Sandstorm, roughs for 3,4 & 5
May. 21st, 2006 08:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
maderrI also have Sammie's fairytale finished, though I still dont' know about the ending =_= I'll clean it up and post it after I shower, as writing Sandstorm all day has fried my brain. Hope you enjoy, pardon any errors ^^;
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Three
“Good morning, oh beautiful desert rose.”
Isra’s head shot up from the book he’d been reading, and he moved without thought, lobbing the nearest heavy object – another book – at the speaker’s head. “Shut up. Get out of my tent.”
“Why, Isra! What’s wrong with your face? Is that a scar? Who dared to mark my beautiful desert rose?”
“OUT!” Isra roared, standing and leaping over the small, low table at which he’d been studying, lunging for the speaker and getting him a hard tackle, sending them both to the floor of his tent. “Do you want to die, Simon?”
Simon grinned. “If my death will bring happiness to the face of my beautiful desert rose, then gladly I will give my life.”
“Shut up,” Isra said sourly, and slapped him hard on the chest before rolling off Simon and standing up. His fingers went automatically to the thin scar that ran down the length of his right cheek. “I see you’ve already caught up on Tribal gossip.” He picked up the book he’d thrown at Simon and resumed his seat at the table. “Despite the fact I hear you’ve been popping in and out like a man sleeping with the Sheik’s wife.”
Simon shuddered. “Thank you, no. That woman terrifies me. I think she should be Sheik. I’ve been busy. Very. Is that coffee?”
“Yes, and you can’t have any because you’re an insufferable ass.”
“Oh, insufferable. You’re such a fine student.” Simon sat down across from him and stole the cup Isra said he couldn’t have.
Isra glared, sky-blue eyes flashing with warning. “That is mine. Put it down or I’ll dump it on you.”
“So violent,” Simon with a grin. “It’s kind sexy on you, my beautiful desert rose.” He ducked the punch swung his way, falling on his back and laughing until tears streamed down his face.
“I hate you,” Isra said. “Mind, body, soul all fall into disharmony when you’re around.”
Simon laughed harder, tanned skin flushing red from the exertion of it. Eventually he sat up. “You have to tell me your version of the story, Isra. Did you really try to kill the Crusher?”
“That man needs killing,” Isra said venomously. “His temper is—“
“Worse than yours?” Simon asked with a grin.
Isra hefted a book thoughtfully. “Didn’t I tell you to shut up? What do you want that you’re disturbing my peace so?”
Simon smiled and held his hands up in surrender. “Peace, brother of my soul, I only came to tease you and hear the tale from your lips.”
“There isn’t much to tell,” Isra said with a grunt and set the book down. He combed hands through his ink-black, smoothing it out where tackling Simon had disheveled it. “Uncle and the Ghost Sheik were speaking; the Ghost lost his temper after Uncle refused to agree to certain terms – namely the primary location of Ghost – and when it was obvious Sheik Hashim was going to attack, I moved first. His stupid son blocked my attack and engaged me. No doubt you’ve heard the rest.”
“Well you are rather pretty, Isra. Everyone says so. It’s that western blood, it gives such odd lines to your face.” Simon grinned. “The scar is a nice touch, actually.” He leaned across the table and pressed a quick, soft kiss to Isra’s frown. “Did he really call you a woman? Desert rose? And lived?”
“Only because Uncle made me stop,” Isra grumbled, looking somewhat mollified by the kiss. “Stupid bastard.” He closed the book he’d been reading with a snap and shoved it sullenly away. “Uncle won’t let me out of my tent.”
Simon patted his hand. “You did break protocol by not only trying to kill a Sheik in the middle of peace talks, but also tried to kill an Amir.”
“They started it.”
“All the same.”
“Have I mentioned I hate you? Simon.”
Simon grimaced. “I hate that name, really and truly I do.”
Isra smirked. He lifted his arms up and tilted his head back, stretching with a soft moan, rolling his head to help ease the tension brought on by hours bent over books. Inside his cool tent, he’d discarded all but a pair of loose, black pants. The muscles of his chest and belly rippled as he stretched and moved, hinting at how much strength was in his lean, slender body. His hair was short, cut close to his head, a rich blue-black. Skin bronzed by the sun was the final touch to his exotic looks, mostly eastern but with strong marks of his western father. “Simon, Simon, Simon,” he sang, rolling away as Simon lunged at him, laughing in delight now that the tables were turned.
Simon at last grabbed him, pinning him to one of the many soft, brown and gold carpets lining the floor of Isra’s tent, just barely avoiding knocking them into a small, wooden chest beside the bed, which was a large, deep settee piled with colorful pillows. “I wonder what the Sandstorm would say if he saw his pretty desert rose spread out like this.”
“Dead!” Isra roared, bucking and kicking, forcing Simon off, back, and in seconds their positions were reversed. “What is your problem today?”
“I’m a little giddy about being back among people. Well, people that I like.”
“Giddy? More like just plain stupid,” Isra murmured, but bent down and licked Simon’s lips, biting down on his lower lip. “Brat.”
Simon hummed, pleased, and took a proper kiss.
Isra pulled back, staring down at his oldest friend.
Sheer stubbornness, no doubt, was the only reason that Simon’s skin was a rich, dusky gold. All his years of studying in the west, Isra had never seen anyone with Simon’s coloring do anything but turn as red as sweetberries. As in everything else, Simon was a stunning exception. He was as slender as Isra but even more finely muscled. Hair the color dark rubies fanned out across the carpet, still damp from a recent bath. When it dried, Simon would braid it back. A small birthmark, like a smudge of dirt, rest right where his nose blended into his right cheek, just below his eye, which was a bright, blazing green. Rubies and emeralds, set against gold.
Simon was a fine one to make fun of him for being pretty. Though pretty wasn’t quite the right word for Simon, it would do for making fun of him. “Brat,” Isra muttered again before kissing him hard, tongue sweeping his mouth, dueling for dominance while his hands began to map Simon’s body.
“Hate being alone for that long,” Simon said when he broke away, his own hands exploring, sliding under Isra’s pants to grip his ass, pull them together, making them both groan at the contact.
“Then stop disappearing, idiot. Lady save you from your own stupidity.”
“Doubt it,” Simon said, and abruptly moved, sending the world spinning, pinning Isra to the carpet and leaning down to kiss him hard before moving to lap and nip at his throat, down his chest. “As you often like to say, I deserve every bit of it.” He paused suddenly, earning him a glare, nails digging painfully into his skin, and grinned. “So, should I call you ‘my desert rose’ while we do this, and you can call me ‘Sandstorm’?”
Isra snarled in rage and threw him off, passion turning into a desire to kill.
Simon laughed.
“So I guess this means that your chances at ending hostilities with Ghost have vanished completely,” Simon said pensively, one hand stroking lazily up and down Isra’s arm.
Isra stirred where he was curled up against Simon’s side. “Not that we ever really had a chance of ending things. Falcon and Ghost have hated each other too long for that. I guess Uncle thought it couldn’t hurt to try…I wish he’d let me kill the Sheik.” He glared at the memory of the meeting in the oasis. “And his stupid son.”
“Don’t get riled up again, I’m too tired,” Simon said, laughing softly.
“Stop aggravating me then,” Isra replied, pinching him.
Simon chuckled softly. “Isra, dearest friend, it aggravates you that you have to breathe like the rest of us.”
“Didn’t I tell you to shut up?” Isra asked, pinching him again and then tugging the blankets up more firmly around them. “Uncle is going to wonder what you’re doing if you disappear for that long again,” he said softly, allowing the worry to slip into his voice now that the tent was dark and he was too lethargic to do anything more than pinch and threaten.
Scoffing, Simon shifted until he was more comfortably settled in Isra’s bed. “Like he noticed? You only got back the day before yesterday. So long as I’m not showing people the way back to camp, he can’t complain.”
“All the same,” Isra cautioned. “Be careful.” He sighed. “There are days I am dying to know what you are doing out here, but most days I am relieved the Lady keeps such knowledge from me.”
“As you should be,” Simon said. “But never doubt that without your help I would be completely at the mercy of the Lady. It is only because you’ve given me a place here that I can do what I must.”
Isra shrugged, the movement awkward in his position. “We understand each other, and you’re not bad company when you’re not being insufferable.”
Simon smiled and pressed a warm kiss to his temple. “But I’m cute when I’m insufferable.”
“Go to sleep, Simon.”
“I hate that name,” Simon complained, and beneath the playfully whining tone there was genuine pain.
Shifting, stretching up, Isra kissed him softly and murmured something almost soundlessly against his mouth.
Smiling, Simon held him tightly in thanks and settled down, making sure Isra was comfortable before finally allowing himself to sleep.
“Isra,” Sheik Jabbar regarded his nephew pensively.
“I offer the Lady and my most honored Uncle my deepest and most humble apologies for dishonoring the Falcon with my impetuous behavior.”
Jabbar’s lips twitched. “Impetuous? Did that tutor of yours write this apology for you?”
Isra bit back a snarl. “Of course not, Uncle. My words are my own, and offered with utmost sincerity.”
“Pretty words, my nephew. I doubt you mean them, of course, but the effort is appreciate and I’m sure you are very sorry you’ve been confined to your tent for several days.” He motioned for Isra to take a seat, stroking his beard, eyes twinkling with amusement.
“Eight,” Isra said. “Eight long, miserable days. You should have let me kill him.”
Jabbar rolled his eyes. “I did not stop you until it was obvious the Sandstorm was winning.”
A snarl slipped out, and Isra glared at the food spread across the table. “He was not winning. I would have obtained the upper hand in another moment.”
“He certainly figured out quickly how best to send you into a blinding rage,” Jabbar said dryly. “I have told you time and again, nephew, to watch that temper of yours. It will get you into serious trouble one day. You are most lucky that the Sandstorm did nothing more than slice your cheek.”
Isra grinned smugly. “After I nicked him.”
“That is true,” Jabbar murmured. “Oddly sloppy of the Sandstorm, from what I have seen and heard. I wonder what distracted him so…” He stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Saa, but that is neither here nor there. We have more pressing matters to attend. The alliance with Ghost has fallen through and so we must ponder carefully where to cast for allies next.”
“Falcon does not need allies,” Isra said sourly. “We have enough.”
Jabbar sighed. “You are worse than your mother ever was when you are in a snit.”
Isra curled his fingers around his cup, fighting the urge to throw it. “At least I won’t run off with the first pretty face I see simply because I’m in one.”
“Only because it would be hard to find a face prettier than yours,” Jabbar said dryly, unimpressed by the nasty glare Isra shot him. “If you are going to be petulant about this, then I will gladly send you back to your tent.”
Instead of snapping like he wanted, Isra sipped at his coffee until the urge to throw it had passed, determined to show his Uncle he wasn’t always controlled by his temper. He could wait thirty seconds before lobbing something at someone’s head, see? “I’m not being petulant,” he said at last. “I thought talking with Ghost was a waste of time, and it seems I was right. Not only is the Sheik too thick headed to listen to anyone but himself, the Amir is exactly like his name and about as trustworthy.”
“His name is not Sandstorm,” Jabbar said slowly. “Just as his father is not named Crusher. The name by which a man is known is not necessarily reflective of his true nature.” Jabbar paused. “Desert rose.”
Isra set his cup down with a hard clack. “Why does everyone see fit to bring that up?” he snapped, barely keeping from shouting. “Was it not humiliating enough, to be taunted and mocked by the Sandstorm, that everyone must keep throwing it in my face? “ He glared at his Uncle. “Why are you defending them? We were reasonable, our demands were fair – they turned into the wind long before I drew my sword.”
“Did they?” Jabbar asked thoughtfully. “I am not defending them. Sheik Hashim’s behavior was unbecoming his status. His son should not have fought you – but you attacked first, nephew. There were errors on all sides. It is a pity, because Falcon and Ghost alike would have flourished under the alliance.”
“Until they stole our horses in the night and left us stranded in an oasis,” Isra grumbled.
“If you have so little faith in others, Isra, how little faith must you have in yourself?” The words were a gentle reprimand.
“I trust you, Uncle, and those who have fought beside me, those who wait for our safe return. My faith lies with Falcon, as it always has and will.” Isra’s fingers curled around his cup, hiding the intricate green and gold feather pattern. “I do not think it is wrong of me not to trust Ghost. Why should we? Why should anyone trust a Tribe called after a creature of death? A creature that does not exist?” He stared at the coils of steam wafting up from his cup, the rich, dark liquid inside it. “If I had not attacked, worse things would have happened. You are good, Uncle, but the injury to your leg makes you slow. Crusher or Sandstorm would have gotten the better of you.”
