Sandstorm

[maderr]

Seventeen

Isra ran across the roof of the palace, Shihab just ahead of him, leading the way across the roof of the palace, barely visible beneath the gleaming moonlight. Ahead of them the assassin fled, and Isra sneered that he continued to hold to his bow and arrows – it would have been more effective to abandon the weapons.

He snarled as the assassin abruptly cut right and vanished over the side of a roof.

“Rose garden,” Shihab said as they followed, jumping down and rolling as they landed before rising smoothly to their feet. From his robes Isra drew a long dagger, and he could see Shihab did the same. “He can’t get out,” Shihab said, speaking in Lavarre. “Thieves and such like to use the roofs to gain access to secluded portions of the palace like this. The doors are all locked at night to prevent their getting inside. Breaking in will cause too many problems for him, so he’ll probably try to go back up. After killing us, of course. Take the right path,” he pointed behind Isra. “I’ll go left.”

“Don’t kill him,” Isra replied, then turned down the indicated path and began to weave through the garden. The scent of roses filled the cool night air, mixed with the smell of his own sweat and the faint tang of blood. His arm needed attention, but the assassin came first. At least the arrow hadn’t been poisoned. The assassin wasn’t a complete coward, only mostly.

Isra barely moved in time, feeling the change in the air – suddenly too quiet, different – a moment before the arrow flew past, barely missing him. He threw himself into the tangle of bushes, not giving the assassin a second chance to get him, ignoring the thorns that raked his skin, and broke through a circle of dark-colored roses to see the man huddled within them. Isra shouted for Shihab even as he attacked the assassin, yanking away the bow and arrow, knocking away the knife that arched toward him, punching the assassin in the jaw.

Then Shihab appeared, grabbing the assassin from behind, yanking him down and pinning him there.

“Assassins in this country lack talent,” Isra said, dragging his dagger lightly across the man’s throat, drawing up a hairline of blood. “I hope they did not pay too much for you.”

Snarling, cursing in a language Isra vaguely recognized, the man bucked and fought and struggled, but with Shihab’s wiry strength holding his arms down, Isra straddling his legs and pressing a dagger to his throat, there wasn’t much he could do. Isra looked at Shihab.

“He’s speaking a dialect of Hadge. Northeastern, a mountain dialect.” Shihab laughed. “Offering quite colorful suggestions on how precisely your mother earns her bread.”

Isra grunted. “Probably all true, but no one is allowed to say so except me.” He grabbed the man’s lower jaw, hard enough to leave bruises, forcing his mouth to remain open, then slid the tip of his dagger inside the man’s mouth, feeling as it touched the man’s tongue, pressing hard enough to draw up a bit of blood. “The only thing I want to hear from you, my friend, is who was dumb enough to pay you and if they’d paid anyone else.” He withdrew the dagger.

“I will not tell,” the man said in heavily accented Tavamaran, turning his head to spit out blood.

“Let’s try motive, then,” Isra suggested, drawing the dagger across the man’s stomach, a thin trail of blood welling up, soaking into the ruined robe.

“I was told to kill the new Prince. No reason given.”

“Why are you such a bad shot?” Isra asked, tapping the flat of the blade idly against his own cheek, seemingly oblivious to the blood that smeared across it. “Two arrows I’ve survived tonight. Not very good marksmanship – though I will concede shooting through these roses was quite a feat. So we’ll say one bad shot. That’s still terrible. Any son of the Desert would have made the first shot, and been gone before the second became necessary.” Isra glowered as he remembered when he’d caught sight of metal where metal should not have been. Thankfully it hadn’t been a crossbow. His arm ached. He ignored it and sliced a fine cut down the man’s chest – just deep enough to sting, prove bothersome. Blood soaked the cut edges of the man’s robes, more staining his lips from where he was still spitting it out. “The counsel should learn to pay for good assassins.”

The man was silent, eyes black pools in the moonlight. “I’m one of the best in the city,” he said.

“I doubt that,” Shihab said. “A crossbow would have been more effective, or attacking directly as the one yesterday tried. City men are soft – even assassins, it would seem. Tell us who hired you or it’s off to the cells and you’ll be executed as soon as the King feels like giving the order. Though seeing as you tried to kill his brother…execution would be a kindness. More likely he’ll have you banished, put on a ship, in which case I’d worry about pirates. They prey on such ships, kill everyone that’s a threat, sell off those who will bring a worthy amount of silver. You they’d probably kill, but then again I hear the diamond mines of Pelenna always need hard workers.”

Silence was the only reply.

Shihab laughed, cold and derisive. “Stupid assassins. They think silence will purchase their lives. Incapacitate him and let’s take him to his new rooms.”

