Sandstorm 24 & 25
Apr. 6th, 2007 06:25 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
maderrIt's Friday, yay! \o/
Twenty-four
Sahayl tried to make his thoughts focus on all the problems he would have to address once they reached camp, but all his mind could settle upon was his harem.
Harem.
Even when Ikram had spoken to him on the matter, emphasized the necessity…he had not thought he’d actually manage it. The Desert did not do such things. A man had a lover for a time, then a wife. Now he had three lovers and eventually he would take a wife…who would herself have three lovers.
Being a Prince was, to say the least, quite strange.
He did not dare a look at Bahadur, knowing he would just stare. His warhorse was quite fine, and Sahayl would not ever understand what Jackal had been thinking to so mistreat him.
The camp came into view, already half-dismantled. Sahayl dismounted and handed his reins off to the soldier that came running up. A second later Bahadur fell into step beside him, and Sahayl could not resist looking up at him and offering a smile that Bahadur instantly returned.
Wafai came running up to him. “The prisoners?” Sahayl asked as he reached them.
“They’re fine. We are keeping it quiet that the one is female.”
“Good,” Sahayl said. “See they are well-treated; they did not strike me as genuine soldiers. I wonder why they were hiding…”
Wafai snorted. “Cowardly heathens, what do you expect?”
Sahayl merely smiled and did not point out that the Tribes had always made an art of hiding in the Desert. “When will we be ready to move out?”
“Perhaps another hour, my Sandstorm Prince.”
“Excellent. Thank you, Wafai. And you are still in trouble for handing over the role of protector without my permission.”
Wafai snorted. “Well, you are still in trouble for becoming a Prince without my permission.” He bowed low and moved away to tend to his duties.
Bahadur laughed softly. “I feel sorry for anyone who tries to cross that Advisor.”
Sahayl grinned, but before he could reply the Wasp Amir approached – but before he could speak, a ruckus came from the entrance to the camp and a familiar looking horse bolted right past the guards and made straight for Sahayl.
“Sahayl!” Isra gasped his name, clearly out of breath, face and head coverings plastered with sweat to his skin. He tore them off—then abruptly threw himself off his horse and at Sahayl, the move sending them both crashing to the ground.
Grunting, surprised, Sahayl struggled to find a balance, but could do no more than brace himself on one elbow, his other arm steadying Isra. “Desert rose? What—“
His words were cut off by a fierce kiss, Isra kissing him desperately, anxiously, and Sahayl could no more resist than he could refuse to breathe. He would never be able to resist Isra…even if around them the camp had gone glaringly silent. “Desert rose?” he asked when Isra finally let him go, though there was barely a breath of space between them.
Isra did not pull away, instead murmuring soft words against his mouth. “Wasp is a traitor.”
Sahayl froze at the words, fear and rage pouring through him. The Wasp Amir stood not five feet away. He’d left the Wasp Sheik at the Broken Palace. “Are you certain, desert rose?”
“Without a doubt,” Isra replied, then kissed him again.
“Surely you were not that troubled by your parting, Falcon,” Wafai said dryly.
Isra broke the kiss and glared. “Shut up.” He pulled back and regained his feet, then helped Sahayl up.
“Wafai, walk with us. Wasp Amir, if you need to see me it will have to wait a moment, I beg your forgiveness.” He didn’t wait for the man’s reply, merely turned and strode to his tent, one of the few which had not yet been taken down, awaiting his command. A hand settled at the small of his back, and Sahayl recognized it for a protective gesture. Looking up at Bahadur, he could see the man knew something was wrong.
The new concern thankfully allowed him to ignore the way the camp continued to stare, and burst into chatter once he’d passed, and he wondered how quickly it would spread across the Desert that a Falcon had raced into camp and thrown himself at the Sandstorm Prince to kiss him as though half-mad.
It was a relief to enter his tent – but he stopped short at the sight of two people already in it, only remembering then that he’d ordered the prisoners brought here. He looked at them, curiosity consuming him over why anyone would permit a woman anywhere near a battlefield.
The two were obviously related, their curly, bright gold hair the same, eyes a deep blue, skin tanned to a dark gold from the sun. The woman looked strange in a man’s clothes, but otherwise was pretty for a heathen, though he did not know the standards for that. Witcher was handsome, and he thought Shihab quite fine indeed… Both looked at him warily as Sahayl drew close. “You are both well?” Sahayl asked. He needed to deal with the problem of Wasp, but he could not simply ignore them…
“As well as prisoners can be,” the man said in a sour tone.
Sahayl frowned.
“Rook!” The woman snapped. “They could have simply killed us. Watch your tongue.”
The man – Rook, Sahayl supposed, heathens had such strange names – grimaced but obediently fell silent.
“I would like to speak with you,” Sahayl continued, “but I must deal with other matters first.”
“Viper,” the woman said suddenly. “Jackal. Wasp. Lizard. They’re all cooperating with the west.” Her eyes were wide, anxious, as she looked at Sahayl. “Please. I came—“
“That’s enough,” Rook snarled. “You said you’d go home!”
“Not now that I’m where I need to be,” the woman snapped back.
Sahayl blinked, watching them fight, feeling rather as though he were in the middle of something dangerous. He looked to the others, who remained by the entrance and simply shook their heads.
Resisting an urge to call them cowards, Sahayl took a deep breath and cut into the bickering. “Setcha!” he said loudly, sharply, startling them both into silence. “Saa, heathens, you fight worse the Tribes. You appear to know much about what is going on in the Sands. Who are you, to know so much? Are you certain those Tribes are the traitors?” He already knew they all were, but they need not know that.
“Yes, I’m certain,” the woman said, eyes flashing. “Do you honesty think I’d lie in a situation like this?”
Sahayl swore he could feel Wafai and Isra lose their tempers behind him.
“You will be more polite to our Sandstorm Prince,” Wafai snapped.
“Heathens should learn to watch their tongues,” Isra said just as heatedly beside him.
“Sandstorm Prince?” the woman repeated, eyes growing even wider as she stared at Sahayl. “So the rumor I heard a few days ago is true – the Great Desert has joined Tavamara.” She dropped her gaze, worrying her lip with her teeth, sliding a gaze to the man sitting across from her at Sahayl’s table. “Rook—“
Rook groaned. “You are going home before your father kills us – though I think it’s probably too late for that.”
“But an alliance—“
“Is impossible,” Rook cut in. “You are going home and that’s the end of the matter.”
Sahayl sighed, wishing that Shihab were with them. He would probably understand all that was being said – at least the heathens were speaking the desert language. Which was curious. “How do you speak our language so well?”
“Lots and lots of evil tutoring,” Rook said.
“Who are you?” Wafai asked sharply. He looked at the woman. “You must be of some importance, the way the two of you act.”
The woman hesitated, but when Rook gave a sharp shake of his head, an obvious negative, she pursed her lips stubbornly and met Sahayl’s gaze. “My name—“
“She is Princess Cordelia Melrose LeRoi, third daughter of his Imperial Majesty King Denzel LeRoi of Gollen.”
Sahayl drew a sharp breath. He knew very little about heathens, but he knew that having a royal heathen in his tent was a bad thing. “What manner of heathens permit their Princess to come to such a dangerous place? Alone?”
“She was not supposed to be here!” Rook snarled, glaring angrily at Cordelia. “I discovered only a few days after we arrived in the Great Desert. I have been trying to get her home, but doing that without revealing her identity – too dangerous – was nearly impossible. I had finally convinced her and was escorting her back when we were tangled up in the attack made against your soldiers.”
“I want the fighting to stop,” Cordelia said. “I came to see if I could not work out negotiations on my own – but I could find no one in the Sands who would listen to me.”
Isra snorted. “Of course you didn’t. Idiot heathens! Why would any true son of the Desert waste his time talking to those who are trying to take our Desert away? Lady bury you all in the Sands!”
“Isra,” Sahayl said gently.
Grumbling, Isra nevertheless subsided. Sahayl turned back to his…guests, he supposed. He could hardly consider them proper prisoners. Well, proper introductions should be the first thing…
Wafai, as ever, seemed to know his thoughts, and with a grunt of reluctance moved forward and made the proper introductions. “I present to you Prince Sahayl, son of Hashim, son of Ghost, son of Tavamara and the Lady of the Sands.” He listed the names of the others present, and looked pointedly at Rook as he finished.
Rook nodded. “I am Ryder Sefton LeRoi. I am her Highness’s cousin and a tactician in his Majesty’s Imperial Army.”
Sahayl nodded. He turned to the princess. “What were you hoping to accomplish, Princess?”