Jabbar grunted. “Perhaps. That does not change your wrong.”
“I didn’t say that,” Isra said sourly. “Is there anything else, Uncle? I’m tired of being berated for the same thing.”
“We could move on to the manners you have already forgotten,” Jabbar said dryly. “But I think that would be a waste of time. Your tutor mentioned that he ran across something rather interesting while he was out doing whatever it is he does.”
“He likes wandering the desert. Leave him to the Lady and sands, Uncle. Upon my life, I swear he will bring us no harm.”
“I know that,” Jabbar said with a grunt, sitting back against the cushions behind him. “If I was truly concerned, I would have sent him back home to the West. I was more concerned with what he told me.”
Isra poured more coffee for them both. “The imposters, you mean? I find it hard to believe anyone in the Desert would dare to impersonate another Tribe.”
“Unless they are trying to create more problems. That far west, it is possible other Tribes would not know them as impostors, which would give us brand new enemies.”
The words fell heavy around them, making both men feel tired. If someone was impersonating Tribes to attack others, the disharmony created would turn small skirmishes into a blood bath. The last time the entire Desert had fallen to all-out war, Tribes had vanished forever.
“It might not be that bad,” Isra said at last. “Lady knows people from Tavamara and the western countries are always out here trying to play Desert Warrior. Probably they saw a Falcon once and thought that was how all of the Tribes dressed.”
Jabbar grunted again. “I hope you are right, nephew, because if you are wrong and someone is attempting to cause more strife than the Desert can contain, then your actions helped to prevent an alliance that Falcon needed.”
“They started it,” Isra said fiercely.
“Enough,” Jabbar said. “I will leave the matter in peace. Tell me your impressions of the meeting, and the fight.”
Isra shrugged. “It went about as I expected. Ghost has precious few allies, or so it is said across the Sands. Sheik Hashim was unreasonable, and his son was far too eager to engage me in a fight. You say I was wrong to act as I did, but it seems to me even more peculiar that the Amir would shove his Sheik aside and steal his fight. If I had done such a thing to you,” Isra’s lips twitched, “I would still be in my tent.”
“To say the least,” Jabbar said, smiling briefly. It quickly returned to a frown, and he crossed his arms across his wide chest. “Something about the fight bothers me, but I cannot say what.” He sighed. “It is probably the imaginings of an old man. The council meets tomorrow night, I expect you to attend – and to you behave yourself.”
“Yes, Uncle,” Isra said, and stood.
“Where are you going now?”
“Simon and I are on night patrol,” Isra replied. “We will ride with the winds.”
Jabbar nodded and grunted. “See that you do. Though if anyone could find trouble in an empty desert in the middle of the night, it would be the two of you. Body, mind and soul.”
“In all find strength,” Isra replied, and touched fingers to his forehead, lips and chest before bowing and striding from the tent.
Outside he pulled up the scraps of fabric lying around his shoulders, quickly arranging the head wrap, ensuring the myriad feathers and medallions were properly arranged, then strode through camp to where the horses were kept.
As he approached, a man motioned and then came forward with two horses. In the moonlight, it was impossible to tell their color, but Isra knew that one was unrelenting black, the other as soft and gray as smoke. “Simon,” he greeted as he accepted his horse’s reins and smoothly mounted.
“Make your apologies? Finally in the Sheik’s good graces again?”
Isra made a face. “Until I shift the sands again.” He tugged up the black fabric that would protect his mouth and nose from wind and sand. “Where are we patrolling?”
“Eastern sector, and we are due to relieve the first watch in ten minute.” Simon covered his own mouth and turned his horse east. With the head wrap to cover his hair and the dark to hide the brilliant green of his eyes, there was no way to tell that Simon was anything but another man of the Desert. Fastened to the front of his robes and head wrap were two bundles of feathers – three brown, two white, with a plain silver medallion holding them all together at the tips. They marked him as a guest of the Falcon Tribe; so long as he wore the feathers, to harm him was to harm a Falcon and make them an enemy.
The feathers and medallions Isra wore were greater in number and complexity – a dizzying combination of brown, black, white and gray, each of the half-dozen bundles secured with medallions that indicated his place in the Tribe – nephew to the Sheik, a skilled warrior, a teacher, and one of those rare members who was familiar with the customs and language of foreign countries.
“Then I suggest we hurry,” Isra said, a grin in his voice. “Ketcha!” he cried, and raced off into the sands, Simon close on his heels.
Four
“Sahayl.”
“Yes, honored father?” Sahayl shook himself from his thoughts on the raid and looked at his father, trying to obliterate the hope that wanted to flare up. Sweat and blood were soaked into his robes, as well as the robes of his soldiers, giving the air a bitter, unpleasant taste. His entire body begged to be allowed to rest.
“Were my orders unclear?”
The hope he’d tried to kill died a painful death at the simple question, leaving his chest aching. “No, father. But we took the encampment—“
“I said to kill everyone,” Hashim snapped. “Why did I see you ordering some to left alive? Are you Sheik?”
Sahayl was grateful most of his face was covered. “No, honored father, merely your humble Amir.”
“Only because I have no other sons,” Hashim snapped. “There is too much of your weak mother in you, to not only disobey me but to do so to be soft. Every person left alive is one who will someday be another enemy.”
“They were mere boys,” Sahayl protested before he could stop himself. “They could barely hold the swords that had been thrust into their hands. There was no reason to kill them; they had not even tried to attack. I thought perhaps---“ He rocked hard as his father backhanded him, the familiar taste of copper filling his mouth. Bloodmoon stilled under him, uncertain of Sahayl’s balance.
Hashim looked as though he thought one hit insufficient, but lowered his hand. “You are not the one who is meant to think, Sahayl. I gave you orders, your sole job was to obey them. If you cannot obey, how are you supposed to be fit to leave?” He turned from his son and focused his attention on the desert. “Would that I had more sons, instead of a Sandstorm that has become a breeze.”
It shouldn’t hurt, not after so many years, but Sahayl couldn’t help the searing pain deep in his chest that came at his father’s words. The only mercy was that they were separate enough from the rest of the men that no one would know why the Sheik had hit his son.
What had happened to the father that always seemed proud of his son? The father who had taught him to ride and fight? To find his way through the sands no matter where he was. The man who had smiled every time someone bellowed in outrage of the last mayhem the young Sandstorm Amir had caused?
But he knew what had happened. The son had proven to be soft, despite what his nickname and skills with a sword implied. His father would never forgive him that, and with every day that passed Hashim grew more and more violent.
A disease?
Sahayl wished he could believe that was the cause, but he wasn’t stupid. His father had always had a temper, it had just been hidden from the son for as long as possible.
He licked blood from his lips. “They’ll carry word back to the rest that crossing us was a mistake. It will carry the message faster than simply leaving the encampment to be found later.” He sighed softly, wanting nothing more than to be in bed and blissfully unconscious. “Why did we attack the Cat? We had no quarrel with them.” ‘Yet’ hung unsaid in the air. In the Desert, there was always a ‘yet’.
“They attacked one of our encampments and you have to ask why we annihilated one of theirs?” Hashim’s voice was full of contempt.
Sahayl bit back his frustration. “No one just attacks Ghost, honored father. Lady has gifted us with the ability to be as phantoms in the Desert. How did Cat find us? Why did they attack? We had no quarrel with them, and would have left them in peace had they granted us the same favor.”
“I don’t know how they found us, but we’ll figure it out. We’ll have to change our patters now. Head for encampments three and five, spread word of the pattern change. Cycle Drought with Rainfall. Select two other men to inform two and four. I want word spread and patterns changed by sundown tomorrow.”
“Yes, honored father.” Bowing his head, touching two fingers to forehead, mouth and chest, Sahayl raised his left hand, fingers flicking quickly through motions that brought forward three men. Pulling aside as the rest of the tired men rode past, nodding to them in reassurance, thanks, Sahayl then turned to the men he’d pulled away. “Noor, Kahlil,” he said to two of his most trusted soldiers. “Our Sheik bids you journey to encampments two and four, inform them we will be switching our patterns. Tell them we are to cycle Drought and Rainfall.”
The man called Noor let out a hiss. “We are to move that often?” he exclaimed. “The women and children cannot maintain such a pace.”
“I know,” Sahayl said quietly. “I am merely telling you my father’s orders.” He took a deep breath. “Tell two and four to move according to Drought. We will tell three and five to move to Rainfall at double frequency. That will keep them close enough to two and four to offer additional protection. Keep everyone alert.” He hesitated, sharing a quick glance with Wafai, who nodded. “Tell everyone to pay close attention if they’re attacked again. Cat had no reason to attack us. Nor should they have been able to find us. Several weeks ago Wafai and I encountered men pretending to be Falcon. I suspect the Cat that attacked six were imposters.”
“These Cat had the paw markings,” the man named Kahlil said, his voice rough, as if dry and sore. “On their cheeks and hands just like Cats do.”
“The bodies are all destroyed?”
“Yes, Amir.”
Sahayl nodded. “A pity. My guess is that a longer look would have revealed a flaw, perhaps in the ink or the details. We will never know.”
“Why did you never mention this before, Amir?” Noor asked. If he had dared pose such a question to the Sheik, he would have been left bruised or bleeding.
Wafai answered. “We thought it an isolated incident. The men impersonating Falcon were obviously half-breeds, nor were they native to the Desert. We killed them easily. When we brought the matter to the Sheik, he dismissed them as foreigners. Until now, we had no reason to suspect otherwise. Even now, I am not certain.” He cursed softly and looked at Sahayl. “I wish we had been present when the attack occurred. We might’ve…”
“Been able to prevent my father from ordering the slaughter of an entire encampment?” Sahayl finished bitterly. “It doesn’t matter now. The dunes shift constantly, we can only shift with them. Go to two and four, Wafai and I will take three and five. Carry my orders, but inform those who need to know of my father’s.”
Noor and Kahlil bowed their heads in a bow. “As you command, Sandstorm Amir. Mind, body, soul.”
“In all find strength,” Sahayl said, gesturing. “Go with the wind. Lady guard you.”
“Lady guard you, Sandstorm Amir,” Noor said softly. Without another he and Kahlil wheeled their horses around and took off across the sands, only the confidence of their movements offering assurance that they weren’t racing off blindly into the Desert.
Sahayl sighed. “Saa, I had been looking forward to sleeping tonight.”
“Obviously you got knocked on the head then,” Wafai said.
“Not that hard,” Sahayl replied with a grimace, gingerly touching his bruising cheek, his split lip.
Wafai made a face. “What did you say this time?”
“Does it matter?” Sahayl asked wearily. “It angers him that I breathe. Saa, I think he resents that I was ever born.” He tried to keep his tone flippant, but knew that some of the pain slipped out. “Come,” he said before Wafai could speak. “Three is some hours from here, and five further than that. Saa, it makes a man wish he would lose a battle simply to get a break.”
Wafai did not look amused. “If you lose a battle, my Sandstorm Amir, then all of Ghost loses.”
“I know,” Sahayl said quietly, feeling every ache and pain in his body. He forced gloomy thoughts aside, tired of them. “Saa, if we hurry, we can perhaps sneak in a day of rest at two. Hmm? What do you say?”
“I say that sounds a fine plan, my Sandstorm Amir.” Wafai smiled at him. “Let us go.”
Nodding, Sahayl urged his horse to movement. “There should be an oasis close by, yes? We can give the horses a chance to rest, and move out once dark falls.”
Wafai nodded in agreement and they traveled in companionable silence.
The cry of a falcon broke the quiet of the desert, immediately followed by the sound of a battle cry. Sahayl spurred Bloodmoon, who reared up and wheeled around, her cry blending with the hiss of steel against leather as he and Wafai drew their swords.
“Falcon!” Wafai exclaimed. “What are they doing here?”
“We’ll figure it out later!” Sahayl said, then charged, meeting the attack of the man racing straight toward him, steel clashing against steel as they fought. Grunting at the force of the blow, Sahayl wheeled his horse around and braced for the next, this time dodging aside at the last moment and then lashing out, using the hilt of his sword to knock the man out, sending him tumbling from his horse.
Nearby Wafai held the other man to the ground, their horses nearby. “What would you have me do with him, Amir?” His voice was hard, cold, nothing at all like his usual jovial tone and manner.