“You truly are a son of the Desert, Shihab. Would your father be horrified to learn how bloody you’ve become?”

“My father was a Cobra,” Shihab answered.

“That is true,” Isra replied, then reached up and slashed a deep gash down the assassin’s right arm, careful not to cut in such a way he’d bleed to death, but ensuring his arm would be useless for a long time.

Then he did the left.

“Give me your sash,” he said, ignoring he man’s screams of pain. “So willing to kill, you’d think they’d be braver about pain inflicted upon them.”

Shihab scoffed and released his hold on the man to take off his own sash, and quickly they set to work binding the fresh wounds. “He’ll need a healer.”

“Go get one, then,” Isra said. “Send a guard to help me carry him.”

Nodding, Shihab vanished into the garden.

Isra waited in silence, looking in disgust at the man lying beside him. “Pathetic.”

“I kill,” the man gasped, and Isra wondered if he was going into shock. “I do not torture.”

“Torture?” Isra sneered. “I do not torture. I am merely assuring you cannot get away. If one more assassin tries to kill my—“ he faltered, stopped, shaken by his own words. Sahayl wasn’t his anything. “To kill the Prince, that man will learn what the word torture really means. You should not have been foolish enough to interfere in the Desert.”

“Savages,” the man whispered, then passed out.

Isra made a face. “The Desert protects its own. What is so savage about that?” His fingers strayed to his wound, the blood that had dried all along his arm. It burned, screamed in protest of the treatment it had received. It would ache something fierce for days, and trying to lift his sword would be foolish indeed. Bastard assassin.

Noise in the brush broke his thoughts, and a voice called out, searching. Isra called back, and when the guard appeared they set to work lifting the unconscious prisoner, the guard draping him over his back, motioning for Isra to lead, indicating where he needed to go.

The palace was eerily still, silent. Even the guards seemed more frozen than usual. Not a single servant was about, everyone ordered to remain in their rooms. Isra’s footsteps were soundless, for even in the sand could the faintest of sounds be heard by a skilled Tribesman. Silence was everything. Behind him, the guard seemed not to share that opinion, his boots thudding heavily on the tile floor, breaths growing heavy as he carried the cumbersome, bleeding prisoner.

Isra was grateful for the distraction the journey to the prisons provided, desperate for anything that would keep him from thinking of the ramifications of his actions – both saving Sahayl from the arrow and the fact that he now seemed to be Sahayl’s lover.

What was wrong with him? He traced the scar on his cheek, glowering at everything. He’d hated the man. Despised. Had fully intended to kill him.

Then there had been that stupid oasis. It had ruined everything.

What was it his honored uncle had gone on about that last lecture? In that single moment, I wanted nothing more than her happiness…

He didn’t know about anyone’s happiness, but he knew now what it was like for everything to change in a moment.

One stupid little moment, one stupid realization, and now he was taking arrows for an enemy. A former enemy. A former enemy turned lover.

Which was an entirely separate problem, and one he wasn’t ready to face yet. That could probably wait until the fighting ceased, and part of Isra hoped the fighting would take a long, long time. It wasn’t a decision he wanted a make. Lady save him, it wasn’t a decision he thought he would ever have to make. Tavamaran tradition and law were bleeding into the Desert, changing everything, and he was right in the middle of those changes.

The most frightening part was that he thought he knew what his decision would be, unless something wholly unexpected shifted the sands again.

What was happening to him?

Isra shook off his own thoughts as they deposited the assassin in his cell. He thanked the guard and motioned for the man to leave. Reaching out, he slapped the assassin’s cheeks hard, giving up in disgust when the man gave no signs of waking. Movement brought his head around, and he looked up as Shihab entered the cell with a man Isra didn’t recognize but was obviously a healer.

The healer frowned at the wounds. “Do you always do this to men you capture?”

“Not always,” Isra answered, yawning as exhaustion washed over him now that everything was well and truly over. “Only the ones who are extremely dangerous or could provide a great deal of information. Often, both reasons apply.” He made a face. “Surely you don’t expect me to treat him kindly.”

The healer said nothing, but the pinched look to his mouth told Isra enough. He shot Shihab a disgusted glance and rose to his feet. “I think our job is finished here. We’ll let the palace soldiers handle the rest.”

“Yes,” Shihab replied. “Let’s go see how Bahadur and Sahayl are doing.”

“I doubt anyone would be foolish enough to assault Sahayl again with that warhorse so close,” Isra said, lips twitching as he thought of Bahadur, “especially after last night. I’m amazed Jackal let him get away. The Lady shows her approval by lending his skill to our side.”