“Peace,” Cordelia replied promptly. “Gollen, Lavarre, and Hadge have all joined forces to take over the Great Desert – but already they are bickering amongst themselves over who should get what sections and what is to be done about Tavamara once the Sands are conquered.” She made a face. “At least when I left, such was the case. I have seen little evidence that things have improved.”
“Brave, Princess, to venture into the Sands alone. Also incredibly stupid,” Sahayl said. “Did you bring no one with you, at the very least? What manner of heathens would be foolish enough not to notice your absence in time to prevent such reckless behavior.”
Annoyance filled Cordelia’s face, but before she could speak Rook burst out laughing. “Prevent Princess Cordelia from doing as she pleases? Her father has been trying to manage that trick since her birth!” He seemed not to notice the scathing look he was being given.
Cordelia sniffed and turned to face Sahayl, expression turning serious. “I felt there was no choice. Gollen holds the weakest position of the three countries. I wanted to extricate my country before Hadge and Lavarre crushed it, which I know full well they can and will do – my father knows it too…” She shrugged. “No one back home would listen to me, so I thought I would see if anyone out here in the Sands might. I was hopeful when I heard the Desert had joined with Tavamara, who has always been far more inclined toward peace.”
Sahayl nodded. “Yes, Princess. Peace is my ultimate aim, but I fail to see how it is to be achieved when the heathens seem intent upon conquering the Sands and Tavamara.”
“Highness,” Wafai cut in, “with all due respect, we do not have time for such discussions.”
Reluctantly Sahayl nodded. “Yes, of course. We are returning home, see that the orders are dispersed and set men you trust to watch the Wasp Amir. I am riding ahead.”
“That’s too dangerous,” Wafai and Isra chorused, then glared nastily at each other.
Bahadur finally spoke, having until then remained silent and watchful. “I have to agree, Highness. You should not be traveling alone through the Sands.”
“Nonsense,” Sahayl replied. “Who would expect me to travel so? Besides, I will have you and Isra with me. We will make better time and I can hopefully reach the Broken Palace before the Wasp Sheik does any harm.”
“He was to do nothing until he received word from the Amir that you had been dealt with,” Cordelia said quietly.
Sahayl looked at her. “Oh?”
“Naturally,” Rook said contemptuously. “Their plan is a sound one – destroy the Sandstorm sweeping the Desert and the sand once more becomes nothing but shifting dunes. Of course, that is an alteration from the original plan – which was to let the Tribes finally kill each other. No one expected a Sandstorm to rise up.”
Wafai smirked. “Our Sandstorm Prince is favored by the Lady of the Sands and precisely what the Desert needs.”
Sahayl swept the words aside with a motion, embarrassed. “Saa, I am reckless. We should be on our way. I will travel ahead with Isra and Bahadur. Wafai, see the Princess and…are you her protector?”
“Of late? Yes,” Rook groused. “I am a tactician for his Imperial Majesty. Most often I am called upon in naval matters. My presence here was…not part of the original plan. My specialty is oceanic matters; I deal with the barbarians who plague our waters. I was recalled from duty when a tactician for this matter fell ill.”
“He is Prince Rook,” Cordelia said with a soft laugh.
Isra frowned. “Yet the name he gave was not Rook, before. Sands, heathens make no sense.”
Sahayl laughed. “Enough. We must go. Lady guard you in your travels.”
“And you, Sandstorm Prince,” Wafai said.
Nodding, Sahayl stood and departed, mounting his horse which had been brought to his tent along with those of Bahadur and Isra, who were right behind him. “Ketcha,” he cried out, urging Bloodmoon forward, racing out of camp to vanish into the sands.
“I miss all the fun,” Shihab complained as they finished telling him of all that had transpired.
Isra rolled his eyes.
“Saa, shadowfire, only you would be disappointed,” Sahayl said, lips quirking.
“I’m not, really,” Shihab said with a sigh. “Wasp would have been a strong ally.” He rubbed his chin in thought. “This Princess, though…did she have gold hair? Deep blue eyes? Rather outspoken?”
Sahayl lifted a brow. “Yes, shadowfire.”
“Probably is the Princess Cordelia then,” Shihab replied, shaking his head in wonder. “Amazing. She really is as reckless as they say. Prince Rook was with her as well?”
“Yes…” Bahadur answered, frowning. “What do you know that we do not, little shadowfire?”
Shihab smirked and instead of replying simply poured them more wine. They sat in a room that had been allotted as a private sitting room for the Prince, much effort having already gone in to repairing the damage done by the desert. The faded blue tiling on the floor had been scrubbed clean, soft rugs thrown down to hide the spots where tiles were missing. The table in the center was made of stone, low to the ground in the usual style, carved around the edge with calligraphy telling a folktale of the Sands.
The work was heartening, or so Sahayl thought. It seemed to indicate the Tribes wanted to be here, wanted this to work. “Give up your secrets, shadowfire,” he said with a smile.
“Aw, I was waiting to see if Isra would hit me,” Shihab replied with a grin.
“I’ll hit you anyway, never fear.”
Snickering, Shihab took a sip of his wine and then finally relented. “Prince Rook is a direct cousin of the royal throne, the only son of the King’s youngest brother…but his brother is sickly, always has been, and his marriage was purely political. There are many who believe Prince Rook is actually the King’s son, but no one can prove it.”
Isra frowned. “Heathens. Why is he called Rook? That is not the name he gave when he introducing himself.”
“A ‘rook’ is a playing piece from a game called chess – somewhat similar to taaki, in that it is a game of strategy. Prince Rook is called thus because when he was only fifteen he bested the best chess player in the kingdom – with a rook.” Shihab frowned. “Strange that a man so favored by the King would choose to side against him, as Prince Rook obviously has…then again, this is Princess Cordelia we’re talking about…”
Sahayl sighed. “Shadowfire, you are not making much sense to me.”
“Sorry,” Shihab said. “My thoughts are racing faster than I can speak them. Princess Cordelia has always been the troublemaker in her family – she is not obedient and compliant as a woman should be, her bodyguard – protector – is a barbarian woman. Intriguing that you did not encounter her.” He gave Sahayl a sly look.
“I do not like that expression, shadowfire,” Sahayl said.
Isra snorted. “As you shouldn’t. I know exactly where this is going.”
“Where is that?” Bahadur asked.
“Princess Cordelia is seeking peace, and indeed a peace with the Desert and Tavamara would be a very good thing for Gollen. So much a good thing the King should be grateful his daughter put herself in this situation.” He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she or Prince Rook has already thought of it.”
Sahayl’s brows went. “Thought of what?”
Shihab grinned. “The Princess is unmarried.”
The words took a moment to fully register – then Sahayl could only stare.
Isra slammed a hand down on the table; if smacking the stone with such force hurt, he gave no indication. “He cannot simply go and marry a heathen! We are trying to strengthen the Desert, not ruin it completely!”
Sahayl frowned. “I see the merits of what you say, shadowfire, but I do not see how it is possible. Isra is correct – it will create more problems. The Tribes are barely willing to obey me; they will lose all faith if I marry a heathen after becoming a Prince of Tavamara.”
“Shrewd Sheiks will not, and a good Sheik will control his Tribe,” Shihab said with a shrug. “The Desert is part of Tavamara but still largely independent. Marrying her will cease hostilities with Gollen, which will unbalance the other two countries. Gollen is the weakest of the three, but still vital. A trinity would be necessary to even attempt to overthrow Tavamara. Gollen would be stupid to reject such an alliance. As to the Tribes – as I said, any half-intelligent Sheik would see the benefits of having allies on both sides of the Desert. Those that don’t like it will get used to it. That is the way of things. The King caused a minor scandal with his wife and the palace is still in a fervor over the royal harems. You will be seen as the sanest of the lot by Tavamara and the Sands will obey.” He smiled. “A Sandstorm is a hard thing to resist.”
“We will see,” Sahayl said, the entire thing making him uncomfortable, not least of all because he was speaking of such a serious matter about a woman who had no idea the discussion was taking place and likely would rather not marry a savage. “You are troublesome, shadowfire.”
“But the very best kind of trouble,” Shihab said, flashing a grin. “Now, why don’t you tell me how it is that Bahadur is now wearing the ring of your protector?”
Isra started and looked Bahadur’s hand, the ring on his small finger – it still needed resizing before it fit him properly. “How in the sands did I miss that our entire journey home?”
Bahadur chuckled. “You were too busy leaping off your horse to molest our Sandstorm Prince, desert rose?”
“Shut up!” Isra hissed, but it was too late.