Sahayl dismounted and went to examine the man he’d knocked unconscious. “Scouts?”
“Comrades,” the conscious man spat. “We received word the Cat were under attack. It figures we would find the Ghost responsible.”
Wafai hissed. “How many more Falcon are about?”
“Enough to take care of filthy Ghost!” The man howled, then suddenly kicked out, sending Wafai stumbling back, then drew a dagger and lunged.
Sahayl moved, catching the man about the waist as Wafai dodged, sending them both the ground, then scrambled back and punched the man hard in the stomach. He climbed to his feet and rounded on Wafai. “What was that! How did you let him slip under your guard! Do you have sand on the brain!”
“Peace, brother of my soul,” Wafai said, looking thoroughly disgusted with himself. “I underestimated him. It’s no wonder he held his own against you so well, all those weeks ago.”
“What are you talking about?” Sahayl said, then whirled around to take another look at the man he’d just knocked out. Just above his face covering was a line of white skin, the end of what was probably a long scar. Sahayl hissed in surprise and dropped to one knee, tugging down the mouth cover to reveal a familiar, beautiful face. “Lady grant me peace. I had not thought come across this one again. Though I suppose I should not be surprised.”
“He’s a nasty one,” Wafai said sourly, “Much like that precious bird that is no doubt signaling for help somehow, if I know the Falcon and their tricks. Light, slender, but quick and strong. If you had not been here, I would be hosting a banquet for vultures.”
Sahayl grinned. “And I would be short a very fine horse, as they would have taken it.”
“You wound me, brother of my soul.” Wafai made a face. “We need to move, before more arrive than we can easily handle. I was not aware Cat had allied with Falcon. That spells trouble for us.”
“Not with Cobra so close,” Sahayl said. “Nor is Scorpion too far away, and they have no love for either Cat or Falcon, even if they do not call us friend.”
Wafai only grunted and swung up onto his horse. “Why are you still playing in the sand? Let’s go.”
Sahayl didn’t move, but continued to stare at the unconscious man, thinking it a pity he could not see the blue, blue eyes. He shook off the idle thought and ran a finger along the scar on the man’s cheek, then reached up to touch the one on his own. “A pity,” he said.
“What’s a pity?” Wafai asked irritably, watching Sahayl as he finally mounted Bloodmoon.
“I’m not sure,” Sahayl said with a pensive frown. “I just…” He shrugged. “I don’t know.” Turning his horse, he spurred her into a gallop and the two men raced off across the sand, attempting to lose themselves in the Desert before more Falcon arrived.
They reached camp three well after dark, when the air was cold enough their breath clouded in the air.
“Who goes?” A guard demanded.
“Amir Sahayl and Protector Wafai,” Wafai answered.
“Sandstorm Amir,” the guard greeted, relaxing, genuine pleasure in his voice. “Lady finds you well, this evening?”
“The Lady has permitted me to survive the day,” Sahayl said. “I cannot ask more than that. How does the wind blow?”
“A quiet breeze,” the guard said. “Eerily quiet, after all that we have heard of the attack on six.” His voice lost what happiness had been in it.
Sahayl dismounted and crossed over to the man, resting a hand on his shoulder. “The Lady will take care of them. Ghost will avenge them.”
“Yes, Amir,” the soldier said quietly. Then he laughed, a weak but genuine sound. “Speaking of Ladies, Sandstorm Amir, your lady wife has come to visit. Apparently she heard you would not be journeying to assure her you were safe, and came to see for herself.”
“What!” Sahayl exclaimed. “Rafiqa is here? What is that woman doing in a war camp? I will kill her myself!” Storming off, Wafai on his heels, Sahayl blazed through the camp, headed for the tent set up on the chance that the Sheik or Amir might visit. “Rafiqa!” he snapped as he flew into the tent. “You had better not be here.” He glared at the woman watching him tolerantly from the left side of the tent, where she sat a table set with a late – very late – dinner.
“Very well, honored husband, I am not here. Your sand-addled brain must be imagining things.”
Sahayl muttered underneath his breath and motioned for Wafai to close the tent, ensuring the three of them would not be disturbed.
Rafiqa poured them each a cup of Desert Wine, which was dark, spicy and strong. She was the very picture of what a woman of the Desert should be, especially as the Amira. Her hair was brown, so dark it looked black, pulled up high on her head and then tumbling down her back in thick, soft curls, with a few smaller strands brushing softly against her cheeks. Her lashes were long, thick, framing pale brown eyes. Her lips were pale, full, curved in a fond smile. Gold and jewels glimmered in her ears, at her throat, in the bands on her upper and lower arms. She wore a gown of pale green, the fabric winding around her throat before flowing down to mold to her body, spilling into a close skirt.
Setting the skin of wine aside, she leaned up and over to give Sahayl a soft, chaste kiss. “I am glad you’re all right.”
Sahayl grinned against her mouth. “You’re just relieved you’re cover is still alive, brat princess.”
Rafiqa gouged him lightly with her nails, which had been painted gold. “Do not speak so, honored husband. I would be sick at heart to hear of your death.”
“I know, Rafi,” Sahayl said, settling back and taking a deep swallow of his wine, motioning for her to pour more. “I was just trying to tease.”
“Hmph,” Rafiqa said, not mollified in the slightest. She poured him more wine and then settled back to lean against Wafai, who wrapped an arm around her waist and tugged her close for a kiss. “So why have you come here and not to see me?” she asked when he finally let her go.
Sahayl sipped his wine more slowly, snatching up bits of food and eating between sentences. “To pass orders to change the patterns. Which I would have already done, except a certain wife cannot learn that her place is in the camp designated to her, in my tent, and obeying my orders.”
Rafiqa rolled her eyes. “Did I not warn you, honorable husband, that you should have taken my sister as wife?”
“You imagine I had any say in the matter,” Sahayl said, swallowing a bit of meat, licking a pale yellow sauce from his fingers. “If it had been left up to me, oh former daughter of the Cobra, I would gladly have left you to the fool who seems to be quite happily caught in your spell.”
“Quite,” Wafai said, pressing a kiss to the pulse at Rafiqa’s wrist.
Sahayl smiled at them. “One day, my brother and sister, things will be as they should be.”
Rafiqa smiled fondly at him, and leaned across the table to give him another chaste kiss. “Thank you, as always, my Sandstorm Amir.”
Sahayl waved the word aside and resumed eating, rapidly decimating a tray of pastries stuffed with soft cheese. “I will come up with suitable repayment, never fear, my dear, dear Amira.” He yawned. “I need a bath and to not wake up for several days.” He sighed. “Saa, it seems I will even get the bath.”
“Surely you do not mean to charge off again after food and bath?” Rafiqa said with a frown. She glared at them both. “What is it with you men that you must try to kill yourselves with work? Is it not enough you try to kill each other every single day? You will finish eating, then you will bathe, and then you will sleep. When you wake up, you will eat again and then you will relax. No one is going anywhere until I say so, is that understood? I did not come here simply to see you for a couple of hours.” She folded her arms across her chest and waited in stony silence.
“Lady save me from her daughters,” Sahayl muttered. “I cannot wait until you are out of my tent, Rafiqa. We must spread word of the change in pattern as quickly as possible. That means we have not time to relax.”
Rafiqa sniffed, unimpressed. “Your horses, at the very least, will need several hours to recover from the abuse you inflict upon them. Wafai will go inform the camp of the pattern change, I will order baths be drawn, and then you will relax for the remainder of the night. Is that understood?”
“Yes, beloved wife,” Sahayl said.
“Good,” Rafiqa said, rising to her feet. “Wafai, I will have them draw a bath in your tent as well.”
“Thank you, Rafi.” Wafai stood and stole a quick kiss before bowing to Sahayl and striding from the tent.
Rafiqa eyed Sahayl. “You reek. Honestly, has the sand killed your sense of smell, honored husband?”
Sahayl laughed and continued to eat while a bath was prepared, listening with half an ear while his wife ordered the men about.
“Come, husband. Out of those clothes and let us get you clean and not smelling like a battlefield.” She moved to help him, nose wrinkling as she tossed his filthy robes aside. “It’s a wonder you could eat covered in all this filth. I do wish you could learn the proper order of things.”
“I didn’t think I’d be stopping long enough to enjoy anything more than the food, beloved wife, else I would have bathed first.”
Rafiqa sniffed and shoved him toward the bath, fingers combing through his thick hair for a moment once she was settled in. “You need a real wife,” she said. “Not a farce.”
“I am happiest on my own,” Sahayl said, not bothering to open his eye as he replied. He heard her sigh softly before she moved away and began to rifle through trunks of clothes, pulling out thing for him to wear and laying them out on his bed. “Truly. My only regret is that you must waste all these years with me when you should be with Wafai.”
“My life is hardly one to regret, honored husband,” Rafiqa said with dry amusement. “I think I shall endure being your Amira until I am free to marry the man of my heart. That you would permit such a thing is a great blessing.”
Sahayl waved her words away. “Saa, I want everyone to be happy.”
“What would make you happy, honored husband?” Rafiqa asked softly, coming back to the tub and once more stroking his hair, urging him to sit up that so she could scrub his shoulders and back, wash his hair with a soap that smelled like cloves.
“Peace and quiet,” Sahayl said. “Which just goes to show how much sand has gotten into my head, that I think such a thing is possible.” With a sigh he climbed from the tub and shrugged into the loose robe she had laid out, belting it with a black and silver sash. Instead of his bed, he fell into a long seat, reclining against the curving back. “What news have you to tell me of the other camps?”
Rafiqa fetched a comb from a small chest and began the laborious task of unknotting his thick curls, ignoring his question in favor of humming a slow, soft tune. She pressed a finger to her lips as Wafai returned, his own hair still damp from a bath, and motioned to Sahayl, who had fallen asleep. She motioned him to the table, where they quietly ate the sweets that had been brought it for the Amir to enjoy after his bath, talking quietly and enjoying the little time they had together, all the while watching over their Sandstorm Amir.
Five
“Ah, Ikram. I hope you come with good news.”
“Majesty,” Ikram said dryly, “if my job included giving you good news, someone else might actually want it, which would allow me to retire.”
The King chuckled. “We certainly cannot have that. I would be lost without, Ikram.” He flicked his fingers, dismissing the servants and guards in the room. In seconds, no one remained in the courtroom save Ikram, the King and a man sitting motionlessly on a pillow beside the King’s chair. “Give me the bad news then.”
Ikram sighed. “My reports are that thing progress, but not quickly or well. Shihab,” he could not help the way his voice tightened as he said the name. “Shihab works diligently. To date he remains free. A few more months, he says, and he will return highly successful. But, of course, danger grows.”
“Well that is not bad news, per se, though of course I wish Shihab was already home,” the King said. His eyes were darker than was usual, and he reached out to sink one hand into the hair of the man beside him, as if seeking comfort. “I did not want to send him out there.”
The man on the pillow gave a soft, indelicate snort.
Ikram could not help a chuckle. “You are right of course,” he said to the man on the pillow. “He would have gone anyway. The father leaves the desert and of course his son runs straight back to it….” He shook his head.
The King laughed. “Some days, Ikram, it is hard to tell you did not sire him. If I did not know better, it would be hard to tell – skin or no. Certainly he gets his stubbornness from you.”
Ikram rolled his eyes. “Stubbornness is required when dealing with Kings who are fond of stirring up as much trouble as can be fit into a day. It is only natural he would acquire that trait. But if he got his stubbornness from me, Majesty, he got his penchant for mischief from trailing after a certain troublesome prince.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” the King said lazily. “All my time was spent studying.”
“Yes,” Ikram responded dryly, “but one wonders what you were studying.”
The King threw his head back and laughed, and even the quiet man beside him could not resist chuckling. “All the right things, obviously.”
“Indeed,” Ikram said. He sobered suddenly. “I hope what has worked for you works for my son.”
The King’s face tightened. “I regard Shihab as dearly as my own children, Ikram. If there had been anyone else to send…”
“I know, Majesty,” Ikram said quietly. “And as previously stated, he would have gone anyway. Shihab knows better than to die on me. I will have to trust that the Lady knows better than to let him die.”
“Even I will not cross you, Ikram. I doubt your Lady will.” The King motioned. “What else have you to tell me? Have we narrowed our enemy to one country? Gollen? Lavarre?” His voice hardened. “Hadge?”