Shihab nodded in agreement. “Especially as things are only going to get worse from here on out.” He slid Isra a thoughtful look. “What are you planning to do?”

“Why should I be planning to do anything?” Isra asked irritably.

“Obviously you’ve given your support to Sahayl. Will Falcon do the same?”

“That is up to my honored uncle.” Isra glared. “That is not all you want to ask, is it?”

“I am rather curious as to whether or not you’ll continue to share Sahayls’ bed.” Shihab smirked.

Isra reached out to cuff him upside the head, grimacing when Shihab dodged away. “It little matters while the fighting continues,” he said. “Stop asking stupid questions.”

Shihab laughed softly but wisely did not press. Silence fell between them as they walked, and they were nearly to Sahayl’s rooms before Shihab spoke again. “So are you going to give me the details? No fair holding everything back. He’s usually so quiet, I bet—hey!” Shihab rubbed the back of his head. “That was uncalled for.”

“Stop acting so crass. I’m not telling you anything.” Isra made a face. “Honestly. Your Tavamaran roots are showing.”

“I see,” Shihab said with a smirk. He chuckled softly. “Maybe I’ll just find out for myself sometime.”

Isra rolled his eyes and said nothing, pointedly ignoring Shihab’s continuing laughter as they entered Sahayl’s rooms and spotted Sahayl and Bahadur speaking quietly at the table near the bed.

“You caught him,” Bahadur said, a statement rather than a question.

“He’s locked up,” Isra replied, dropping down to sit next to Sahayl, barely catching himself from leaning up to steal a kiss.

Sahayl frowned. “Your arm needs attending, desert rose.” He reached out to touch Isra’s bloody cheek. “What happened here?”

Isra blinked at him, then reached up to touch his own cheek. “Nothing. It’s the assassin’s blood. My arm wound is minimal. I’d forgotten all about it.”

“Too busy thinking of other things, desert rose?” Shihab asked smugly, but even as he spoke he was moving to fetch supplies, grabbing the pitcher of water and a washing bowl from near the bed before sitting down, dragging Isra close and tugging off his robe, setting to work on his arm. “What did you do, try to hit every thorn in the garden?” He tsked softly as he wiped Isra down with a clean cloth, cleaning up the small marks left by some of the larger thorns, then cleaned his cheek before finally turning to the arrow wound.

“Shut up,” Isra replied, face turning stony as Shihab set about cleaning and binding his wound.

Shihab stuck his tongue out. “We’re lucky it wasn’t poison-tipped. If they’re resorting to this, we’ll have to be especially careful. I wonder if we’ll encounter anymore once we reach the Desert.”

“Lady spare us that,” Bahadur said. Then he smirked. “Or perhaps I should say the Lady spare the assassins that. They would not want to attack us in our own territory.”

Isra shared the smirk. “Yes. They whine now about how savage we can be. Wait until we no longer have Tavamaran law to hold us back.”

“Thank you,” Sahayl said quietly. “All of you. I am hardly worthy of all that you’ve done for me, these past days.” He looked at Isra, their eyes locking, and Isra barely noticed when Shihab and Bahadur quietly left. “You took an arrow for me. If you’d moved differently…”

Isra waved the words away, finally dropping his eyes, unable to bear the weight of those dark gold eyes. “Life in the Desert is far more dangerous than one arrow shot by a man who barely knew what he was doing.”

“Saa, desert rose, but in that Desert you would have been the one launching the arrow at me.”

“Saa,” Isra mimicked, “I think not. I do not waste time with arrows. I prefer to take care of things personally. Closely. Arrows are for men who have not the stomach to do the job themselves.”

Sahayl flashed a grin, something that still looked strange to Isra. It wasn’t taunting, or forced, but a genuine, almost boyish, grin. “Spoken like a true son.” His levity faded. “But still, Isra, not so very long ago you would have killed me.”

“The sands are ever shifting,” Isra replied, shrugging, looking at the table, his bandaged arm.

“Saa, that is very true.” Sahayl’s fingers brushed his cheek, warm and calloused, and Isra realized suddenly that he was cold. “It is rare they shift favorably for me, or so I occasionally, selfishly think. Even now, it seems, they are shifting against me.”

Isra opened his eyes, only then realizing they’d closed. “You mean because you’re a Prince now.”

“That is why you were so reserved this morning.”

“Yes,” Isra said quietly. “But such things need not be settled until the fighting ceases. No one will press the matter until then.” Lady spare him, no one was going to leave him alone about the matter. Was it really that important? People needed to mind their own business. Though, he rather supposed this was Sahayl’s business. Still. What was the rush? One night in the man’s bed and now everyone wanted him to make a life-altering decision.