“Do tell,” Shihab said.
Laughing, keeping hold of Isra so he did not knock the wine over making a lunge across the table, Sahayl told Shihab precisely how Isra had warned him that Wasp was a traitor. By the end, Shihab was on the floor laughing while Isra attempted to beat him senseless.
Sahayl started to try and stop them, but was stopped when Bahadur tugged him close, shaking his head. “Let them be – trying to kill each other is, I think, one of their greatest pleasures.”
“Saa, you are probably right,” Sahayl said with a smile. He stared at Bahadur, those fine pale gold eyes, smelling the heat of the sun on his warhorse’s skin. Leaning forward was as easy as breathing, reaching up to bury a hand in Bahadur’s short, thick hair.
The arm that wrapped around his waist to pull him even closer was strong and sure, as hot as the sun even through all the layers of cloth. Sahayl knew he was no weakling, but Bahadur’s strength was stunning.
Not nearly so stunning as his mouth though, and part of him still felt guilty that he took such pleasure in three different men – but the rest of him was quite pleased Bahadur had joined his harem.
Sahayl moaned softly as Bahadur consumed him, loving the way the desert spice wine complimented the darker, rough flavor of his warhorse. His protector. A soft sound, almost like a growl, drove him to break the kiss. He turned to see Isra and Shihab watching them avidly.
“I knew that would be a fine sight,” Shihab said. “Do it again.” He made that growling sound again, and beside him Isra looked just as eager.
Cheeks heating, Sahayl shook his head slowly. “There is work to be done, shadowfire. I have dallied here long enough.”
Shihab sighed, but conceded with one of his mischievous smiles. “I can wait until bedtime, then.”
“Who, precisely, owns this harem?” Bahadur muttered.
Sahayl laughed and did not bother to answer.
Twenty-five
Isra pointedly ignored his honored uncle as the man sniggered, instead holding a wine dish to Sahayl’s mouth.
Around the table he knew the other Sheiks were dying of curiosity, wondering if this was some Tavamaran custom or if their new Prince was simply strange.
For the most part, the formal banquet was normal. The wide array of food was native to the Sands, so too the Desert Spice wine. They sat around a long, low table in one of the smaller, private dining rooms, Sahayl at the head of the table to preside over everything. Somewhere, somehow, fine cushions and pillows had been brought, even tapestries and other hangings to dress up the walls still in desperate need of repair.
The only oddity was the way in which he attended Sahayl, holding up bits of food and wine for him, sitting close enough that there was no mistaking the intimacy between them – though he knew by now that everyone must know what role he, Shihab, and Bahadur had assumed in regards to Sahayl.
Shihab had wanted very much for them to appear as a true harem should – bare-chested, dressed in the pants and skirt ensemble that concubines had worn for centuries. Sahayl had negated that idea, saying it would be enough they were waiting on him, never mind doing it half-naked.
Those gathered did appear to be quite confused, not certain whether they should be offended on Sahayl’s behalf or offended by Sahayl…most took their cue from Jabbar, as all knew he was Isra’s uncle, and from Zulfiqar, whose daughter was married to Sahayl’s Advisor. As those two seemed wholly unfazed, so the rest decided to be.
Sahayl’s shoulders were set with the slightest bit of tension, but otherwise his discomfiture with such things did not show – and it was not something the Sheiks would see, except perhaps Zulfiqar.
Isra sipped from the wine dish before setting it down.
Around the table sat the Sheiks they had decided could best be trusted – Cobra, Falcon, Scorpion, Fox, Sand Cat, and a last surprising addition, Spider, who had quietly but steadily set to proving the worth of his Tribe.
In addition to the Sheiks, Wafai, and the heathens were also in attendance.
When had he started to actively enjoy this role? After the war settled, he would never be completely free again. He schooled his expression to hide his roiling thoughts and poured more wine, offering Sahayl one last sip before he started speaking.
“Honored Sheiks, Sons of the Lady of the Sands, I thank you for joining me tonight.”
The Sheiks looked at one another, before Jabbar laughed and spoke. “I think it is we who should be honored, Sandstorm Prince. Many a Sheik tonight will not be pleased to have not received this invitation. We are honored you find us worthy of your time.”
Isra wished he could smile at his uncle – such polite, humble words from a man who had no cause to give them to someone as young as Sahayl.
If these six Tribes were willing to support Sahayl in his role as Prince of the Desert, then his place was secure. Many Tribes would follow suit behind these six, and those that rebelled could be effectively put in their place.
He darted a quick look at Shihab, seated nearby between Zulfiqar and the Sand Cat Sheik.
“Why have you called us here, Highness?” The Spider Sheik asked. Though they had arrived late to the Broken Palace, persuaded by Sand Cat, they had quickly proven to be useful. Inked into the Spider Sheik’s neck was the Tribe’s namesake – a spider nearly the size of a man’s hand, hairy and the color of sand, inked with remarkable skill and detail. “Has there been further…disruption…”
A weighted silence fell as each recalled the seizure of Wasp and their expulsion from the Broken Palace. When challenged, the Sheik and Amir had not bothered to deny it. Not when surrounded by threats, for no one else had chosen to side with them against the new Sandstorm Prince.
Even now they waited to see if Wasp and their heathen comrades would attempt an attack. Unlikely, but then again they still were not certain of the number of heathens in the Sands.
Sahayl motioned to Cordelia and Rook, formally introducing them and explaining how they’d come to be there. Ordinarily a woman would not be made to sit alone with so many unfamiliar men – but her presence was necessary. “We are hoping by way of these two we can somehow make an attempt at peace with at least one heathen nation.”
Isra almost snickered, and offered more wine, letting his fingers just barely brush Sahayl’s face, soothing the nervousness he knew Sahayl was feeling. On Sahayl’s other side, he knew Bahadur was soothing in his own way, surprisingly gentle for a man so large.
As he once more set the dish down, Cordelia opened her mouth – then shut it with a snap.
Sahayl motioned. “You may speak, Princess, if you’ve something to say. I hope you have been well since your arrival at our home.” He smiled. “Saa, there is much work yet to be done, but it is still a fine palace.”
Cordelia smiled. “It’s beautiful. I hope someday all the mosaics can be restored.” She reached up to tuck back a strand of her bright gold hair. Rafiqa had promptly taken charge of the Princess upon her arrival, and currently Cordelia wore a pale pink dress in the Desert style, fitted closely down to the hips, flaring out slightly the rest of the way, embroidered with delicate patterns in white thread. She looked very much like a princess, if heathen. “Perhaps I am presumptuous, Sandstorm Prince, but…I do not know how you intend to go about obtaining peace with Gollen…” She matched his gaze boldly, chin tilting up as though in defiance. “I am a heathen, but a royal heathen, and were you to marry me—“
Beside her Rook groaned. “Princess!”
Shihab laughed, cutting off anything else Rook might have said.
Around the table the men chuckled, talking briefly amongst themselves.
“Well I guess that answers that,” Wafai said dryly. “You get into a lot of trouble back home, don’t you, Princess?”
“Yes, she does,” Rook said with a sigh. “One would think all this running about the Desert would have tamed her a bit…” He sighed again. “I see you have already thought of marriage as a potential solution to our ongoing hostility problem.”
Sahayl nodded. “This dinner was arranged as the best way to discuss the matter, and to find another solution if marriage did not work.”
Cordelia smiled, and Isra noticed the slightest bit of shyness in it. “My father will not be amenable at first, I am certain, but once he is made to see reason – so long as you are amenable, Sandstorm Prince, I gladly will offer my hand to you.”
“Are you certain this is wise, Highness?” Zulfiqar asked. “I realize it is the nature of a sandstorm to sweep across the Desert, but the heathens are rocks which degrade only slowly.”
Sahayl nodded to acknowledge the point. “Yet I feel it is our best chance. Though as sons of the Lady we are used to bloodshed – I would prefer not to go that route unless we have no other choice. This marriage will end Tavamara’s hostilities with Gollen, and the remaining two counties will have a much more difficult time continuing the war.”
Around the table the men began to talk and debate, but rather than the fury and tension Isra had expected – much of the arguing was interspersed with laughter, playful jests. No small amount of wine. He almost smirked. If anything demonstrated that the Desert belonged with Tavamara rather than the heathens, it was the blatant love of wine. He could not wait until it was possible to begin importing a variety.
Isra offered up more wine to Sahayl as he sat back, content to let the debate wage without him for a while. Sahayl smiled faintly as he accepted the wine, and despite his outward calm Isra knew he was still discomfited by such gestures.
