall with five doorways on either side, each with a white curtain hanging beside it. Two of the curtains are closed, and I can hear the soft splashing of water from the other side. The other eight are open. I glance into the nearest one to see a bench placed beside a small pool carved into the floor.

"Any of these rooms, Roman. You deserve a little quiet and privacy, so we have curtains up. They aren't translucent; Goddess forbid someone sees you naked," she says jokingly. "Take all the time you need. When you are ready, dinner will be down that hall to the right. You can't miss it."

I nod slowly, only half paying attention to what she's saying. My eyes are fixed on the pool inside the closest open room. Water. It's so beautiful, clear, inviting. As Trace finishes speaking, I walk towards the open doorway like a man hypnotized. It's only when I turn around to close the curtain that I snap out of it.

"Yeah, to the right, got it," I reply, not sure how long ago she stopped talking. The half-smile returns for a moment as I meet her gaze. "Thank you."

Author's Note: Roman is back! And so am I. With any luck, I should be back to posting chapters more regularly. As a reward for your patience, this chapter is a little longer than the others. For those of you craving more of that Wasteland action, not to worry! Something major is coming up very soon. As always, thank you all for reading. Special thanks this week to Demon Shadow 16 for the review/follow and to Lewibaton for the continual constructive criticism and compliments. Stay tuned.