Ikram frowned. “Hadge is definitely on the move. Their Ambassador…I would sooner trust a Scorpion.” He did not need to explain that it was not the insect to which he referred. He waved impatiently in the air. “I would not discount Lavarre, but in my opinon Hadge is our primary threat. They have not liked us since you forced negotiations…and keeping one of their finest commanders did not help matters.” It is simply that we lack proof.” He eyed the King pensively. “Even your witch can discern nothing in their actions.”
The King’s mouth tightened. He stroked his close-cropped beard in thought, his other hand unconsciously tightening in the hair of the man sitting on the floor beside him. In response, the man gently tugged the hand from his hair and kissed the palm. “Majesty,” he said softly, “all will be well. You will make it so.”
At his words, the lines of frustration on the King’s face eased slightly. “I hope you are right,” he said softly. Gently he cupped the man’s chin, stroking the soft skin of his face, smiling faintly.
Ikram regarded them with fond amusement. “In regards to your plan to drive the traitors to sloppiness with anger…”
The King sighed and shook his head, faintly amused. “Do I even want to know what he did?”
“I’m sure I couldn’t say, Majesty. What your men discuss amongst themselves is none of my business. But it is my humble opinion that a certain King might want to curb the antics of certain members of his harem, and perhaps enjoy a quiet meal tonight so that certain members of the council will simmer down to plotting and not boil to full out murder.”
Quirking a brow, the King cast a brief look at the man beside him. “Members? As in more than one? I distinctly remember telling only one of them to go about discreetly aggravating certain members of the council.”
The man beside him rolled his eyes. “Yes, but recall who you set to curb his behavior.”
“Ah,” the King said, shaking his head ruefully. “Whatever was I thinking to put those two together? Why did you let me?”
Lips curved in a whisper soft smile. “I suppose we were distracted.”
Ikram coughed to smother a laugh. “Majesty?”
The King laughed. “Yes, yes. I will keep them from doing further damage today. I still think it the best plan. Between you, I and those two, someone will get angry enough to make a mistake and then we will have our traitors. It is not a great plan…” he sighed, “but until we can come up with a better plan, I see no other recourse.”
“Unfortunately, I do not see one either,” Ikram said, voice thick with frustration. “We cannot find anything! No indication of anything save that at least one country in the west moves against the desert. ” He rubbed his eyes and forehead tiredly. “I still cannot believe Ghost has ignored my every letter. Nor has Cobra answered me. I do not understand it!” His shoulders sagged, and suddenly Ikram looked every bit of his fifty-two years. “And the one man who can get some answers for us may die doing it, and that man is my son.” He drew a ragged breath. “Lady will that all goes well. If your Majesty will pardon me, now that I’ve given my report there are other duties requiring my attention.”
“Of course. Thank you, Ikram,” the King said softly, waving the man out. When a Guard looked inside in question, he flicked his fingers briefly in negation. The door shut, leaving him alone with the man beside him. “There are days I feel like the worst sort of criminal,” he said tiredly. “What sort of man tortures his closest friend by sending his son right into the middle of danger? If Shihab dies, grief will kill Ikram and his wife.”
“No one else can do what Shihab can. He volunteered.” The man stood slowly, his movements graceful, elegant. As he rose to his full height, his hair straightened out, the end of it stopping just short of the floor. It was bound intermittently with thick gold bands, keeping the mass of hair neatly in place. Unlike the King, who was dressed in simple but elegant robes, he wore nothing more than soft black pants overlaid with a floor-length black skirt slit up the sides. His chest was narrow but well-toned, and he wore no adornment but cuffs at wrist and throat to match the bands in his hair. With utter casualness he moved to sit in the King’s lap, twining his arms around the King’s neck. “Doubts ill suit you, Majesty.”
The King smiled faintly. “We are alone, Nanda.”
Nanda’s mouth curved in a whisper-soft smile. “Doubt ill suits you, Shah.” He kissed Shah softly. “If you want to be driven crazy, then summon those two idiots trying to bring the palace down around our ears. They excel at mayhem; there is no need for you to drive yourself mad.”
Laughing, shaking with the force of it, Shah tugged Nanda closer for a deeper kiss. “As always, my Nanda, you know precisely what to say.” He gently traced the fine line of Nanda’s cheekbone with the tips of his fingers. “You have been here all morning, my beauty. Find Bey and Aik, tell them to come and attend me for the rest of the day. That should keep them out of trouble for a bit. Go find food, then enjoy a nap for me.”
“I do not enjoy them unless you are with me,” Nanda replied, and with a last kiss slid from Shah’s lap. “Perhaps I’ll coerce Kiah into dozing with me.” He smiled faintly. “And we’ll tell you all about it later.”
“That would make good hearing,” Shah murmured. He motioned toward the door. “Go before I decide I have the time for a nap of my own. Pass word that I’ll be dining in private tonight.”
“Yes, Majesty.” Nanda bowed gracefully. “I will also send in food for you, so you can relax a bit before resuming court.”
“Thank you, Nanda.”
With another faint smile, Nanda gave another bow and then left the courtroom, the door closing on his soft words as he spoke to the guards.
“Nanda says we are in trouble.”
Shah looked up from a report he’d been skimming, smiling at the men approaching him. “You and Bey need to be locked in my quarters, my monk.” He tilted his head back as the man swooped down to kiss him. “I told you to restrain him, Aik.”
Aik rolled his eyes and sat down on a pillow to the left of Shah’s chair. Like Nanda, he was bare-chested, dressed in the pants and skirt outfit that immediately marked the member of the King’s harem. His hair, shoulder-length and ink dark, was bound neatly in a tail at the nape of his neck, and he wore thick, heavy bands of gold at his wrists and throat, bringing out the gold in his dusky skin. “I did restrain him, that’s the frightening part.”
“I was afraid of that,” Shah murmured as he tugged the second man close, kissing him deeply. “Perhaps I should set you, my beautiful witch, to watch them both.”
“Witcher? Make us behave?” Aik threw his head back and laughed. “I would like to see that happen.”
“Be quiet, monk,” Witched said, making a face. He hummed as Shah’s hands stroked softly across his unusually pale skin, sky blue eyes bright with pleasure. His hair was brilliant, just long enough for fingers to sink into, grab hold of. Gold hoops gleamed at his nipples, the only decoration he wore. “If my King orders me to make you behave, I will do so.”
Aik’s dark eyes flashed. “Shah, tell him to make me behave.”
Shah chuckled and released Witcher. “Perhaps tonight, as Ikram has instructed I dine with my harem in private lest the council descend upon us in murderous rage. What did you let Bey do, my monk? And where is my pirate? I remember saying he had to be here for the afternoon.”
“Your Queen stole him for the afternoon. They were bringing word to you when Nanda found us, and we said we would relay the message. As to what Bey did,” Aik shrugged. “His mere presence in the palace, and in your bed, is enough to the council act like men driven made by too much sun.”
Witcher rolled his eyes from where he sat at Shah’s right. “Aik, you and Kiah are the only two of whom they approve.”
“Yes, but at least you and Nanda behave. More or less. Bey goes out of his way to keep them in that frenzy.” Aik shook his head, laughing softly. “It doesn’t help that now he is doing it on his King’s orders.”
Shah sighed, but it was obvious he was fighting a smile. “Perhaps our private meal tonight will wear the lot of you out enough I do not get reports concerning your behavior.” He motioned to the door. “I suppose I have put off work long enough. Witcher, let them know court will resume?”
“Of course, Shah,” Witcher murmured, and crossed to the door to speak with the guard outside, then immediately returned to his place at Shah’s side. A minute later the doors opened wide and slowly the room began to fill with people, most ordered to allotted seats along either side of the room, others made to form a line before the throne. One by one the supplicants approached, presenting problems or propositions, presenting sons, daughters, seeking permission for visitors, dozens upon dozens of matters there were for Shah to decide upon. Most issues were left to his council, but there were still many that he must handle personally. Throughout it all Aik and Witcher never so much as twitches. They sat patiently, tirelessly, lending quiet support and subtle weight to the King’s authority.
The afternoon passed with relative quiet, few of the problems brought to him complicated or troublesome, and only one man having to be dragged away by the guards.
Shah forced himself to relax, hating to look anything other than completely at ease when he was anywhere but his private chambers. Court was exhausting, however, and the small midday meal sent to him had not last him long. He wanted only to be where he could truly relax, away from the stress and the ever-present threats of treachery and assassination.
Because if he had councilmen plotting against him, working with the west to grab hold of the Wild Desert – which would bring the west uncomfortably close to Tavamara – then he had no doubt that getting rid of him would at some point become necessary.
He motioned the next supplicant forward, warmly greeting the son being presented, making him an official part of society now that he’d come of age, then waved the family away and motioned for a pause in the proceedings. “Something to drink?” he requested of a guard, and wine was immediately brought, light and sweet, pale pink in color.
For the first time in two hours his harem men moved, Aik carefully pouring wine into a shallow drinking dish and passing it to Witcher, who held it to Shah’s lips, face expressionless but eyes smiling. “Better, my King?” he murmured, words only for Shah to hear.
“By your presence, my witch,” Shah said just as quietly, wishing he could touch but ever aware of his station. “Thank you,” he said more loudly. “Let us resume.” He motioned the next supplicant forward as the wine was taken away.
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Three
“Good morning, oh beautiful desert rose.”
Isra’s head shot up from the book he’d been reading, and he moved without thought, lobbing the nearest heavy object – another book – at the speaker’s head. “Shut up. Get out of my tent.”
“Why, Isra! What’s wrong with your face? Is that a scar? Who dared to mark my beautiful desert rose?”
“OUT!” Isra roared, standing and leaping over the small, low table at which he’d been studying, lunging for the speaker and getting him a hard tackle, sending them both to the floor of his tent. “Do you want to die, Simon?”
Simon grinned. “If my death will bring happiness to the face of my beautiful desert rose, then gladly I will give my life.”
“Shut up,” Isra said sourly, and slapped him hard on the chest before rolling off Simon and standing up. His fingers went automatically to the thin scar that ran down the length of his right cheek. “I see you’ve already caught up on Tribal gossip.” He picked up the book he’d thrown at Simon and resumed his seat at the table. “Despite the fact I hear you’ve been popping in and out like a man sleeping with the Sheik’s wife.”
Simon shuddered. “Thank you, no. That woman terrifies me. I think she should be Sheik. I’ve been busy. Very. Is that coffee?”
“Yes, and you can’t have any because you’re an insufferable ass.”
“Oh, insufferable. You’re such a fine student.” Simon sat down across from him and stole the cup Isra said he couldn’t have.
Isra glared, sky-blue eyes flashing with warning. “That is mine. Put it down or I’ll dump it on you.”
“So violent,” Simon with a grin. “It’s kind sexy on you, my beautiful desert rose.” He ducked the punch swung his way, falling on his back and laughing until tears streamed down his face.
“I hate you,” Isra said. “Mind, body, soul all fall into disharmony when you’re around.”
Simon laughed harder, tanned skin flushing red from the exertion of it. Eventually he sat up. “You have to tell me your version of the story, Isra. Did you really try to kill the Crusher?”
“That man needs killing,” Isra said venomously. “His temper is—“
“Worse than yours?” Simon asked with a grin.
Isra hefted a book thoughtfully. “Didn’t I tell you to shut up? What do you want that you’re disturbing my peace so?”
Simon smiled and held his hands up in surrender. “Peace, brother of my soul, I only came to tease you and hear the tale from your lips.”
“There isn’t much to tell,” Isra said with a grunt and set the book down. He combed hands through his ink-black, smoothing it out where tackling Simon had disheveled it. “Uncle and the Ghost Sheik were speaking; the Ghost lost his temper after Uncle refused to agree to certain terms – namely the primary location of Ghost – and when it was obvious Sheik Hashim was going to attack, I moved first. His stupid son blocked my attack and engaged me. No doubt you’ve heard the rest.”
“Well you are rather pretty, Isra. Everyone says so. It’s that western blood, it gives such odd lines to your face.” Simon grinned. “The scar is a nice touch, actually.” He leaned across the table and pressed a quick, soft kiss to Isra’s frown. “Did he really call you a woman? Desert rose? And lived?”
“Only because Uncle made me stop,” Isra grumbled, looking somewhat mollified by the kiss. “Stupid bastard.” He closed the book he’d been reading with a snap and shoved it sullenly away. “Uncle won’t let me out of my tent.”
Simon patted his hand. “You did break protocol by not only trying to kill a Sheik in the middle of peace talks, but also tried to kill an Amir.”