Such a pity this was a formal banquet. Sahayl’s lips were wet with wine and Isra wanted badly to lick it away, soothe the tension from those shoulders in the most pleasurable of ways.
He mentally rolled his eyes at himself, at the change that had come over him since he had fallen beneath the force of the Sandstorm.
Sahayl must have sensed something in his mood, for the glance Isra got was one of gentle inquiry. For reply, Isra simply held the wine dish up again, holding it so that as he pulled it away again, he could brush his fingers briefly across those fine, damp lips.
Comprehension flashed in dark gold eyes, turning into a heat that Sahayl could not entirely bank. Isra smirked, no small part of his satisfaction stemming from the fact he was the one who’d first sampled that heat.
Before he could taunt Sahayl further, the Sheiks drew their Prince back into the conversation.
“I think you are going to make your life more difficult than it already is,” Zulfiqar said at last, “but we six will certainly support you.”
The Spider Sheik gave a brief smirk. “Which means that likely everyone else will support you as well – or they will not be so foolish as not to kick up too much sand about it. Those Tribes which have not succumbs to the heathens owe you much, my Sandstorm Prince.”
Isra saw the tension in Sahayl’s shoulders ease. “I thank you, my Sheiks.”
“We are your Sheiks, my Sandstorm Prince,” Jabbar said. “It is our duty and honor to support you. The Sands speak only good things about you.” He shifted his gaze to Isra. “The Sands also say very amusing things about you, my nephew.”
Isra rolled his eyes. “The Sands need to learn to mind their own business and stop gossiping like women on laundry day.” He scowled and poured more wine. “The Wasp Amir was too close, I had to do something without arousing suspicion.”
Laughter erupted around the table as those who knew recounted to those who did not the way Isra had thrown himself from his horse to kiss Sahayl madly in the sand. He rolled his eyes at all of them, then shot his uncle a nasty look.
Jabbar merely grinned in reply.
“Do not make me give the Sands something new to gossip about, honored Uncle,” Isra said. He grinned, barring his teeth. “My honored Aunt will not care for what the Sands tell her.”
Jabbar threw his head back and laughed. “Yes, nephew.”
Sahayl chuckled. “Saa, desert rose. You are surrounded by people who seem to enjoy tormenting you.”
“I noticed,” Isra said, grumbling into his wine before once more holding the dish up for Sahayl to drink.
Cordelia laughed, the sound bright and cheerful, not the grating, high-pitched sounds Isra remembered from his brief time of study in heathen lands. “You remind me of a member of King Shahjahan’s harem, Lord Isra.”
“Beynum,” Shihab said, laughing in delight, oblivious to the looks Isra shot him.
“Yes,” Cordelia replied, laughing again. “The one they call the King’s Pirate.”
Bahadur laughed. “Yes, there is a resemblance in the way they are ever causing trouble.”
“You want trouble?” Isra challenged. “Just wait until later and I will show you trouble.”
The table erupted in laughter, the normally taciturn Sheiks erupting into taunts and suggestive comments, jeering and teasing each other.
Isra almost stared, as it truly struck him what he was seeing.
Six Sheiks of the Desert acting as though they were friends.
When had the Sands last seen such a thing?
Isra shook his head as he poured more wine, and leaned in close as held the dish up to Sahayl’s lips.
“You’re taking the marriage awfully calmly,” Shihab said, moving forward a green tile painted with dark clouds.
Isra slapped down an orange tile painted with red flames. “Shut up.”
Shihab calmly laid down a blue tile painted with snowflakes.
Scowling, Isra considered his playing pieces, then moved a plain black tile and another orange with red flames.
“You’re hopeless at this,” Shihab said with a tolerant sigh, moving three tiles and laying down a fourth, then picking up both of Isra’s orange tiles.
Isra gave him a nasty look and sat back, crossing his arms across his chest. “You cheat. Why should I be upset about the marriage?”
“Not jealous?” Shihab said.
“By the Lady!” Isra said, dropping his arms to brace them on the table, leaning forward to loom over Shihab. “What do you really want to know? Of course I’m not jealous – any ridiculous notions I might have had about such things you took care of quite neatly, didn’t you, Shihab? Or did you drink enough wine that night you don’t recall it?”
Shihab licked his lips. “I recall it. We should try that with our fine companions.”
“If Sahayl is ever set free,” Isra groused, slumping back, leaning on the table with his chin propped in one hand, the other toying restlessly with a white tile he’d managed to take from Shihab early in the game. “Do you think the marriage will actually take place?”
“Hard to say,” Shihab said thoughtfully. “It is hard to keep up with the political happenings and all when one is shadowing about the Desert…it could go either way.” He gathered up the dozens of tiles stretched out across the taaki board and began to set them back up in the starting positions for a two person game, but paused briefly. “Are you certain you do not want to play, warhorse?”
Bahadur did not bother to stir from where he was stretched out on his back on the floor, looking for all the world as though he could not possibly be any more relaxed. Deceptive, because Isra knew the warhorse was still aggravated Sahayl had insisted he leave along with Isra and Shihab. “No, shadowfire. Thank you.”
Shihab nodded and resumed resetting the pieces. “I hope all goes well, but Gollen has always been severe about such things. Princess Cordelia should already be married off; at her age she is considered nigh on unmarriageable. That she isn’t…” Shihab grinned. “Obviously our Sandstorm attracts troublemakers.”
“Wherever would you get that idea?” Bahadur asked, cracking one eye open to look at Shihab in amusement.
“A guess,” Shihab said lightly, then grinned. He set the last few pieces in place. “Would you like to go first?”
Isra rolled his eyes and grumbled about cheaters, but moved forward a white tile painted with a bright yellow sun.
Snickering, Shihab made his own move.
“So what happens in Gollen refuses the marriage?” Isra asked.
“That is up to Sahayl, and of course Cordelia.” Shihab frowned as Isra took one of his pieces, quickly moving two of his own. “Let us just hope all goes accordingly. Calculating the various paths of failure makes my head hurt.”
Isra smirked. “It also keeps you from cheating at taaki.” He claimed another of Shihab’s pieces.
Shihab rolled his eyes, then moved a plain blue tile forward, capturing three of Isra’s pieces.
“Cheater!” Isra howled, dropping the brown tile he’d been holding in disgust. “Why do I play this game with you?”
“That is a mystery only the Lady could ever answer,” Shihab replied, snickering, rolling out of the way as Isra made a lunge for him.
Snarling, Isra picked himself up and again went after Shihab, this time catching him about the waist, twisting until he successfully had his friend pinned.
Only to be abruptly hauled back, letting out a startled yelp, blinking as he landed on what he realized a moment later was Bahadur – more precisely, Bahadur’s lap. “Desert rose,” Bahadur said calmly. “Did you really need to step on me to get to the little shadowfire?”
“Step on you?” Isra asked, frowning, wincing as he realized that he had, in fact, stepped on Bahadur. He’d thought the ground felt strange… “I was on a mission, warhorse. ‘Kill the red-haired nonheathen’.”
Bahadur gave an inelegant snort. “Yes, I’ve seen how well you ‘kill’ him, desert rose.”
Isra struggled to think when he had started allowing three men to call him by such an absurd name. But fighting with Shihab always stirred him, and after a night of worrying over Sahayl, all of that built up on the problems surrounding Wasp…the looming marriage…letting himself get distracted by his current position was not hard to do. Bahadur was warm, arms a strong and solid weight around him, and he’d long been curious about the Jackal Shihab had brought with him from the far reaches of the Sands.
Twisting sharply, he wrapped his arms around Bahadur’s neck and drew the man close, kissing him hard, in no mood for slow and patient – humming in pleasure when after a moment of frozen shock Bahadur matched it full measure, those strong hands settling him so that Isra straddled Bahadur properly.
“So that’s how I keep Isra from killing me,” Shihab said with a snicker.
Isra broke the kiss to glare briefly at Shihab. “I’ll kill you in a moment.” He turned away while Shihab laughed to take a second taste of Bahadur, whose flavor was rough and spicy, but whose lips and touch were as gentle as they were fierce. A warhorse indeed, able to control the fire that made him so strong.
The sound of the door opening, followed by a cheerful greeting from Shihab, drove him to break the second kiss. He stood up as Sahayl drew close to them, moving immediately to kiss him, laughing softly into Sahayl’s mouth as the Prince froze in surprise. So very alike, these pure sons of the Lady.
He broke away from the kiss slowly, nipping gently at Sahayl’s bottom lip as he finally pulled away. “You were finally permitted to seek your bed?” he asked. He frowned as he noticed just how tired Sahayl actually was, face tight with strain, exhaustion.