Sahayl smiled sadly. “When does the fighting ever cease in the Desert?”

Isra watched him in silence a moment, considering his answer. Normally Sahayl’s words would have been his own. How many times had he told his honored uncle the same exact thing? More times than he could remember. Yet now he wanted to say the exact opposite. Clearly he had a lot worse than sand lodged in his head. He just wished he knew what it was, so he could dislodge it and go back to a life that made sense. “Perhaps when a Prince brings it to an end,” he finally said, giving up, and closed the space between them, gasping at the taste of Sahayl, warm and spicy, faintly sweet, gentle where Isra would expect a man of his authority to be firm if not completely rough. He went up on his knees and wrapped his arms around Sahayl’s neck, bringing their bodies together, moaning at the heat that seemed to pour off Sahayl. Fingers traced his side, flexed on his hips, then arms wrapped around his waist as Sahayl held him tight. The gentle kiss took on a hungry edge and Isra smiled, laughing softly when the kiss finally ended. “You learn quickly.”

“I would not be long for the Desert if I did not, desert rose,” Sahayl said.

Isra laughed and pulled away far enough to push Sahayl over, then straddled his legs, shoving aside Sahayl’s robes, baring a toned chest and stomach, muscles that bunched and moved beneath his fingers. “One of these days I will get you to stop calling me by that absurd name.”

“Here I thought you were starting to like it.”

“Never,” Isra said, stubbornly frowning. He leaned down to give Sahayl another kiss, ending the conversation.

“Am I going to have to let you go one day?” Sahayl asked softly when the kiss ended.

Isra stilled, staring into the gold eyes that were far too close, able to smell the wine that lingered on Sahayl’s breath. His heart, already beating rapidly, sped up to the point he thought it would beat out of his chest. “What?”

“I think I’d rather give you up now, rather than get used to your presence only to lose you.”

“You’re asking me to decide now,” Isra said. By the Lady! He slid his hands from Sahayl’s chest, burying them in the silk on either side of them, fingers tight, digging in. He wished his heart would slow down.

Part of him wanted to protest, shout that the soft demand – and Sahayl had not even really demanded, merely quietly stated his own feelings on the matter – wasn’t fair. He hadn’t thought to make this decision for months, even years. He must be more tired than he thought if he could take this quietly, not scream and shout as he wanted.

The question was a fair one, as much as he hated to admit it. He still wasn’t entirely convinced that making Sahayl a Prince would solve all the Desert’s problems, but if it did work everything would change. Plenty of what Sahayl had endured, would endure, wasn’t fair. He could see in those dark eyes that Sahayl hated what he was asking, what he was forcing upon Isra.

Was it a life he could live? When he was used to going where he wanted? Carrying a sword? He was a warrior, a fighter, not a man to always be kept inside…albeit as what probably amounted to one of the most powerful positions in the palace. But that meant he’d always be under watch when he wandered around on his own. He’d never be able to travel, unless it was with Sahayl or under Sahayl’s orders. No one else would ever touch him. There would always be people who would look down on him, especially given his mother. Not that he cared what others thought, but even his honored uncle would look askance at this. So many things in his life would change forever. He’d never be entirely free again. Still… Isra stared at Sahayl, at the ever so calm expression on his face, completely at odds with the obvious tension in his body.

Sighing softly, Isra reached out and stroked the scar that he’d put on Sahayl’s cheek what seemed a lifetime ago. “Do you do this to everyone you meet, Sandstorm Prince?”

Sahayl’s brow furrowed. “Do what?”

Isra shook his head and sighed in defeat. He sank a hand into that thick, wonderfully soft hair and leaned down to give Sahayl a long, slow kiss. “I’m not going anywhere…but don’t expect me to behave.”

“Never that,” Sahayl said with a smile that stole Isra’s breath.

He leaned down for another kiss, fingers tight in Sahayl’s hair, his free hand beginning to explore once more. “And I’m not walking around bare-chested.”

Hands landed on his hips, circling around to span his back, trace the line of his spine, and Sahayl laughed into their kiss. “Yes, Isra.”



Eighteen

“I cannot believe Ghost has claimed the Broken Palace this entire time,” Shihab said, tugging down his mouth cover as they dismounted to rest, setting up a temporary camp to find shelter from the sun. He downed a swallow of water and passed his skin to Isra, who collapsed next to him. “How did you find it, Sahayl?”