“They started it.”
“All the same.”
“Have I mentioned I hate you? Simon.”
Simon grimaced. “I hate that name, really and truly I do.”
Isra smirked. He lifted his arms up and tilted his head back, stretching with a soft moan, rolling his head to help ease the tension brought on by hours bent over books. Inside his cool tent, he’d discarded all but a pair of loose, black pants. The muscles of his chest and belly rippled as he stretched and moved, hinting at how much strength was in his lean, slender body. His hair was short, cut close to his head, a rich blue-black. Skin bronzed by the sun was the final touch to his exotic looks, mostly eastern but with strong marks of his western father. “Simon, Simon, Simon,” he sang, rolling away as Simon lunged at him, laughing in delight now that the tables were turned.
Simon at last grabbed him, pinning him to one of the many soft, brown and gold carpets lining the floor of Isra’s tent, just barely avoiding knocking them into a small, wooden chest beside the bed, which was a large, deep settee piled with colorful pillows. “I wonder what the Sandstorm would say if he saw his pretty desert rose spread out like this.”
“Dead!” Isra roared, bucking and kicking, forcing Simon off, back, and in seconds their positions were reversed. “What is your problem today?”
“I’m a little giddy about being back among people. Well, people that I like.”
“Giddy? More like just plain stupid,” Isra murmured, but bent down and licked Simon’s lips, biting down on his lower lip. “Brat.”
Simon hummed, pleased, and took a proper kiss.
Isra pulled back, staring down at his oldest friend.
Sheer stubbornness, no doubt, was the only reason that Simon’s skin was a rich, dusky gold. All his years of studying in the west, Isra had never seen anyone with Simon’s coloring do anything but turn as red as sweetberries. As in everything else, Simon was a stunning exception. He was as slender as Isra but even more finely muscled. Hair the color dark rubies fanned out across the carpet, still damp from a recent bath. When it dried, Simon would braid it back. A small birthmark, like a smudge of dirt, rest right where his nose blended into his right cheek, just below his eye, which was a bright, blazing green. Rubies and emeralds, set against gold.
Simon was a fine one to make fun of him for being pretty. Though pretty wasn’t quite the right word for Simon, it would do for making fun of him. “Brat,” Isra muttered again before kissing him hard, tongue sweeping his mouth, dueling for dominance while his hands began to map Simon’s body.
“Hate being alone for that long,” Simon said when he broke away, his own hands exploring, sliding under Isra’s pants to grip his ass, pull them together, making them both groan at the contact.
“Then stop disappearing, idiot. Lady save you from your own stupidity.”
“Doubt it,” Simon said, and abruptly moved, sending the world spinning, pinning Isra to the carpet and leaning down to kiss him hard before moving to lap and nip at his throat, down his chest. “As you often like to say, I deserve every bit of it.” He paused suddenly, earning him a glare, nails digging painfully into his skin, and grinned. “So, should I call you ‘my desert rose’ while we do this, and you can call me ‘Sandstorm’?”
Isra snarled in rage and threw him off, passion turning into a desire to kill.
Simon laughed.
“So I guess this means that your chances at ending hostilities with Ghost have vanished completely,” Simon said pensively, one hand stroking lazily up and down Isra’s arm.
Isra stirred where he was curled up against Simon’s side. “Not that we ever really had a chance of ending things. Falcon and Ghost have hated each other too long for that. I guess Uncle thought it couldn’t hurt to try…I wish he’d let me kill the Sheik.” He glared at the memory of the meeting in the oasis. “And his stupid son.”
“Don’t get riled up again, I’m too tired,” Simon said, laughing softly.
“Stop aggravating me then,” Isra replied, pinching him.
Simon chuckled softly. “Isra, dearest friend, it aggravates you that you have to breathe like the rest of us.”
“Didn’t I tell you to shut up?” Isra asked, pinching him again and then tugging the blankets up more firmly around them. “Uncle is going to wonder what you’re doing if you disappear for that long again,” he said softly, allowing the worry to slip into his voice now that the tent was dark and he was too lethargic to do anything more than pinch and threaten.
Scoffing, Simon shifted until he was more comfortably settled in Isra’s bed. “Like he noticed? You only got back the day before yesterday. So long as I’m not showing people the way back to camp, he can’t complain.”
“All the same,” Isra cautioned. “Be careful.” He sighed. “There are days I am dying to know what you are doing out here, but most days I am relieved the Lady keeps such knowledge from me.”
“As you should be,” Simon said. “But never doubt that without your help I would be completely at the mercy of the Lady. It is only because you’ve given me a place here that I can do what I must.”
Isra shrugged, the movement awkward in his position. “We understand each other, and you’re not bad company when you’re not being insufferable.”
Simon smiled and pressed a warm kiss to his temple. “But I’m cute when I’m insufferable.”
“Go to sleep, Simon.”
“I hate that name,” Simon complained, and beneath the playfully whining tone there was genuine pain.
Shifting, stretching up, Isra kissed him softly and murmured something almost soundlessly against his mouth.
Smiling, Simon held him tightly in thanks and settled down, making sure Isra was comfortable before finally allowing himself to sleep.
“Isra,” Sheik Jabbar regarded his nephew pensively.
“I offer the Lady and my most honored Uncle my deepest and most humble apologies for dishonoring the Falcon with my impetuous behavior.”
Jabbar’s lips twitched. “Impetuous? Did that tutor of yours write this apology for you?”
Isra bit back a snarl. “Of course not, Uncle. My words are my own, and offered with utmost sincerity.”
“Pretty words, my nephew. I doubt you mean them, of course, but the effort is appreciate and I’m sure you are very sorry you’ve been confined to your tent for several days.” He motioned for Isra to take a seat, stroking his beard, eyes twinkling with amusement.
“Eight,” Isra said. “Eight long, miserable days. You should have let me kill him.”
Jabbar rolled his eyes. “I did not stop you until it was obvious the Sandstorm was winning.”
A snarl slipped out, and Isra glared at the food spread across the table. “He was not winning. I would have obtained the upper hand in another moment.”
“He certainly figured out quickly how best to send you into a blinding rage,” Jabbar said dryly. “I have told you time and again, nephew, to watch that temper of yours. It will get you into serious trouble one day. You are most lucky that the Sandstorm did nothing more than slice your cheek.”
Isra grinned smugly. “After I nicked him.”
“That is true,” Jabbar murmured. “Oddly sloppy of the Sandstorm, from what I have seen and heard. I wonder what distracted him so…” He stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Saa, but that is neither here nor there. We have more pressing matters to attend. The alliance with Ghost has fallen through and so we must ponder carefully where to cast for allies next.”
“Falcon does not need allies,” Isra said sourly. “We have enough.”
Jabbar sighed. “You are worse than your mother ever was when you are in a snit.”
Isra curled his fingers around his cup, fighting the urge to throw it. “At least I won’t run off with the first pretty face I see simply because I’m in one.”
“Only because it would be hard to find a face prettier than yours,” Jabbar said dryly, unimpressed by the nasty glare Isra shot him. “If you are going to be petulant about this, then I will gladly send you back to your tent.”
Instead of snapping like he wanted, Isra sipped at his coffee until the urge to throw it had passed, determined to show his Uncle he wasn’t always controlled by his temper. He could wait thirty seconds before lobbing something at someone’s head, see? “I’m not being petulant,” he said at last. “I thought talking with Ghost was a waste of time, and it seems I was right. Not only is the Sheik too thick headed to listen to anyone but himself, the Amir is exactly like his name and about as trustworthy.”
“His name is not Sandstorm,” Jabbar said slowly. “Just as his father is not named Crusher. The name by which a man is known is not necessarily reflective of his true nature.” Jabbar paused. “Desert rose.”
Isra set his cup down with a hard clack. “Why does everyone see fit to bring that up?” he snapped, barely keeping from shouting. “Was it not humiliating enough, to be taunted and mocked by the Sandstorm, that everyone must keep throwing it in my face? “ He glared at his Uncle. “Why are you defending them? We were reasonable, our demands were fair – they turned into the wind long before I drew my sword.”
“Did they?” Jabbar asked thoughtfully. “I am not defending them. Sheik Hashim’s behavior was unbecoming his status. His son should not have fought you – but you attacked first, nephew. There were errors on all sides. It is a pity, because Falcon and Ghost alike would have flourished under the alliance.”
“Until they stole our horses in the night and left us stranded in an oasis,” Isra grumbled.
“If you have so little faith in others, Isra, how little faith must you have in yourself?” The words were a gentle reprimand.
“I trust you, Uncle, and those who have fought beside me, those who wait for our safe return. My faith lies with Falcon, as it always has and will.” Isra’s fingers curled around his cup, hiding the intricate green and gold feather pattern. “I do not think it is wrong of me not to trust Ghost. Why should we? Why should anyone trust a Tribe called after a creature of death? A creature that does not exist?” He stared at the coils of steam wafting up from his cup, the rich, dark liquid inside it. “If I had not attacked, worse things would have happened. You are good, Uncle, but the injury to your leg makes you slow. Crusher or Sandstorm would have gotten the better of you.”
Jabbar grunted. “Perhaps. That does not change your wrong.”
“I didn’t say that,” Isra said sourly. “Is there anything else, Uncle? I’m tired of being berated for the same thing.”
“We could move on to the manners you have already forgotten,” Jabbar said dryly. “But I think that would be a waste of time. Your tutor mentioned that he ran across something rather interesting while he was out doing whatever it is he does.”
“He likes wandering the desert. Leave him to the Lady and sands, Uncle. Upon my life, I swear he will bring us no harm.”
“I know that,” Jabbar said with a grunt, sitting back against the cushions behind him. “If I was truly concerned, I would have sent him back home to the West. I was more concerned with what he told me.”
Isra poured more coffee for them both. “The imposters, you mean? I find it hard to believe anyone in the Desert would dare to impersonate another Tribe.”
“Unless they are trying to create more problems. That far west, it is possible other Tribes would not know them as impostors, which would give us brand new enemies.”
The words fell heavy around them, making both men feel tired. If someone was impersonating Tribes to attack others, the disharmony created would turn small skirmishes into a blood bath. The last time the entire Desert had fallen to all-out war, Tribes had vanished forever.
“It might not be that bad,” Isra said at last. “Lady knows people from Tavamara and the western countries are always out here trying to play Desert Warrior. Probably they saw a Falcon once and thought that was how all of the Tribes dressed.”
Jabbar grunted again. “I hope you are right, nephew, because if you are wrong and someone is attempting to cause more strife than the Desert can contain, then your actions helped to prevent an alliance that Falcon needed.”
“They started it,” Isra said fiercely.
“Enough,” Jabbar said. “I will leave the matter in peace. Tell me your impressions of the meeting, and the fight.”
Isra shrugged. “It went about as I expected. Ghost has precious few allies, or so it is said across the Sands. Sheik Hashim was unreasonable, and his son was far too eager to engage me in a fight. You say I was wrong to act as I did, but it seems to me even more peculiar that the Amir would shove his Sheik aside and steal his fight. If I had done such a thing to you,” Isra’s lips twitched, “I would still be in my tent.”
“To say the least,” Jabbar said, smiling briefly. It quickly returned to a frown, and he crossed his arms across his wide chest. “Something about the fight bothers me, but I cannot say what.” He sighed. “It is probably the imaginings of an old man. The council meets tomorrow night, I expect you to attend – and to you behave yourself.”
“Yes, Uncle,” Isra said, and stood.
“Where are you going now?”
“Simon and I are on night patrol,” Isra replied. “We will ride with the winds.”
Jabbar nodded and grunted. “See that you do. Though if anyone could find trouble in an empty desert in the middle of the night, it would be the two of you. Body, mind and soul.”
“In all find strength,” Isra replied, and touched fingers to his forehead, lips and chest before bowing and striding from the tent.
Outside he pulled up the scraps of fabric lying around his shoulders, quickly arranging the head wrap, ensuring the myriad feathers and medallions were properly arranged, then strode through camp to where the horses were kept.
As he approached, a man motioned and then came forward with two horses. In the moonlight, it was impossible to tell their color, but Isra knew that one was unrelenting black, the other as soft and gray as smoke. “Simon,” he greeted as he accepted his horse’s reins and smoothly mounted.
“Make your apologies? Finally in the Sheik’s good graces again?”
Isra made a face. “Until I shift the sands again.” He tugged up the black fabric that would protect his mouth and nose from wind and sand. “Where are we patrolling?”