“I think they finally ran out of things to say,” Sahayl said with a tired smile. “That or they caught me nodding off, perhaps. I hope it was not that, but who knows?”
Isra rolled his eyes. “I hope they go home to nattering wives, the lot of them. You should get a bath, I’ll have one drawn.” He ignored Sahayl’s protest, and nodded when Shihab motioned that he would take care of the matter.
Soon, a proper bath for their prince would be ready. They’d not told Sahayl of it, as he would protest such an extravagance – just as he had the efforts which had been made to properly appoint his private chambers.
Blacks, browns, deep oranges and touches of dark gold, the room was reminiscent of a sunset. It suited the Sandstorm Prince, who never failed to smile now whenever he saw it. Every day brought new changes and improvements to the long-neglected Broken Palace, and that alone was enough make Sahayl smile.
Shihab joined them, stealing a kiss of his own. “So what did everyone finally decide?” Sahayl had ordered them to leave an hour or so after the dinner had ended, knowing it would drag on for ages and not wanting them to be as bored. Unable to disobey in front of the Sheiks, they had reluctantly left him to it.
“We have sent missives to the relevant persons,” Sahayl replied. “An answer came from…my brother…” He shook his head, and Isra knew he still found it odd to think of the King of Tavamara as his brother. “He approves of the strategy.” His mouth quirked and he reached out to trail his fingers lightly through Shihab’s hair. “He says the fact that his Advisor squawked about it tells him it’s a good idea.”
“What are my father’s misgivings?”
“That we are being tricked, or will be betrayed.”
Shihab nodded. “Definite possibilities, but I do not sense duplicity from the Princess. Her cousin is harder to read…but I would be on guard for betrayal from Gollen.”
“Of course, shadowfire.”
Bahadur joined them, frowning at Sahayl. “So in how much danger have you put yourself, my Prince?”
Sahayl shook his head, laughing softly. “No more than usual, my warhorse. Assuming Gollen replies positively, we are to meet them at the edge of the Desert in seven days time. If not…I suppose we will devise another strategy.”
A soft knock came at the door, and Isra reluctantly disentangled himself to supervise the preparing of Sahayl’s bath, frowning in thought, glowering at the very real possibility that the heathens could betray them.
His fingers went to his scar, a memory of another attempt at peace that had gone astray. That meeting had not concerned the fate of several countries, and if it went awry no one would get out with merely a scar.
If the heathens were smart, they would take the peace Sahayl was offering, but if there was one thing he knew about heathens – nearly every last one of them was the epitome of stupid.
Twenty-four
Sahayl tried to make his thoughts focus on all the problems he would have to address once they reached camp, but all his mind could settle upon was his harem.
Harem.
Even when Ikram had spoken to him on the matter, emphasized the necessity…he had not thought he’d actually manage it. The Desert did not do such things. A man had a lover for a time, then a wife. Now he had three lovers and eventually he would take a wife…who would herself have three lovers.
Being a Prince was, to say the least, quite strange.
He did not dare a look at Bahadur, knowing he would just stare. His warhorse was quite fine, and Sahayl would not ever understand what Jackal had been thinking to so mistreat him.
The camp came into view, already half-dismantled. Sahayl dismounted and handed his reins off to the soldier that came running up. A second later Bahadur fell into step beside him, and Sahayl could not resist looking up at him and offering a smile that Bahadur instantly returned.
Wafai came running up to him. “The prisoners?” Sahayl asked as he reached them.
“They’re fine. We are keeping it quiet that the one is female.”
“Good,” Sahayl said. “See they are well-treated; they did not strike me as genuine soldiers. I wonder why they were hiding…”
Wafai snorted. “Cowardly heathens, what do you expect?”
Sahayl merely smiled and did not point out that the Tribes had always made an art of hiding in the Desert. “When will we be ready to move out?”
“Perhaps another hour, my Sandstorm Prince.”
“Excellent. Thank you, Wafai. And you are still in trouble for handing over the role of protector without my permission.”
Wafai snorted. “Well, you are still in trouble for becoming a Prince without my permission.” He bowed low and moved away to tend to his duties.
Bahadur laughed softly. “I feel sorry for anyone who tries to cross that Advisor.”
Sahayl grinned, but before he could reply the Wasp Amir approached – but before he could speak, a ruckus came from the entrance to the camp and a familiar looking horse bolted right past the guards and made straight for Sahayl.
“Sahayl!” Isra gasped his name, clearly out of breath, face and head coverings plastered with sweat to his skin. He tore them off—then abruptly threw himself off his horse and at Sahayl, the move sending them both crashing to the ground.
Grunting, surprised, Sahayl struggled to find a balance, but could do no more than brace himself on one elbow, his other arm steadying Isra. “Desert rose? What—“
His words were cut off by a fierce kiss, Isra kissing him desperately, anxiously, and Sahayl could no more resist than he could refuse to breathe. He would never be able to resist Isra…even if around them the camp had gone glaringly silent. “Desert rose?” he asked when Isra finally let him go, though there was barely a breath of space between them.
Isra did not pull away, instead murmuring soft words against his mouth. “Wasp is a traitor.”
Sahayl froze at the words, fear and rage pouring through him. The Wasp Amir stood not five feet away. He’d left the Wasp Sheik at the Broken Palace. “Are you certain, desert rose?”
“Without a doubt,” Isra replied, then kissed him again.
“Surely you were not that troubled by your parting, Falcon,” Wafai said dryly.
Isra broke the kiss and glared. “Shut up.” He pulled back and regained his feet, then helped Sahayl up.
“Wafai, walk with us. Wasp Amir, if you need to see me it will have to wait a moment, I beg your forgiveness.” He didn’t wait for the man’s reply, merely turned and strode to his tent, one of the few which had not yet been taken down, awaiting his command. A hand settled at the small of his back, and Sahayl recognized it for a protective gesture. Looking up at Bahadur, he could see the man knew something was wrong.
The new concern thankfully allowed him to ignore the way the camp continued to stare, and burst into chatter once he’d passed, and he wondered how quickly it would spread across the Desert that a Falcon had raced into camp and thrown himself at the Sandstorm Prince to kiss him as though half-mad.
It was a relief to enter his tent – but he stopped short at the sight of two people already in it, only remembering then that he’d ordered the prisoners brought here. He looked at them, curiosity consuming him over why anyone would permit a woman anywhere near a battlefield.
The two were obviously related, their curly, bright gold hair the same, eyes a deep blue, skin tanned to a dark gold from the sun. The woman looked strange in a man’s clothes, but otherwise was pretty for a heathen, though he did not know the standards for that. Witcher was handsome, and he thought Shihab quite fine indeed… Both looked at him warily as Sahayl drew close. “You are both well?” Sahayl asked. He needed to deal with the problem of Wasp, but he could not simply ignore them…
“As well as prisoners can be,” the man said in a sour tone.
Sahayl frowned.
“Rook!” The woman snapped. “They could have simply killed us. Watch your tongue.”
The man – Rook, Sahayl supposed, heathens had such strange names – grimaced but obediently fell silent.
“I would like to speak with you,” Sahayl continued, “but I must deal with other matters first.”
“Viper,” the woman said suddenly. “Jackal. Wasp. Lizard. They’re all cooperating with the west.” Her eyes were wide, anxious, as she looked at Sahayl. “Please. I came—“
“That’s enough,” Rook snarled. “You said you’d go home!”
“Not now that I’m where I need to be,” the woman snapped back.
Sahayl blinked, watching them fight, feeling rather as though he were in the middle of something dangerous. He looked to the others, who remained by the entrance and simply shook their heads.
Resisting an urge to call them cowards, Sahayl took a deep breath and cut into the bickering. “Setcha!” he said loudly, sharply, startling them both into silence. “Saa, heathens, you fight worse the Tribes. You appear to know much about what is going on in the Sands. Who are you, to know so much? Are you certain those Tribes are the traitors?” He already knew they all were, but they need not know that.
“Yes, I’m certain,” the woman said, eyes flashing. “Do you honesty think I’d lie in a situation like this?”
Sahayl swore he could feel Wafai and Isra lose their tempers behind him.
“You will be more polite to our Sandstorm Prince,” Wafai snapped.
“Heathens should learn to watch their tongues,” Isra said just as heatedly beside him.
“Sandstorm Prince?” the woman repeated, eyes growing even wider as she stared at Sahayl. “So the rumor I heard a few days ago is true – the Great Desert has joined Tavamara.” She dropped her gaze, worrying her lip with her teeth, sliding a gaze to the man sitting across from her at Sahayl’s table. “Rook—“
Rook groaned. “You are going home before your father kills us – though I think it’s probably too late for that.”