Sahayl grinned as he passed his own skin to Bahadur. “Ghost records say we’ve held it since it fell – that we were the only ones who remembered the location, after everyone abandoned it.” He shook his head, chuckling softly. “There are always those in camp who like to say we’re descended from the royal family, but my grandmother did a great deal of research once she became too old and frail to travel the Sands. She says its more likely Ghost was once merely the palace guard, other such posts. No different than anyone else.”

“The royal family was slaughtered, right? When the people broke apart, formed the Tribes.” Isra took another swallow of water.

“Yes,” Sahayl said. “The ensuing war destroyed much of the palace.” He looked briefly wistful. “Perhaps someday, now, we can begin to repair it. Though I fear to do that we will have to further destroy it first…”

Shihab grinned. “That just means we can make it better.” He winked. “Even build a pretty little cage for Isra.”

Isra gave him a withering look but did not otherwise respond.

“I would prefer you stay alive for a bit longer, shadowfire,” Sahayl said with a chuckle. “So stop trying to get Isra to strangle you.”

“Strangle?” Isra said with a snort. “He’s not going to be that lucky. How much longer is our journey?”

Sahayl looked out across the Desert as he thought. “Not more than six days. We should be seeing patrols soon. Well, I will see them unless Wafai and my council saw fit to send out scouts from other Tribes.” He frowned thoughtfully. “I wonder how much chaos we’ll be walking into. It is probably too much to hope that some sort of peace has been established.”

“No sense in worrying about it yet,” Bahadur said calmly. “There is nothing we can do until we’re there.”

“Is the warhorse supposed to be the smart one?” Isra asked.

Shihab snickered at the look on Bahadur’s face – as if he couldn’t decide quite what his reaction should be. “Warhorse?” he finally asked.

“Warhorse,” Isra said. “I’m sure Shihab would have some comment to make about riding if I let him.” He drove an elbow into Shihab’s stomach when his friend started to speak.

Bahadur rolled his eyes, but Sahayl didn’t miss the slight flush to his cheeks. He looked hastily away, and glanced reprovingly at the other two. “I cannot think who would allow two such natural troublemakers to meet.”

“Isra was wasting good wine,” Shihab answered. “I couldn’t allow that to continue. Later that night we wound up introducing a particular annoyance to the river.”

Sahayl lifted one brow.

“He fell in,” Isra said blandly. “Honestly, I don’t know why he howled so much. Where he came from they learn to swim before they walk.” He pointed to Shihab. “It was his idea. I was too drunk to say no.”

Shihab flashed a grin. “He wasn’t that drunk. We’ve been friends ever since.”

“I see,” Sahayl said. “Will I have to set guards to keep an eye on you?”

“No,” Shihab said. “It wouldn’t do any good anyway – I’m too good at sneaking away.”

“Shadowfire,” Sahayl replied, “I think perhaps you might stand out.”

“Not all covered up,” Shihab said, tugging up his mouth cover and pulling down the thin veil for his eyes. Face coverings in place, dressed in the unremarkable clothes he’d always worn as the ‘shadow,’ he very well could have been anyone.

Sahayl shook his head. “I will set Ghost on you. We are not so easily tricked.”

“I think that was a challenge, Highness.”

“I will never get used to hearing that,” Sahayl said. And he wouldn’t. Sheik was something he’d been preparing for all his life. It had never been a responsibility he wanted, but it was what the Lady had chosen for him. Prince, however…thinking of all he would have to do…the next six days were going to be the closest he would come to relaxing for a very long time.

He was startled from his thoughts by the press of warm lips to his own. “Desert rose…” His. Isra was his. Sahayl still found the thought dizzying. Not real. When would he wake up? It wouldn’t last, he knew it wouldn’t. Even if Isra had said he’d be in Sahayl’s harem…

“You worry too much. Come on, the horses are rested.” Isra stood up and held out a hand to Sahayl, helping him stand before water skins were tucked away and the four men mounted their horses. “Like the warhorse said, there is no sense in worrying until we are there.” Isra moved his horse close to Sahayl’s, and leaned over to give him another kiss. He pulled away as Shihab laughed, and turned his head to glare at his friend. “Be quiet, little shadowfire.”

Sahayl listened distantly to their bickering, most of his mind completely by the kisses so casually given. He could not believe that Isra was his. He doubted he’d ever completely believe it. That Isra had not only seemed to stop hating him, but had also agreed to join his harem.

Ikram had explained everything to him. The King and Queen were each permitted to have up to five men or women, respectively, in their harems. All immediate members of the royal family were permitted up to three. That he was permitted – even expected – to have his own harem someday had left Sahayl feeling as though he were stranded in the Sands with no water.