“Eastern sector, and we are due to relieve the first watch in ten minute.” Simon covered his own mouth and turned his horse east. With the head wrap to cover his hair and the dark to hide the brilliant green of his eyes, there was no way to tell that Simon was anything but another man of the Desert. Fastened to the front of his robes and head wrap were two bundles of feathers – three brown, two white, with a plain silver medallion holding them all together at the tips. They marked him as a guest of the Falcon Tribe; so long as he wore the feathers, to harm him was to harm a Falcon and make them an enemy.
The feathers and medallions Isra wore were greater in number and complexity – a dizzying combination of brown, black, white and gray, each of the half-dozen bundles secured with medallions that indicated his place in the Tribe – nephew to the Sheik, a skilled warrior, a teacher, and one of those rare members who was familiar with the customs and language of foreign countries.
“Then I suggest we hurry,” Isra said, a grin in his voice. “Ketcha!” he cried, and raced off into the sands, Simon close on his heels.
Four
“Sahayl.”
“Yes, honored father?” Sahayl shook himself from his thoughts on the raid and looked at his father, trying to obliterate the hope that wanted to flare up. Sweat and blood were soaked into his robes, as well as the robes of his soldiers, giving the air a bitter, unpleasant taste. His entire body begged to be allowed to rest.
“Were my orders unclear?”
The hope he’d tried to kill died a painful death at the simple question, leaving his chest aching. “No, father. But we took the encampment—“
“I said to kill everyone,” Hashim snapped. “Why did I see you ordering some to left alive? Are you Sheik?”
Sahayl was grateful most of his face was covered. “No, honored father, merely your humble Amir.”
“Only because I have no other sons,” Hashim snapped. “There is too much of your weak mother in you, to not only disobey me but to do so to be soft. Every person left alive is one who will someday be another enemy.”
“They were mere boys,” Sahayl protested before he could stop himself. “They could barely hold the swords that had been thrust into their hands. There was no reason to kill them; they had not even tried to attack. I thought perhaps---“ He rocked hard as his father backhanded him, the familiar taste of copper filling his mouth. Bloodmoon stilled under him, uncertain of Sahayl’s balance.
Hashim looked as though he thought one hit insufficient, but lowered his hand. “You are not the one who is meant to think, Sahayl. I gave you orders, your sole job was to obey them. If you cannot obey, how are you supposed to be fit to leave?” He turned from his son and focused his attention on the desert. “Would that I had more sons, instead of a Sandstorm that has become a breeze.”
It shouldn’t hurt, not after so many years, but Sahayl couldn’t help the searing pain deep in his chest that came at his father’s words. The only mercy was that they were separate enough from the rest of the men that no one would know why the Sheik had hit his son.
What had happened to the father that always seemed proud of his son? The father who had taught him to ride and fight? To find his way through the sands no matter where he was. The man who had smiled every time someone bellowed in outrage of the last mayhem the young Sandstorm Amir had caused?
But he knew what had happened. The son had proven to be soft, despite what his nickname and skills with a sword implied. His father would never forgive him that, and with every day that passed Hashim grew more and more violent.
A disease?
Sahayl wished he could believe that was the cause, but he wasn’t stupid. His father had always had a temper, it had just been hidden from the son for as long as possible.
He licked blood from his lips. “They’ll carry word back to the rest that crossing us was a mistake. It will carry the message faster than simply leaving the encampment to be found later.” He sighed softly, wanting nothing more than to be in bed and blissfully unconscious. “Why did we attack the Cat? We had no quarrel with them.” ‘Yet’ hung unsaid in the air. In the Desert, there was always a ‘yet’.
“They attacked one of our encampments and you have to ask why we annihilated one of theirs?” Hashim’s voice was full of contempt.
Sahayl bit back his frustration. “No one just attacks Ghost, honored father. Lady has gifted us with the ability to be as phantoms in the Desert. How did Cat find us? Why did they attack? We had no quarrel with them, and would have left them in peace had they granted us the same favor.”
“I don’t know how they found us, but we’ll figure it out. We’ll have to change our patters now. Head for encampments three and five, spread word of the pattern change. Cycle Drought with Rainfall. Select two other men to inform two and four. I want word spread and patterns changed by sundown tomorrow.”
“Yes, honored father.” Bowing his head, touching two fingers to forehead, mouth and chest, Sahayl raised his left hand, fingers flicking quickly through motions that brought forward three men. Pulling aside as the rest of the tired men rode past, nodding to them in reassurance, thanks, Sahayl then turned to the men he’d pulled away. “Noor, Kahlil,” he said to two of his most trusted soldiers. “Our Sheik bids you journey to encampments two and four, inform them we will be switching our patterns. Tell them we are to cycle Drought and Rainfall.”
The man called Noor let out a hiss. “We are to move that often?” he exclaimed. “The women and children cannot maintain such a pace.”
“I know,” Sahayl said quietly. “I am merely telling you my father’s orders.” He took a deep breath. “Tell two and four to move according to Drought. We will tell three and five to move to Rainfall at double frequency. That will keep them close enough to two and four to offer additional protection. Keep everyone alert.” He hesitated, sharing a quick glance with Wafai, who nodded. “Tell everyone to pay close attention if they’re attacked again. Cat had no reason to attack us. Nor should they have been able to find us. Several weeks ago Wafai and I encountered men pretending to be Falcon. I suspect the Cat that attacked six were imposters.”
“These Cat had the paw markings,” the man named Kahlil said, his voice rough, as if dry and sore. “On their cheeks and hands just like Cats do.”
“The bodies are all destroyed?”
“Yes, Amir.”
Sahayl nodded. “A pity. My guess is that a longer look would have revealed a flaw, perhaps in the ink or the details. We will never know.”
“Why did you never mention this before, Amir?” Noor asked. If he had dared pose such a question to the Sheik, he would have been left bruised or bleeding.
Wafai answered. “We thought it an isolated incident. The men impersonating Falcon were obviously half-breeds, nor were they native to the Desert. We killed them easily. When we brought the matter to the Sheik, he dismissed them as foreigners. Until now, we had no reason to suspect otherwise. Even now, I am not certain.” He cursed softly and looked at Sahayl. “I wish we had been present when the attack occurred. We might’ve…”
“Been able to prevent my father from ordering the slaughter of an entire encampment?” Sahayl finished bitterly. “It doesn’t matter now. The dunes shift constantly, we can only shift with them. Go to two and four, Wafai and I will take three and five. Carry my orders, but inform those who need to know of my father’s.”
Noor and Kahlil bowed their heads in a bow. “As you command, Sandstorm Amir. Mind, body, soul.”
“In all find strength,” Sahayl said, gesturing. “Go with the wind. Lady guard you.”
“Lady guard you, Sandstorm Amir,” Noor said softly. Without another he and Kahlil wheeled their horses around and took off across the sands, only the confidence of their movements offering assurance that they weren’t racing off blindly into the Desert.
Sahayl sighed. “Saa, I had been looking forward to sleeping tonight.”
“Obviously you got knocked on the head then,” Wafai said.
“Not that hard,” Sahayl replied with a grimace, gingerly touching his bruising cheek, his split lip.
Wafai made a face. “What did you say this time?”
“Does it matter?” Sahayl asked wearily. “It angers him that I breathe. Saa, I think he resents that I was ever born.” He tried to keep his tone flippant, but knew that some of the pain slipped out. “Come,” he said before Wafai could speak. “Three is some hours from here, and five further than that. Saa, it makes a man wish he would lose a battle simply to get a break.”
Wafai did not look amused. “If you lose a battle, my Sandstorm Amir, then all of Ghost loses.”
“I know,” Sahayl said quietly, feeling every ache and pain in his body. He forced gloomy thoughts aside, tired of them. “Saa, if we hurry, we can perhaps sneak in a day of rest at two. Hmm? What do you say?”
“I say that sounds a fine plan, my Sandstorm Amir.” Wafai smiled at him. “Let us go.”
Nodding, Sahayl urged his horse to movement. “There should be an oasis close by, yes? We can give the horses a chance to rest, and move out once dark falls.”
Wafai nodded in agreement and they traveled in companionable silence.
The cry of a falcon broke the quiet of the desert, immediately followed by the sound of a battle cry. Sahayl spurred Bloodmoon, who reared up and wheeled around, her cry blending with the hiss of steel against leather as he and Wafai drew their swords.
“Falcon!” Wafai exclaimed. “What are they doing here?”
“We’ll figure it out later!” Sahayl said, then charged, meeting the attack of the man racing straight toward him, steel clashing against steel as they fought. Grunting at the force of the blow, Sahayl wheeled his horse around and braced for the next, this time dodging aside at the last moment and then lashing out, using the hilt of his sword to knock the man out, sending him tumbling from his horse.
Nearby Wafai held the other man to the ground, their horses nearby. “What would you have me do with him, Amir?” His voice was hard, cold, nothing at all like his usual jovial tone and manner.
Sahayl dismounted and went to examine the man he’d knocked unconscious. “Scouts?”
“Comrades,” the conscious man spat. “We received word the Cat were under attack. It figures we would find the Ghost responsible.”
Wafai hissed. “How many more Falcon are about?”
“Enough to take care of filthy Ghost!” The man howled, then suddenly kicked out, sending Wafai stumbling back, then drew a dagger and lunged.
Sahayl moved, catching the man about the waist as Wafai dodged, sending them both the ground, then scrambled back and punched the man hard in the stomach. He climbed to his feet and rounded on Wafai. “What was that! How did you let him slip under your guard! Do you have sand on the brain!”
“Peace, brother of my soul,” Wafai said, looking thoroughly disgusted with himself. “I underestimated him. It’s no wonder he held his own against you so well, all those weeks ago.”
“What are you talking about?” Sahayl said, then whirled around to take another look at the man he’d just knocked out. Just above his face covering was a line of white skin, the end of what was probably a long scar. Sahayl hissed in surprise and dropped to one knee, tugging down the mouth cover to reveal a familiar, beautiful face. “Lady grant me peace. I had not thought come across this one again. Though I suppose I should not be surprised.”
“He’s a nasty one,” Wafai said sourly, “Much like that precious bird that is no doubt signaling for help somehow, if I know the Falcon and their tricks. Light, slender, but quick and strong. If you had not been here, I would be hosting a banquet for vultures.”
Sahayl grinned. “And I would be short a very fine horse, as they would have taken it.”
“You wound me, brother of my soul.” Wafai made a face. “We need to move, before more arrive than we can easily handle. I was not aware Cat had allied with Falcon. That spells trouble for us.”
“Not with Cobra so close,” Sahayl said. “Nor is Scorpion too far away, and they have no love for either Cat or Falcon, even if they do not call us friend.”
Wafai only grunted and swung up onto his horse. “Why are you still playing in the sand? Let’s go.”
Sahayl didn’t move, but continued to stare at the unconscious man, thinking it a pity he could not see the blue, blue eyes. He shook off the idle thought and ran a finger along the scar on the man’s cheek, then reached up to touch the one on his own. “A pity,” he said.
“What’s a pity?” Wafai asked irritably, watching Sahayl as he finally mounted Bloodmoon.
“I’m not sure,” Sahayl said with a pensive frown. “I just…” He shrugged. “I don’t know.” Turning his horse, he spurred her into a gallop and the two men raced off across the sand, attempting to lose themselves in the Desert before more Falcon arrived.
They reached camp three well after dark, when the air was cold enough their breath clouded in the air.
“Who goes?” A guard demanded.
“Amir Sahayl and Protector Wafai,” Wafai answered.
“Sandstorm Amir,” the guard greeted, relaxing, genuine pleasure in his voice. “Lady finds you well, this evening?”
“The Lady has permitted me to survive the day,” Sahayl said. “I cannot ask more than that. How does the wind blow?”
“A quiet breeze,” the guard said. “Eerily quiet, after all that we have heard of the attack on six.” His voice lost what happiness had been in it.
Sahayl dismounted and crossed over to the man, resting a hand on his shoulder. “The Lady will take care of them. Ghost will avenge them.”
“Yes, Amir,” the soldier said quietly. Then he laughed, a weak but genuine sound. “Speaking of Ladies, Sandstorm Amir, your lady wife has come to visit. Apparently she heard you would not be journeying to assure her you were safe, and came to see for herself.”