“But an alliance—“
“Is impossible,” Rook cut in. “You are going home and that’s the end of the matter.”
Sahayl sighed, wishing that Shihab were with them. He would probably understand all that was being said – at least the heathens were speaking the desert language. Which was curious. “How do you speak our language so well?”
“Lots and lots of evil tutoring,” Rook said.
“Who are you?” Wafai asked sharply. He looked at the woman. “You must be of some importance, the way the two of you act.”
The woman hesitated, but when Rook gave a sharp shake of his head, an obvious negative, she pursed her lips stubbornly and met Sahayl’s gaze. “My name—“
“She is Princess Cordelia Melrose LeRoi, third daughter of his Imperial Majesty King Denzel LeRoi of Gollen.”
Sahayl drew a sharp breath. He knew very little about heathens, but he knew that having a royal heathen in his tent was a bad thing. “What manner of heathens permit their Princess to come to such a dangerous place? Alone?”
“She was not supposed to be here!” Rook snarled, glaring angrily at Cordelia. “I discovered only a few days after we arrived in the Great Desert. I have been trying to get her home, but doing that without revealing her identity – too dangerous – was nearly impossible. I had finally convinced her and was escorting her back when we were tangled up in the attack made against your soldiers.”
“I want the fighting to stop,” Cordelia said. “I came to see if I could not work out negotiations on my own – but I could find no one in the Sands who would listen to me.”
Isra snorted. “Of course you didn’t. Idiot heathens! Why would any true son of the Desert waste his time talking to those who are trying to take our Desert away? Lady bury you all in the Sands!”
“Isra,” Sahayl said gently.
Grumbling, Isra nevertheless subsided. Sahayl turned back to his…guests, he supposed. He could hardly consider them proper prisoners. Well, proper introductions should be the first thing…
Wafai, as ever, seemed to know his thoughts, and with a grunt of reluctance moved forward and made the proper introductions. “I present to you Prince Sahayl, son of Hashim, son of Ghost, son of Tavamara and the Lady of the Sands.” He listed the names of the others present, and looked pointedly at Rook as he finished.
Rook nodded. “I am Ryder Sefton LeRoi. I am her Highness’s cousin and a tactician in his Majesty’s Imperial Army.”
Sahayl nodded. He turned to the princess. “What were you hoping to accomplish, Princess?”
“Peace,” Cordelia replied promptly. “Gollen, Lavarre, and Hadge have all joined forces to take over the Great Desert – but already they are bickering amongst themselves over who should get what sections and what is to be done about Tavamara once the Sands are conquered.” She made a face. “At least when I left, such was the case. I have seen little evidence that things have improved.”
“Brave, Princess, to venture into the Sands alone. Also incredibly stupid,” Sahayl said. “Did you bring no one with you, at the very least? What manner of heathens would be foolish enough not to notice your absence in time to prevent such reckless behavior.”
Annoyance filled Cordelia’s face, but before she could speak Rook burst out laughing. “Prevent Princess Cordelia from doing as she pleases? Her father has been trying to manage that trick since her birth!” He seemed not to notice the scathing look he was being given.
Cordelia sniffed and turned to face Sahayl, expression turning serious. “I felt there was no choice. Gollen holds the weakest position of the three countries. I wanted to extricate my country before Hadge and Lavarre crushed it, which I know full well they can and will do – my father knows it too…” She shrugged. “No one back home would listen to me, so I thought I would see if anyone out here in the Sands might. I was hopeful when I heard the Desert had joined with Tavamara, who has always been far more inclined toward peace.”
Sahayl nodded. “Yes, Princess. Peace is my ultimate aim, but I fail to see how it is to be achieved when the heathens seem intent upon conquering the Sands and Tavamara.”
“Highness,” Wafai cut in, “with all due respect, we do not have time for such discussions.”
Reluctantly Sahayl nodded. “Yes, of course. We are returning home, see that the orders are dispersed and set men you trust to watch the Wasp Amir. I am riding ahead.”
“That’s too dangerous,” Wafai and Isra chorused, then glared nastily at each other.
Bahadur finally spoke, having until then remained silent and watchful. “I have to agree, Highness. You should not be traveling alone through the Sands.”
“Nonsense,” Sahayl replied. “Who would expect me to travel so? Besides, I will have you and Isra with me. We will make better time and I can hopefully reach the Broken Palace before the Wasp Sheik does any harm.”
“He was to do nothing until he received word from the Amir that you had been dealt with,” Cordelia said quietly.
Sahayl looked at her. “Oh?”
“Naturally,” Rook said contemptuously. “Their plan is a sound one – destroy the Sandstorm sweeping the Desert and the sand once more becomes nothing but shifting dunes. Of course, that is an alteration from the original plan – which was to let the Tribes finally kill each other. No one expected a Sandstorm to rise up.”
Wafai smirked. “Our Sandstorm Prince is favored by the Lady of the Sands and precisely what the Desert needs.”
Sahayl swept the words aside with a motion, embarrassed. “Saa, I am reckless. We should be on our way. I will travel ahead with Isra and Bahadur. Wafai, see the Princess and…are you her protector?”
“Of late? Yes,” Rook groused. “I am a tactician for his Imperial Majesty. Most often I am called upon in naval matters. My presence here was…not part of the original plan. My specialty is oceanic matters; I deal with the barbarians who plague our waters. I was recalled from duty when a tactician for this matter fell ill.”
“He is Prince Rook,” Cordelia said with a soft laugh.
Isra frowned. “Yet the name he gave was not Rook, before. Sands, heathens make no sense.”
Sahayl laughed. “Enough. We must go. Lady guard you in your travels.”
“And you, Sandstorm Prince,” Wafai said.
Nodding, Sahayl stood and departed, mounting his horse which had been brought to his tent along with those of Bahadur and Isra, who were right behind him. “Ketcha,” he cried out, urging Bloodmoon forward, racing out of camp to vanish into the sands.
*~*~*~*
“I miss all the fun,” Shihab complained as they finished telling him of all that had transpired.
Isra rolled his eyes.
“Saa, shadowfire, only you would be disappointed,” Sahayl said, lips quirking.
“I’m not, really,” Shihab said with a sigh. “Wasp would have been a strong ally.” He rubbed his chin in thought. “This Princess, though…did she have gold hair? Deep blue eyes? Rather outspoken?”
Sahayl lifted a brow. “Yes, shadowfire.”
“Probably is the Princess Cordelia then,” Shihab replied, shaking his head in wonder. “Amazing. She really is as reckless as they say. Prince Rook was with her as well?”
“Yes…” Bahadur answered, frowning. “What do you know that we do not, little shadowfire?”
Shihab smirked and instead of replying simply poured them more wine. They sat in a room that had been allotted as a private sitting room for the Prince, much effort having already gone in to repairing the damage done by the desert. The faded blue tiling on the floor had been scrubbed clean, soft rugs thrown down to hide the spots where tiles were missing. The table in the center was made of stone, low to the ground in the usual style, carved around the edge with calligraphy telling a folktale of the Sands.
The work was heartening, or so Sahayl thought. It seemed to indicate the Tribes wanted to be here, wanted this to work. “Give up your secrets, shadowfire,” he said with a smile.
“Aw, I was waiting to see if Isra would hit me,” Shihab replied with a grin.
“I’ll hit you anyway, never fear.”
Snickering, Shihab took a sip of his wine and then finally relented. “Prince Rook is a direct cousin of the royal throne, the only son of the King’s youngest brother…but his brother is sickly, always has been, and his marriage was purely political. There are many who believe Prince Rook is actually the King’s son, but no one can prove it.”
Isra frowned. “Heathens. Why is he called Rook? That is not the name he gave when he introducing himself.”
“A ‘rook’ is a playing piece from a game called chess – somewhat similar to taaki, in that it is a game of strategy. Prince Rook is called thus because when he was only fifteen he bested the best chess player in the kingdom – with a rook.” Shihab frowned. “Strange that a man so favored by the King would choose to side against him, as Prince Rook obviously has…then again, this is Princess Cordelia we’re talking about…”
Sahayl sighed. “Shadowfire, you are not making much sense to me.”
“Sorry,” Shihab said. “My thoughts are racing faster than I can speak them. Princess Cordelia has always been the troublemaker in her family – she is not obedient and compliant as a woman should be, her bodyguard – protector – is a barbarian woman. Intriguing that you did not encounter her.” He gave Sahayl a sly look.