He’d given up hope of any manner of relationship not long after his father had turned violent. Of course he’d had his arranged marriage, but even if Rafiqa hadn’t fallen in love with Wafai, he would never done anything. He just couldn’t risk it. Not with his father alive, and who was to say that someday he wouldn’t start acting the same way? The battlefield proved he had his father’s skill…even temper, in the heat of battle. Was he not known for fighting wildly? Look at how he’d goaded Isra when they’d first met…

But he wouldn’t give up Isra. He’d never expected more than to see him in battle, and hope they did not kill each other for a long time. Now Isra was his – forever, according to the laws of Tavamara.

Sahayl shook the thoughts off. He had more important things to think about.

Such as what he would do once he was home. Home. He had not seen the Broken Palace for months, far too busy in the Sands to return to Ghost’s sanctuary. Everyone would be there, and other Tribes – if his father were still alive…

If his father were still alive, Sahayl probably would not have survived the ensuing beating for handing the Broken Palace over to the other Tribes. If everything went wrong, and he failed to do his duties as Prince, the Tribes would go their separate ways again – and Ghosts hidden home would no longer be a secret.

But that reminded him that most Tribes of the Desert were no longer a secret. Not to him and the men who traveled with him. Shihab had draw two smaller versions of the large map he’d finished the day before they’d left. Even now mapmakers were making essential copies for the army, should Tavamara forces have to move into the Desert.

Those very forces had been offered by Shah, but Sahayl had turned them down. It would be hard enough getting the Tribes to accept him as Prince – if it worked at all – and to arrive with Tavamara soldiers would ruin the slim chance he had.

Still, problems aside, it was good to be home. The sand and sun, the waves of heat that would turn cold as the sun set, Bloodmoon beneath and the familiar weight of his sword at his hip. He smiled behind his mouth cover, and urged his horse to a faster pace.





“It really is the Broken Palace,” Shihab said, voice full of awe. “It looks so much like the one in Tavamara, even with all the ruin.” He turned to grin at Sahayl. “How did Ghost keep this secret for so long?”

“I know better than to tell you, little shadowfire.”

Shihab made a face. “I’m not little.”

Isra snorted. “Yes, you are.” He started to say more, but fell silent a group of men in the featureless garb of Ghost raced toward them.

Sahayl took a deep breath and called the four of them to a halt. Everywhere he could see patrols evenly scattered across the outskirts of the land which comprised the grounds of the Broken Palace. Off in the distance, the palace itself stood like a long forgotten version of the Palace of Tavamara, once-white stone turned to a dusty brown, much of it broken and fallen in, worn down by wind and sand. Most of the outer walls were all but gone, revealing what once must have been courtyards and lush gardens. The palace had once been a largely open place, most of the hallways and corridors nothing more than covered walkways, only the bedrooms and other private rooms being completely cut off from the outdoors. In this only was it different from Tavamara, which was as closed and protected as possible.

Everywhere people milled – not just Ghost, but so many other Tribes. Even at a distance he could recognize Falcon and Cobra, Owl and Cat. Sahayl felt his heart speed up. Was his hastily formed plan to bring Tribes together against the western threat working? Or was his distance keeping him from seeing trouble? Lady willing it was the former.

“Who goes?” The soldiers demanded, though it was obvious they recognized Bloodmoon and his rider.

Sahayl removed his head coverings and around him the other three followed suit.

“Sandstorm Sheik!” The nearest of the three guards said in obvious relief. “Your arrival is most fortuitous – Wafai has been doing his best, with the help of the Cobra and Falcon Sheiks, but things are falling apart fast. Your presence will make a difference. Please, Sandstorm Sheik, come at once.”

“Lead the way,” Sahayl said, feeling sick. Sheik. He wasn’t a Sheik. Not anymore. He said nothing though, and knew the others would keep silent, waiting until the right time.

They raced down into the valley and through the broken streets that weaved their way toward the Broken Palace, and Sahayl returned all the welcomes called out to him as he rode past.

The guards brought them to a halt in the middle of the inner courtyard – it’s equal in the Tavamaran palace was covered, glass set into the ceiling to let in light. Sahayl frowned at the scene before him. Dismounting slowly, he strode through the ring of people.

“We’ve had enough,” snarled a man Sahayl didn’t recognize. But the markings he did know – this was the Fox Sheik. His long, curved sword was drawn, blinding where the high sun struck the blade. “You do not command us, Ghost. I am tired of taking orders from you.”

Wafai watched the other man calmly, and Sahayl knew he and other Ghost were the only ones who could see how truly angry Wafai was. He started to speak, but was prevented when the Fox Sheik suddenly surged forward with a battle cry and the circle of men pulled back as the argument turned into a duel.