“What!” Sahayl exclaimed. “Rafiqa is here? What is that woman doing in a war camp? I will kill her myself!” Storming off, Wafai on his heels, Sahayl blazed through the camp, headed for the tent set up on the chance that the Sheik or Amir might visit. “Rafiqa!” he snapped as he flew into the tent. “You had better not be here.” He glared at the woman watching him tolerantly from the left side of the tent, where she sat a table set with a late – very late – dinner.
“Very well, honored husband, I am not here. Your sand-addled brain must be imagining things.”
Sahayl muttered underneath his breath and motioned for Wafai to close the tent, ensuring the three of them would not be disturbed.
Rafiqa poured them each a cup of Desert Wine, which was dark, spicy and strong. She was the very picture of what a woman of the Desert should be, especially as the Amira. Her hair was brown, so dark it looked black, pulled up high on her head and then tumbling down her back in thick, soft curls, with a few smaller strands brushing softly against her cheeks. Her lashes were long, thick, framing pale brown eyes. Her lips were pale, full, curved in a fond smile. Gold and jewels glimmered in her ears, at her throat, in the bands on her upper and lower arms. She wore a gown of pale green, the fabric winding around her throat before flowing down to mold to her body, spilling into a close skirt.
Setting the skin of wine aside, she leaned up and over to give Sahayl a soft, chaste kiss. “I am glad you’re all right.”
Sahayl grinned against her mouth. “You’re just relieved you’re cover is still alive, brat princess.”
Rafiqa gouged him lightly with her nails, which had been painted gold. “Do not speak so, honored husband. I would be sick at heart to hear of your death.”
“I know, Rafi,” Sahayl said, settling back and taking a deep swallow of his wine, motioning for her to pour more. “I was just trying to tease.”
“Hmph,” Rafiqa said, not mollified in the slightest. She poured him more wine and then settled back to lean against Wafai, who wrapped an arm around her waist and tugged her close for a kiss. “So why have you come here and not to see me?” she asked when he finally let her go.
Sahayl sipped his wine more slowly, snatching up bits of food and eating between sentences. “To pass orders to change the patterns. Which I would have already done, except a certain wife cannot learn that her place is in the camp designated to her, in my tent, and obeying my orders.”
Rafiqa rolled her eyes. “Did I not warn you, honorable husband, that you should have taken my sister as wife?”
“You imagine I had any say in the matter,” Sahayl said, swallowing a bit of meat, licking a pale yellow sauce from his fingers. “If it had been left up to me, oh former daughter of the Cobra, I would gladly have left you to the fool who seems to be quite happily caught in your spell.”
“Quite,” Wafai said, pressing a kiss to the pulse at Rafiqa’s wrist.
Sahayl smiled at them. “One day, my brother and sister, things will be as they should be.”
Rafiqa smiled fondly at him, and leaned across the table to give him another chaste kiss. “Thank you, as always, my Sandstorm Amir.”
Sahayl waved the word aside and resumed eating, rapidly decimating a tray of pastries stuffed with soft cheese. “I will come up with suitable repayment, never fear, my dear, dear Amira.” He yawned. “I need a bath and to not wake up for several days.” He sighed. “Saa, it seems I will even get the bath.”
“Surely you do not mean to charge off again after food and bath?” Rafiqa said with a frown. She glared at them both. “What is it with you men that you must try to kill yourselves with work? Is it not enough you try to kill each other every single day? You will finish eating, then you will bathe, and then you will sleep. When you wake up, you will eat again and then you will relax. No one is going anywhere until I say so, is that understood? I did not come here simply to see you for a couple of hours.” She folded her arms across her chest and waited in stony silence.
“Lady save me from her daughters,” Sahayl muttered. “I cannot wait until you are out of my tent, Rafiqa. We must spread word of the change in pattern as quickly as possible. That means we have not time to relax.”
Rafiqa sniffed, unimpressed. “Your horses, at the very least, will need several hours to recover from the abuse you inflict upon them. Wafai will go inform the camp of the pattern change, I will order baths be drawn, and then you will relax for the remainder of the night. Is that understood?”
“Yes, beloved wife,” Sahayl said.
“Good,” Rafiqa said, rising to her feet. “Wafai, I will have them draw a bath in your tent as well.”
“Thank you, Rafi.” Wafai stood and stole a quick kiss before bowing to Sahayl and striding from the tent.
Rafiqa eyed Sahayl. “You reek. Honestly, has the sand killed your sense of smell, honored husband?”
Sahayl laughed and continued to eat while a bath was prepared, listening with half an ear while his wife ordered the men about.
“Come, husband. Out of those clothes and let us get you clean and not smelling like a battlefield.” She moved to help him, nose wrinkling as she tossed his filthy robes aside. “It’s a wonder you could eat covered in all this filth. I do wish you could learn the proper order of things.”
“I didn’t think I’d be stopping long enough to enjoy anything more than the food, beloved wife, else I would have bathed first.”
Rafiqa sniffed and shoved him toward the bath, fingers combing through his thick hair for a moment once she was settled in. “You need a real wife,” she said. “Not a farce.”
“I am happiest on my own,” Sahayl said, not bothering to open his eye as he replied. He heard her sigh softly before she moved away and began to rifle through trunks of clothes, pulling out thing for him to wear and laying them out on his bed. “Truly. My only regret is that you must waste all these years with me when you should be with Wafai.”
“My life is hardly one to regret, honored husband,” Rafiqa said with dry amusement. “I think I shall endure being your Amira until I am free to marry the man of my heart. That you would permit such a thing is a great blessing.”
Sahayl waved her words away. “Saa, I want everyone to be happy.”
“What would make you happy, honored husband?” Rafiqa asked softly, coming back to the tub and once more stroking his hair, urging him to sit up that so she could scrub his shoulders and back, wash his hair with a soap that smelled like cloves.
“Peace and quiet,” Sahayl said. “Which just goes to show how much sand has gotten into my head, that I think such a thing is possible.” With a sigh he climbed from the tub and shrugged into the loose robe she had laid out, belting it with a black and silver sash. Instead of his bed, he fell into a long seat, reclining against the curving back. “What news have you to tell me of the other camps?”
Rafiqa fetched a comb from a small chest and began the laborious task of unknotting his thick curls, ignoring his question in favor of humming a slow, soft tune. She pressed a finger to her lips as Wafai returned, his own hair still damp from a bath, and motioned to Sahayl, who had fallen asleep. She motioned him to the table, where they quietly ate the sweets that had been brought it for the Amir to enjoy after his bath, talking quietly and enjoying the little time they had together, all the while watching over their Sandstorm Amir.
Five
“Ah, Ikram. I hope you come with good news.”
“Majesty,” Ikram said dryly, “if my job included giving you good news, someone else might actually want it, which would allow me to retire.”
The King chuckled. “We certainly cannot have that. I would be lost without, Ikram.” He flicked his fingers, dismissing the servants and guards in the room. In seconds, no one remained in the courtroom save Ikram, the King and a man sitting motionlessly on a pillow beside the King’s chair. “Give me the bad news then.”
Ikram sighed. “My reports are that thing progress, but not quickly or well. Shihab,” he could not help the way his voice tightened as he said the name. “Shihab works diligently. To date he remains free. A few more months, he says, and he will return highly successful. But, of course, danger grows.”
“Well that is not bad news, per se, though of course I wish Shihab was already home,” the King said. His eyes were darker than was usual, and he reached out to sink one hand into the hair of the man beside him, as if seeking comfort. “I did not want to send him out there.”
The man on the pillow gave a soft, indelicate snort.
Ikram could not help a chuckle. “You are right of course,” he said to the man on the pillow. “He would have gone anyway. The father leaves the desert and of course his son runs straight back to it….” He shook his head.
The King laughed. “Some days, Ikram, it is hard to tell you did not sire him. If I did not know better, it would be hard to tell – skin or no. Certainly he gets his stubbornness from you.”
Ikram rolled his eyes. “Stubbornness is required when dealing with Kings who are fond of stirring up as much trouble as can be fit into a day. It is only natural he would acquire that trait. But if he got his stubbornness from me, Majesty, he got his penchant for mischief from trailing after a certain troublesome prince.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” the King said lazily. “All my time was spent studying.”
“Yes,” Ikram responded dryly, “but one wonders what you were studying.”
The King threw his head back and laughed, and even the quiet man beside him could not resist chuckling. “All the right things, obviously.”
“Indeed,” Ikram said. He sobered suddenly. “I hope what has worked for you works for my son.”
The King’s face tightened. “I regard Shihab as dearly as my own children, Ikram. If there had been anyone else to send…”
“I know, Majesty,” Ikram said quietly. “And as previously stated, he would have gone anyway. Shihab knows better than to die on me. I will have to trust that the Lady knows better than to let him die.”
“Even I will not cross you, Ikram. I doubt your Lady will.” The King motioned. “What else have you to tell me? Have we narrowed our enemy to one country? Gollen? Lavarre?” His voice hardened. “Hadge?”
Ikram frowned. “Hadge is definitely on the move. Their Ambassador…I would sooner trust a Scorpion.” He did not need to explain that it was not the insect to which he referred. He waved impatiently in the air. “I would not discount Lavarre, but in my opinon Hadge is our primary threat. They have not liked us since you forced negotiations…and keeping one of their finest commanders did not help matters.” It is simply that we lack proof.” He eyed the King pensively. “Even your witch can discern nothing in their actions.”
The King’s mouth tightened. He stroked his close-cropped beard in thought, his other hand unconsciously tightening in the hair of the man sitting on the floor beside him. In response, the man gently tugged the hand from his hair and kissed the palm. “Majesty,” he said softly, “all will be well. You will make it so.”
At his words, the lines of frustration on the King’s face eased slightly. “I hope you are right,” he said softly. Gently he cupped the man’s chin, stroking the soft skin of his face, smiling faintly.
Ikram regarded them with fond amusement. “In regards to your plan to drive the traitors to sloppiness with anger…”
The King sighed and shook his head, faintly amused. “Do I even want to know what he did?”
“I’m sure I couldn’t say, Majesty. What your men discuss amongst themselves is none of my business. But it is my humble opinion that a certain King might want to curb the antics of certain members of his harem, and perhaps enjoy a quiet meal tonight so that certain members of the council will simmer down to plotting and not boil to full out murder.”
Quirking a brow, the King cast a brief look at the man beside him. “Members? As in more than one? I distinctly remember telling only one of them to go about discreetly aggravating certain members of the council.”
The man beside him rolled his eyes. “Yes, but recall who you set to curb his behavior.”
“Ah,” the King said, shaking his head ruefully. “Whatever was I thinking to put those two together? Why did you let me?”
Lips curved in a whisper soft smile. “I suppose we were distracted.”
Ikram coughed to smother a laugh. “Majesty?”
The King laughed. “Yes, yes. I will keep them from doing further damage today. I still think it the best plan. Between you, I and those two, someone will get angry enough to make a mistake and then we will have our traitors. It is not a great plan…” he sighed, “but until we can come up with a better plan, I see no other recourse.”
“Unfortunately, I do not see one either,” Ikram said, voice thick with frustration. “We cannot find anything! No indication of anything save that at least one country in the west moves against the desert. ” He rubbed his eyes and forehead tiredly. “I still cannot believe Ghost has ignored my every letter. Nor has Cobra answered me. I do not understand it!” His shoulders sagged, and suddenly Ikram looked every bit of his fifty-two years. “And the one man who can get some answers for us may die doing it, and that man is my son.” He drew a ragged breath. “Lady will that all goes well. If your Majesty will pardon me, now that I’ve given my report there are other duties requiring my attention.”
“Of course. Thank you, Ikram,” the King said softly, waving the man out. When a Guard looked inside in question, he flicked his fingers briefly in negation. The door shut, leaving him alone with the man beside him. “There are days I feel like the worst sort of criminal,” he said tiredly. “What sort of man tortures his closest friend by sending his son right into the middle of danger? If Shihab dies, grief will kill Ikram and his wife.”
“No one else can do what Shihab can. He volunteered.” The man stood slowly, his movements graceful, elegant. As he rose to his full height, his hair straightened out, the end of it stopping just short of the floor. It was bound intermittently with thick gold bands, keeping the mass of hair neatly in place. Unlike the King, who was dressed in simple but elegant robes, he wore nothing more than soft black pants overlaid with a floor-length black skirt slit up the sides. His chest was narrow but well-toned, and he wore no adornment but cuffs at wrist and throat to match the bands in his hair. With utter casualness he moved to sit in the King’s lap, twining his arms around the King’s neck. “Doubts ill suit you, Majesty.”
The King smiled faintly. “We are alone, Nanda.”