“I do not like that expression, shadowfire,” Sahayl said.
Isra snorted. “As you shouldn’t. I know exactly where this is going.”
“Where is that?” Bahadur asked.
“Princess Cordelia is seeking peace, and indeed a peace with the Desert and Tavamara would be a very good thing for Gollen. So much a good thing the King should be grateful his daughter put herself in this situation.” He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she or Prince Rook has already thought of it.”
Sahayl’s brows went. “Thought of what?”
Shihab grinned. “The Princess is unmarried.”
The words took a moment to fully register – then Sahayl could only stare.
Isra slammed a hand down on the table; if smacking the stone with such force hurt, he gave no indication. “He cannot simply go and marry a heathen! We are trying to strengthen the Desert, not ruin it completely!”
Sahayl frowned. “I see the merits of what you say, shadowfire, but I do not see how it is possible. Isra is correct – it will create more problems. The Tribes are barely willing to obey me; they will lose all faith if I marry a heathen after becoming a Prince of Tavamara.”
“Shrewd Sheiks will not, and a good Sheik will control his Tribe,” Shihab said with a shrug. “The Desert is part of Tavamara but still largely independent. Marrying her will cease hostilities with Gollen, which will unbalance the other two countries. Gollen is the weakest of the three, but still vital. A trinity would be necessary to even attempt to overthrow Tavamara. Gollen would be stupid to reject such an alliance. As to the Tribes – as I said, any half-intelligent Sheik would see the benefits of having allies on both sides of the Desert. Those that don’t like it will get used to it. That is the way of things. The King caused a minor scandal with his wife and the palace is still in a fervor over the royal harems. You will be seen as the sanest of the lot by Tavamara and the Sands will obey.” He smiled. “A Sandstorm is a hard thing to resist.”
“We will see,” Sahayl said, the entire thing making him uncomfortable, not least of all because he was speaking of such a serious matter about a woman who had no idea the discussion was taking place and likely would rather not marry a savage. “You are troublesome, shadowfire.”
“But the very best kind of trouble,” Shihab said, flashing a grin. “Now, why don’t you tell me how it is that Bahadur is now wearing the ring of your protector?”
Isra started and looked Bahadur’s hand, the ring on his small finger – it still needed resizing before it fit him properly. “How in the sands did I miss that our entire journey home?”
Bahadur chuckled. “You were too busy leaping off your horse to molest our Sandstorm Prince, desert rose?”
“Shut up!” Isra hissed, but it was too late.
“Do tell,” Shihab said.
Laughing, keeping hold of Isra so he did not knock the wine over making a lunge across the table, Sahayl told Shihab precisely how Isra had warned him that Wasp was a traitor. By the end, Shihab was on the floor laughing while Isra attempted to beat him senseless.
Sahayl started to try and stop them, but was stopped when Bahadur tugged him close, shaking his head. “Let them be – trying to kill each other is, I think, one of their greatest pleasures.”
“Saa, you are probably right,” Sahayl said with a smile. He stared at Bahadur, those fine pale gold eyes, smelling the heat of the sun on his warhorse’s skin. Leaning forward was as easy as breathing, reaching up to bury a hand in Bahadur’s short, thick hair.
The arm that wrapped around his waist to pull him even closer was strong and sure, as hot as the sun even through all the layers of cloth. Sahayl knew he was no weakling, but Bahadur’s strength was stunning.
Not nearly so stunning as his mouth though, and part of him still felt guilty that he took such pleasure in three different men – but the rest of him was quite pleased Bahadur had joined his harem.
Sahayl moaned softly as Bahadur consumed him, loving the way the desert spice wine complimented the darker, rough flavor of his warhorse. His protector. A soft sound, almost like a growl, drove him to break the kiss. He turned to see Isra and Shihab watching them avidly.
“I knew that would be a fine sight,” Shihab said. “Do it again.” He made that growling sound again, and beside him Isra looked just as eager.
Cheeks heating, Sahayl shook his head slowly. “There is work to be done, shadowfire. I have dallied here long enough.”
Shihab sighed, but conceded with one of his mischievous smiles. “I can wait until bedtime, then.”
“Who, precisely, owns this harem?” Bahadur muttered.
Sahayl laughed and did not bother to answer.
Twenty-five
Isra pointedly ignored his honored uncle as the man sniggered, instead holding a wine dish to Sahayl’s mouth.
Around the table he knew the other Sheiks were dying of curiosity, wondering if this was some Tavamaran custom or if their new Prince was simply strange.
For the most part, the formal banquet was normal. The wide array of food was native to the Sands, so too the Desert Spice wine. They sat around a long, low table in one of the smaller, private dining rooms, Sahayl at the head of the table to preside over everything. Somewhere, somehow, fine cushions and pillows had been brought, even tapestries and other hangings to dress up the walls still in desperate need of repair.
The only oddity was the way in which he attended Sahayl, holding up bits of food and wine for him, sitting close enough that there was no mistaking the intimacy between them – though he knew by now that everyone must know what role he, Shihab, and Bahadur had assumed in regards to Sahayl.
Shihab had wanted very much for them to appear as a true harem should – bare-chested, dressed in the pants and skirt ensemble that concubines had worn for centuries. Sahayl had negated that idea, saying it would be enough they were waiting on him, never mind doing it half-naked.
Those gathered did appear to be quite confused, not certain whether they should be offended on Sahayl’s behalf or offended by Sahayl…most took their cue from Jabbar, as all knew he was Isra’s uncle, and from Zulfiqar, whose daughter was married to Sahayl’s Advisor. As those two seemed wholly unfazed, so the rest decided to be.
Sahayl’s shoulders were set with the slightest bit of tension, but otherwise his discomfiture with such things did not show – and it was not something the Sheiks would see, except perhaps Zulfiqar.
Isra sipped from the wine dish before setting it down.
Around the table sat the Sheiks they had decided could best be trusted – Cobra, Falcon, Scorpion, Fox, Sand Cat, and a last surprising addition, Spider, who had quietly but steadily set to proving the worth of his Tribe.
In addition to the Sheiks, Wafai, and the heathens were also in attendance.
When had he started to actively enjoy this role? After the war settled, he would never be completely free again. He schooled his expression to hide his roiling thoughts and poured more wine, offering Sahayl one last sip before he started speaking.
“Honored Sheiks, Sons of the Lady of the Sands, I thank you for joining me tonight.”
The Sheiks looked at one another, before Jabbar laughed and spoke. “I think it is we who should be honored, Sandstorm Prince. Many a Sheik tonight will not be pleased to have not received this invitation. We are honored you find us worthy of your time.”
Isra wished he could smile at his uncle – such polite, humble words from a man who had no cause to give them to someone as young as Sahayl.
If these six Tribes were willing to support Sahayl in his role as Prince of the Desert, then his place was secure. Many Tribes would follow suit behind these six, and those that rebelled could be effectively put in their place.
He darted a quick look at Shihab, seated nearby between Zulfiqar and the Sand Cat Sheik.
“Why have you called us here, Highness?” The Spider Sheik asked. Though they had arrived late to the Broken Palace, persuaded by Sand Cat, they had quickly proven to be useful. Inked into the Spider Sheik’s neck was the Tribe’s namesake – a spider nearly the size of a man’s hand, hairy and the color of sand, inked with remarkable skill and detail. “Has there been further…disruption…”
A weighted silence fell as each recalled the seizure of Wasp and their expulsion from the Broken Palace. When challenged, the Sheik and Amir had not bothered to deny it. Not when surrounded by threats, for no one else had chosen to side with them against the new Sandstorm Prince.
Even now they waited to see if Wasp and their heathen comrades would attempt an attack. Unlikely, but then again they still were not certain of the number of heathens in the Sands.
Sahayl motioned to Cordelia and Rook, formally introducing them and explaining how they’d come to be there. Ordinarily a woman would not be made to sit alone with so many unfamiliar men – but her presence was necessary. “We are hoping by way of these two we can somehow make an attempt at peace with at least one heathen nation.”
Isra almost snickered, and offered more wine, letting his fingers just barely brush Sahayl’s face, soothing the nervousness he knew Sahayl was feeling. On Sahayl’s other side, he knew Bahadur was soothing in his own way, surprisingly gentle for a man so large.
As he once more set the dish down, Cordelia opened her mouth – then shut it with a snap.
Sahayl motioned. “You may speak, Princess, if you’ve something to say. I hope you have been well since your arrival at our home.” He smiled. “Saa, there is much work yet to be done, but it is still a fine palace.”