Sahayl loosed his sword in its sheath. “Bahadur, would you help me?”

“Of course, my Prince.”

“Disarm the Fox Sheik. I will get Wafai’s attention.” He smiled briefly. “Though he will likely knock me one for taking him by surprise.” The smile faded. “That he has not noticed my arrival is a bad sign. Isra, Shihab, be prepared, cover the crowd. Bahadur, now!” As one they broke from the edge of the circle, surging into the middle of the fight, and Sahayl intercepted a swing from Wafai, grinning as he saw realization flash across his friend’s face.

“Sahayl!” Wafai shook his head. “My Sandstorm Sheik.” He dropped his sword, and almost absently looked to where Bahadur had neatly defeated the Fox Sheik, and held him pinned to the ground, face shoved into the sand to stop the screams of outrage the man was obviously trying to voice. Eventually the thrashing ceased.

Sahayl nodded. “Let him up, Bahadur, but keep a hold of him. If he tries anything, knock him out.”

“Yes, my Prince,” Bahadur said calmly.

Turning, Sahayl motioned Isra and Shihab forward, then addressed the crow. “Get back,” he said sharply. Few in the crowd were Ghost, and it was obvious they were there only to keep Wafai from harm. He snapped further orders, until the circle had pulled back to the edge of the courtyard. “What is going on here?”

“Ghost seems to think they have the right to command the entire Desert, that’s what!” The Fox Sheik snapped.

Sahayl drew a deep breath, and tried not to grimace as he saw other men – soldiers, several Amir and Sheik, recognizable simply by their manner, the way the people around them shifted and moved. Now was as good a time as any. “First and foremost,” Sahayl announced, his voice loud, carrying across the now-crowded courtyard, hopefully revealing none of his anxiety, “this place is home to Ghost. We have invited you here in good faith. If you have a problem with that faith, you may leave. No one is forcing you to say. I am Ghost Sheik and it is only by my pleasure that you are here. Do not attack my people, do not attack each other, or I will deliver you to the western heathens myself.”

He barely kept from looking at Isra, at Bahadur or Shihab. It would weaken his position to be seen taking strength from others. This would have to be done himself, at least at first. By the Lady, he wished he was anywhere else. “Furthermore,” he said, and held out his hand for the scrolls that Shihab immediately handing over, his shadowfire far more familiar with how to handle these things than he. “Once Tavamara and the Desert were one country. I am reinstating that bond, and am under Tavamaran laws declared a Prince of Tavamara and by the King’s command his voice in the Desert.” He waited for the protests, and was thrown by the abject silence that met his pronouncement. “That means, honored Sheiks and sons of the Desert, that I do, in fact, have authority over all of you.”

“Ridiculous!”

“I refuse to believe it!”

“Greedy Ghost!”

Sahayl stood still as the Owl Sheik strode forward, quiet but obviously furious. When he drew close enough, Sahayl returned the scroll to Shihab and motioned for him to show the contents – adoption forms, a copy of the arrangement between Tavamara and the Desert. He stood watching quietly as furious people moved closer, one hand on his sword, noting the way Bahadur and Isra stood ready, how even Shihab stood alert as he began to explain.

“Sandstorm…” Wafai’s voice was quiet, but to Sahayl it was louder than the din that surrounded them. He turned to look at his best friend, the one he’d always leaned on when his burdens became too heavy. Wafai stared at him wide-eyed, disbelieving. “Are you really a Prince? How is this possible? You went to get help…”

“This was the only way,” Sahayl said with a sad smile. “Please say you are not mad at me.”

Wafai glared. “I’m going to wring your neck, Sandstorm Prince. How like you to find the one solution that forces you to take the greatest burden.”

Sahayl grinned.

“Back away!” Wafai suddenly bellowed, surging forward and punching a man bearing Owl marks, wrapping a hand around Shihab’s arm and yanking him back, drawing his sword as he forced them all back. “Ghosts!” he shouted. “Leave them. Come protect your Prince.” From the edge of the crowd, where they’d been trying to peacefully keep people back, nearly two dozen Ghost separated from the crowd and formed a protective line in front of Sahayl and those standing with him. Wafai glared at the crowd. “If you want to discuss matters, my fellow brothers of the Sands, you will do so peacefully or Ghost will show you why it holds the Broken Palace and not you!”

“No man has the right to rule the Desert, and certainly not a Ghost! Do you know what he did to my Tribe!”