Nanda’s mouth curved in a whisper-soft smile. “Doubt ill suits you, Shah.” He kissed Shah softly. “If you want to be driven crazy, then summon those two idiots trying to bring the palace down around our ears. They excel at mayhem; there is no need for you to drive yourself mad.”
Laughing, shaking with the force of it, Shah tugged Nanda closer for a deeper kiss. “As always, my Nanda, you know precisely what to say.” He gently traced the fine line of Nanda’s cheekbone with the tips of his fingers. “You have been here all morning, my beauty. Find Bey and Aik, tell them to come and attend me for the rest of the day. That should keep them out of trouble for a bit. Go find food, then enjoy a nap for me.”
“I do not enjoy them unless you are with me,” Nanda replied, and with a last kiss slid from Shah’s lap. “Perhaps I’ll coerce Kiah into dozing with me.” He smiled faintly. “And we’ll tell you all about it later.”
“That would make good hearing,” Shah murmured. He motioned toward the door. “Go before I decide I have the time for a nap of my own. Pass word that I’ll be dining in private tonight.”
“Yes, Majesty.” Nanda bowed gracefully. “I will also send in food for you, so you can relax a bit before resuming court.”
“Thank you, Nanda.”
With another faint smile, Nanda gave another bow and then left the courtroom, the door closing on his soft words as he spoke to the guards.
“Nanda says we are in trouble.”
Shah looked up from a report he’d been skimming, smiling at the men approaching him. “You and Bey need to be locked in my quarters, my monk.” He tilted his head back as the man swooped down to kiss him. “I told you to restrain him, Aik.”
Aik rolled his eyes and sat down on a pillow to the left of Shah’s chair. Like Nanda, he was bare-chested, dressed in the pants and skirt outfit that immediately marked the member of the King’s harem. His hair, shoulder-length and ink dark, was bound neatly in a tail at the nape of his neck, and he wore thick, heavy bands of gold at his wrists and throat, bringing out the gold in his dusky skin. “I did restrain him, that’s the frightening part.”
“I was afraid of that,” Shah murmured as he tugged the second man close, kissing him deeply. “Perhaps I should set you, my beautiful witch, to watch them both.”
“Witcher? Make us behave?” Aik threw his head back and laughed. “I would like to see that happen.”
“Be quiet, monk,” Witched said, making a face. He hummed as Shah’s hands stroked softly across his unusually pale skin, sky blue eyes bright with pleasure. His hair was brilliant, just long enough for fingers to sink into, grab hold of. Gold hoops gleamed at his nipples, the only decoration he wore. “If my King orders me to make you behave, I will do so.”
Aik’s dark eyes flashed. “Shah, tell him to make me behave.”
Shah chuckled and released Witcher. “Perhaps tonight, as Ikram has instructed I dine with my harem in private lest the council descend upon us in murderous rage. What did you let Bey do, my monk? And where is my pirate? I remember saying he had to be here for the afternoon.”
“Your Queen stole him for the afternoon. They were bringing word to you when Nanda found us, and we said we would relay the message. As to what Bey did,” Aik shrugged. “His mere presence in the palace, and in your bed, is enough to the council act like men driven made by too much sun.”
Witcher rolled his eyes from where he sat at Shah’s right. “Aik, you and Kiah are the only two of whom they approve.”
“Yes, but at least you and Nanda behave. More or less. Bey goes out of his way to keep them in that frenzy.” Aik shook his head, laughing softly. “It doesn’t help that now he is doing it on his King’s orders.”
Shah sighed, but it was obvious he was fighting a smile. “Perhaps our private meal tonight will wear the lot of you out enough I do not get reports concerning your behavior.” He motioned to the door. “I suppose I have put off work long enough. Witcher, let them know court will resume?”
“Of course, Shah,” Witcher murmured, and crossed to the door to speak with the guard outside, then immediately returned to his place at Shah’s side. A minute later the doors opened wide and slowly the room began to fill with people, most ordered to allotted seats along either side of the room, others made to form a line before the throne. One by one the supplicants approached, presenting problems or propositions, presenting sons, daughters, seeking permission for visitors, dozens upon dozens of matters there were for Shah to decide upon. Most issues were left to his council, but there were still many that he must handle personally. Throughout it all Aik and Witcher never so much as twitches. They sat patiently, tirelessly, lending quiet support and subtle weight to the King’s authority.
The afternoon passed with relative quiet, few of the problems brought to him complicated or troublesome, and only one man having to be dragged away by the guards.
Shah forced himself to relax, hating to look anything other than completely at ease when he was anywhere but his private chambers. Court was exhausting, however, and the small midday meal sent to him had not last him long. He wanted only to be where he could truly relax, away from the stress and the ever-present threats of treachery and assassination.
Because if he had councilmen plotting against him, working with the west to grab hold of the Wild Desert – which would bring the west uncomfortably close to Tavamara – then he had no doubt that getting rid of him would at some point become necessary.
He motioned the next supplicant forward, warmly greeting the son being presented, making him an official part of society now that he’d come of age, then waved the family away and motioned for a pause in the proceedings. “Something to drink?” he requested of a guard, and wine was immediately brought, light and sweet, pale pink in color.
For the first time in two hours his harem men moved, Aik carefully pouring wine into a shallow drinking dish and passing it to Witcher, who held it to Shah’s lips, face expressionless but eyes smiling. “Better, my King?” he murmured, words only for Shah to hear.
“By your presence, my witch,” Shah said just as quietly, wishing he could touch but ever aware of his station. “Thank you,” he said more loudly. “Let us resume.” He motioned the next supplicant forward as the wine was taken away.
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Date: 2006-05-22 01:24 am (UTC)But yes! Isra's temper, Rafiqa just being herself, the harem and Shah appearing, and... oh man, I'm loving this. XD What I love the most is the flow of it all. So nice and easy to read...
Randomly, it's not bad to nitpick a few missing words and whatnot, right?
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Date: 2006-05-22 01:35 am (UTC)It's not reall that much. Maybe 21 pages?
^___^
Heh, go ahead. I tried looking it over before I posted, but I've been looking at it so long I know I didn't see the mistakes. Normally I give everthing to m betas first, but they've both been busy so I haven't bothered.
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Date: 2006-05-22 02:40 am (UTC)Simon patted his hand. “You did break protocol by not only trying to kill a Sheik in the middle of peace talks, but also tried to kill an Amir.”
Just changing tried to trying, fit the tense of the sentence.
“I said to kill everyone,” Hashim snapped. “Why did I see you ordering some to left alive? Are you Sheik?”
Ordering some to be left alive?
“I don’t know how they found us, but we’ll figure it out. We’ll have to change our patters now.
patterns
“You’re just relieved you’re cover is still alive, brat princess.”
your cover
That means we have not time to relax.”
That on purpose, or should it just be "no time"?
She motioned him to the table, where they quietly ate the sweets that had been brought it for the Amir to enjoy after his bath,
You could put "brought in for the Amir", or just x-nay the "it" Knights of Nii style.
“We certainly cannot have that. I would be lost without, Ikram.”
Be lost without you?
... and keeping one of their finest commanders did not help matters.” It is simply that we lack proof.”
Take out the quotation marks in the middle.
“His mere presence in the palace, and in your bed, is enough to the council act like men driven made by too much sun.”
Mad by too much sun
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Date: 2006-05-22 01:37 am (UTC)I keep picturing Sahayl as Oded Fehr from The Mummy. zomg.
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Date: 2006-05-22 01:39 am (UTC)Yeah, that bit of yummy has a definite influence on this story, I confess.
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Date: 2006-05-22 01:43 am (UTC)I have to say, I am digging Sahayl like a lot. I am a sucker for the stoic, abused guys. What a poor widdle smootchie! Isra, be nice to him! :(
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Date: 2006-05-22 01:53 am (UTC)Tygati hooked me up, and you gave me a perfect excuse XD
I like him lots. Had no idea he was the stoic, abused type until I started writing, which is always fun.
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Date: 2006-05-22 01:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-22 01:53 am (UTC)^___^
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Date: 2006-05-22 04:00 am (UTC)Still... yummy boys. *.* Yummy, sexy, fighting boys.... *_______*
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Date: 2006-05-23 05:01 pm (UTC)Long live sexy fighting boys!! ^_~
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Date: 2006-05-23 10:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-22 04:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-23 05:03 pm (UTC)I was hoping to surprise, I'm thrilled it worked ^_____^
Simon and Isra are just friends, never fear ^_~ You'll see Simon's fate in the next chapter, hee hee
<<<333
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Date: 2006-05-22 07:45 am (UTC)anyway, went back and read the prologue and realised that Witcher was the bone-white foreigner ^^ I love how I initially thought they were two separate worlds and yet how well you mesh them together.
i also have a soft spot for the poor abused boy who tries his very best to do what's right and make the people around him happy - by sacrificing himself. Poor boy. hope he becomes happier soon... hehe after all, Sahayl and Isra have matching scars ^_^ do i see the makings of a threesome??
Hm, i was thinking that Shihab was Simon, from the part where Simon was in pain over his name and stuff. Also, the part about Simon's family and him sneaking into camps and looking at maps. which btw i think is intriguing. what is he trying to achieve? how did he get the Falcon's trust?
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Date: 2006-05-23 05:05 pm (UTC)Yay! I'm thrilled I managed to take people by surprise. I rarely succeed at that, so w00t!! ^___^
You'll get more of what Simon is up to soon ^_~
Thanks for reading <3
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Date: 2006-05-22 03:00 pm (UTC)And, wow, three chapters! You go, girl! As the plot unfolds further, it is proving to be most intricate. Really keeping me on my toes. I just love every new character, and seeing them from different perspectives.
Can't wait to see more!!!
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Date: 2006-05-23 05:01 pm (UTC)^___^ I was hoping Harem would surprise a few people. I gave hints in the prologue, but worked hard otherwise to keep it s00per sekkret.
Thankee! ^_^
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Date: 2006-05-22 05:00 pm (UTC)... *perks up* Unless you're going to post it on the beta-filter? =DDDDDDDDDDDDDD
Also yuuuuuuuuuuuuum. Although damnit I miss Kiah. (Why yes, I am obsessed, however did you guess?)
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Date: 2006-05-23 05:00 pm (UTC)You know you'll see it all. Let me know when I can pester you to beta, I'll send what I have so far.
Heh. Kiah will show up ^_~
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Date: 2006-05-25 04:19 am (UTC)Hm. This weekend might be good, if you want it soon, or next weekend. *wubs you*
^_________________^
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Date: 2006-05-23 07:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-23 04:59 pm (UTC)^__^ Glad I could help some. I figured there would be full approval for the harem ^_~
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Date: 2006-05-23 07:48 am (UTC)So, sorry it took me so long to get around to reading, but I did finally, and I mightily approve of where/how it's going. Though I hold that Sahayl needs a vacation.
And a hug. Desperately.
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Date: 2006-05-23 04:59 pm (UTC)Heh. You always figure out what I'm up to. I wondered if you'd anticipate it or not.
^__^
*totally fangirls*
Date: 2006-05-24 12:09 am (UTC)You're evil. Really, really evil.
Course, that's why we love you, but still. Evil!
*________________________________* I can't believe you managed to cross this over with your Harem boys! (Which, actually, comforts me as you had Simon (Shihab?) and Irsa getting into some heavy petting and Sahayl was looking lonely...)
Seriously...I don't think I can say much more that's coherent at the moment. I have SOOOO many questions, and I'm sure you'll slowly start filling in the blanks, which is why you're so awesome, but still....*___________* Mad, mad love for this.
*flying tackle glomps* More! Please? *puppy eyes*
Re: *totally fangirls*
Date: 2006-05-24 12:51 am (UTC)^_____________^
I try. Hee hee hee
I have been dying to see reactions to that. This author is very pleased with herself XD
I think you'll figure it out pretty quick ^_~
<<<333 I'll probabl post more, stories aren't as much fun when they're hoarded.
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Date: 2006-05-24 12:13 am (UTC)mad sexxoringa hug. And his father needs a swift kick to the balls. I also really like the way he's a cover for Rafiqa (who is quite kickass, btw) and Wafai.*hearts* I love this! To pieces!
And Sahayl needs
some sexy boi kissingsa happy ending. ;_;no subject
Date: 2006-05-24 12:52 am (UTC)Heh. Sahayl will get his loving eventually ^_~
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Date: 2006-05-28 04:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-09-04 02:39 am (UTC)