Wafai narrowed his eyes at the speaker. “We have discussed this before, Cat Sheik. If you make me repeat myself one more time—“

“And why is there a heathen with him? Why should we trust a Ghost, especially when he sides with Tavamara and arrives with a heathen.”

Sahayl frowned and stepped forward. “His name is not Heathen. He is Shihab, son of Ikram, son of Tavamara, son of the Lady of the Sands and he is my honored guest and under the full protection of Ghost. So too Bahadur, son of Galal, former son of Jackal, son of the Lady of the Sands.” He motioned last to Isra, drawing a deep breath. Wafai would kill him for announcing all the changes this way, not giving him a chance to prepare himself. “Isra, honored nephew of Jabbar, son of Falcon, son of the Lady of the Sands and my most honored companion.” That Isra was technically his concubine – the word felt strange even as a though – need not come up for some time. But ‘most honored companion' was as subtle an indication of their relationship as Isra sharing his wine dish. He could feel Wafai’s glare, knew he was shocked, but he could not look away from the people staring him down. “To insult any of these men is to insult me is to insult Ghost and the royal throne of Tavamara. If you have problems, face them directly – with me – and do not malign my honored friends. Wafai.”

Wafai sheathed his sword and immediately stepped forward. “We’ve kept your room ready and waiting for you, Sandstorm Prince. Come with me.” His temper blazed in his eyes, and Sahayl almost winced at the lecture he would receive the moment they were away from prying eyes. “Ghost!” Wafai barked. “Keep everyone back.”

“No,” Sahayl said. “If they want to speak with me, then in an hour I will speak with the Sheiks. In the main dining hall, yes? But I would like to rest first; we rode hard to get here.”

“This way, my Sandstorm Prince,” Wafai said, pausing briefly to snap more orders, looking relieved when Noor and Kahlil appeared. “Take care of things,” he said before all but dragging Sahayl away, not releasing him until they were in the old rooms that had most likely once belonged to the royal family – to Princes whose names had long been forgotten. He eyed Sahayl and the three men surrounding him, nearly vibrating with his barely restrained temper. “I’m going to wring your neck, Sandstorm Prince. Can you never do something the easy way?”

“Saa, brother of my soul, when has there ever been an easy way?” Sahayl smiled faintly as Wafai rolled his eyes and set to work removing his outer traveling garments, lightweight but sturdy robes that kept off the worst of the sand, lessened the force of the winds that swept through the Desert upon occasion. It was a relief to be out of them. “I don’t suppose we might have water.”

“Wine,” Shihab said as he stripped down to just his pants, then collapsed at a low table and pillowed his head in his arms.

Bahadur chuckled. “Tired out, little shadowfire?”

Shihab rolled his eyes. “We can’t all be indefatigable warhorses, now can we?”

Isra copied Shihab, but rather than the table he moved to stand near Sahayl.

Wafai eyed the three men suspiciously. “A Jackal, a man who you say is not a heathen though he looks like one, and that confounded Falcon.” He glared at Isra. “I was hoping you’d get lost along the way.”

“Unlike you,” Isra shot back, “I know how to keep my guard up. I’m surprised you’re still alive, Ghost.”

Wafai narrowed his eyes and stepped forward. “I underestimated you once, Falcon, I won’t do it a second time.”

“You’ll still lose.”

“Try it,” Wafai said.

“Enough. Isra. Wafai.” Sahayl wrapped a hand around Isra’s upper arm, tugging him back. “There’s no need for the two of you to fight.”

“So says you,” Isra muttered, then abruptly turned and leaned to give Sahayl a quick, hard kiss. He pulled away and tossed a smug look over his shoulder, then strode to the table where Shihab sat. “We definitely could use some wine.”

Sahayl shook his head, trying not to laugh at the fury on Wafai’s face. “I have missed you, brother of my soul. Let us call for refreshments and then you can tell all that I have missed, and help me to figure out how we are to go about fixing things.”

Wafai glared a moment longer at Isra, who pointedly ignored him, then gave a grunt and moved to the door to call for food and wine. “First, you will tell me how you have become a Prince.”

“Saa, but that is so boring,” Sahayl said as he sat down next to Isra. “I would much rather hear of my home.”

“Too bad,” Wafai said tartly, sitting down at the remaining side. “Tell me what trouble you caused in Tavamara, and why that dratted Falcon is no longer your enemy.” He shifted his attention to the other two. Shihab grinned back. Bahadur sat quietly.

Sahayl laughed. “Saa, brother of my soul, I assure you it is quite boring. But as I prefer not to be strangled, I suppose I must tell you, and then you will tell me all that I have missed here.”

“Of course, Sandstorm Prince,” Wafai replied with forced patience. “Now tell me.”