Cordelia smiled. “It’s beautiful. I hope someday all the mosaics can be restored.” She reached up to tuck back a strand of her bright gold hair. Rafiqa had promptly taken charge of the Princess upon her arrival, and currently Cordelia wore a pale pink dress in the Desert style, fitted closely down to the hips, flaring out slightly the rest of the way, embroidered with delicate patterns in white thread. She looked very much like a princess, if heathen. “Perhaps I am presumptuous, Sandstorm Prince, but…I do not know how you intend to go about obtaining peace with Gollen…” She matched his gaze boldly, chin tilting up as though in defiance. “I am a heathen, but a royal heathen, and were you to marry me—“
Beside her Rook groaned. “Princess!”
Shihab laughed, cutting off anything else Rook might have said.
Around the table the men chuckled, talking briefly amongst themselves.
“Well I guess that answers that,” Wafai said dryly. “You get into a lot of trouble back home, don’t you, Princess?”
“Yes, she does,” Rook said with a sigh. “One would think all this running about the Desert would have tamed her a bit…” He sighed again. “I see you have already thought of marriage as a potential solution to our ongoing hostility problem.”
Sahayl nodded. “This dinner was arranged as the best way to discuss the matter, and to find another solution if marriage did not work.”
Cordelia smiled, and Isra noticed the slightest bit of shyness in it. “My father will not be amenable at first, I am certain, but once he is made to see reason – so long as you are amenable, Sandstorm Prince, I gladly will offer my hand to you.”
“Are you certain this is wise, Highness?” Zulfiqar asked. “I realize it is the nature of a sandstorm to sweep across the Desert, but the heathens are rocks which degrade only slowly.”
Sahayl nodded to acknowledge the point. “Yet I feel it is our best chance. Though as sons of the Lady we are used to bloodshed – I would prefer not to go that route unless we have no other choice. This marriage will end Tavamara’s hostilities with Gollen, and the remaining two counties will have a much more difficult time continuing the war.”
Around the table the men began to talk and debate, but rather than the fury and tension Isra had expected – much of the arguing was interspersed with laughter, playful jests. No small amount of wine. He almost smirked. If anything demonstrated that the Desert belonged with Tavamara rather than the heathens, it was the blatant love of wine. He could not wait until it was possible to begin importing a variety.
Isra offered up more wine to Sahayl as he sat back, content to let the debate wage without him for a while. Sahayl smiled faintly as he accepted the wine, and despite his outward calm Isra knew he was still discomfited by such gestures.
Such a pity this was a formal banquet. Sahayl’s lips were wet with wine and Isra wanted badly to lick it away, soothe the tension from those shoulders in the most pleasurable of ways.
He mentally rolled his eyes at himself, at the change that had come over him since he had fallen beneath the force of the Sandstorm.
Sahayl must have sensed something in his mood, for the glance Isra got was one of gentle inquiry. For reply, Isra simply held the wine dish up again, holding it so that as he pulled it away again, he could brush his fingers briefly across those fine, damp lips.
Comprehension flashed in dark gold eyes, turning into a heat that Sahayl could not entirely bank. Isra smirked, no small part of his satisfaction stemming from the fact he was the one who’d first sampled that heat.
Before he could taunt Sahayl further, the Sheiks drew their Prince back into the conversation.
“I think you are going to make your life more difficult than it already is,” Zulfiqar said at last, “but we six will certainly support you.”
The Spider Sheik gave a brief smirk. “Which means that likely everyone else will support you as well – or they will not be so foolish as not to kick up too much sand about it. Those Tribes which have not succumbs to the heathens owe you much, my Sandstorm Prince.”
Isra saw the tension in Sahayl’s shoulders ease. “I thank you, my Sheiks.”
“We are your Sheiks, my Sandstorm Prince,” Jabbar said. “It is our duty and honor to support you. The Sands speak only good things about you.” He shifted his gaze to Isra. “The Sands also say very amusing things about you, my nephew.”
Isra rolled his eyes. “The Sands need to learn to mind their own business and stop gossiping like women on laundry day.” He scowled and poured more wine. “The Wasp Amir was too close, I had to do something without arousing suspicion.”
Laughter erupted around the table as those who knew recounted to those who did not the way Isra had thrown himself from his horse to kiss Sahayl madly in the sand. He rolled his eyes at all of them, then shot his uncle a nasty look.
Jabbar merely grinned in reply.
“Do not make me give the Sands something new to gossip about, honored Uncle,” Isra said. He grinned, barring his teeth. “My honored Aunt will not care for what the Sands tell her.”
Jabbar threw his head back and laughed. “Yes, nephew.”
Sahayl chuckled. “Saa, desert rose. You are surrounded by people who seem to enjoy tormenting you.”
“I noticed,” Isra said, grumbling into his wine before once more holding the dish up for Sahayl to drink.
Cordelia laughed, the sound bright and cheerful, not the grating, high-pitched sounds Isra remembered from his brief time of study in heathen lands. “You remind me of a member of King Shahjahan’s harem, Lord Isra.”
“Beynum,” Shihab said, laughing in delight, oblivious to the looks Isra shot him.
“Yes,” Cordelia replied, laughing again. “The one they call the King’s Pirate.”
Bahadur laughed. “Yes, there is a resemblance in the way they are ever causing trouble.”
“You want trouble?” Isra challenged. “Just wait until later and I will show you trouble.”
The table erupted in laughter, the normally taciturn Sheiks erupting into taunts and suggestive comments, jeering and teasing each other.
Isra almost stared, as it truly struck him what he was seeing.
Six Sheiks of the Desert acting as though they were friends.
When had the Sands last seen such a thing?
Isra shook his head as he poured more wine, and leaned in close as held the dish up to Sahayl’s lips.
“You’re taking the marriage awfully calmly,” Shihab said, moving forward a green tile painted with dark clouds.
Isra slapped down an orange tile painted with red flames. “Shut up.”
Shihab calmly laid down a blue tile painted with snowflakes.
Scowling, Isra considered his playing pieces, then moved a plain black tile and another orange with red flames.
“You’re hopeless at this,” Shihab said with a tolerant sigh, moving three tiles and laying down a fourth, then picking up both of Isra’s orange tiles.
Isra gave him a nasty look and sat back, crossing his arms across his chest. “You cheat. Why should I be upset about the marriage?”
“Not jealous?” Shihab said.
“By the Lady!” Isra said, dropping his arms to brace them on the table, leaning forward to loom over Shihab. “What do you really want to know? Of course I’m not jealous – any ridiculous notions I might have had about such things you took care of quite neatly, didn’t you, Shihab? Or did you drink enough wine that night you don’t recall it?”
Shihab licked his lips. “I recall it. We should try that with our fine companions.”
“If Sahayl is ever set free,” Isra groused, slumping back, leaning on the table with his chin propped in one hand, the other toying restlessly with a white tile he’d managed to take from Shihab early in the game. “Do you think the marriage will actually take place?”
“Hard to say,” Shihab said thoughtfully. “It is hard to keep up with the political happenings and all when one is shadowing about the Desert…it could go either way.” He gathered up the dozens of tiles stretched out across the taaki board and began to set them back up in the starting positions for a two person game, but paused briefly. “Are you certain you do not want to play, warhorse?”
Bahadur did not bother to stir from where he was stretched out on his back on the floor, looking for all the world as though he could not possibly be any more relaxed. Deceptive, because Isra knew the warhorse was still aggravated Sahayl had insisted he leave along with Isra and Shihab. “No, shadowfire. Thank you.”
Shihab nodded and resumed resetting the pieces. “I hope all goes well, but Gollen has always been severe about such things. Princess Cordelia should already be married off; at her age she is considered nigh on unmarriageable. That she isn’t…” Shihab grinned. “Obviously our Sandstorm attracts troublemakers.”
“Wherever would you get that idea?” Bahadur asked, cracking one eye open to look at Shihab in amusement.
“A guess,” Shihab said lightly, then grinned. He set the last few pieces in place. “Would you like to go first?”
Isra rolled his eyes and grumbled about cheaters, but moved forward a white tile painted with a bright yellow sun.
Snickering, Shihab made his own move.
“So what happens in Gollen refuses the marriage?” Isra asked.
“That is up to Sahayl, and of course Cordelia.” Shihab frowned as Isra took one of his pieces, quickly moving two of his own. “Let us just hope all goes accordingly. Calculating the various paths of failure makes my head hurt.”
Isra smirked. “It also keeps you from cheating at taaki.” He claimed another of Shihab’s pieces.
Shihab rolled his eyes, then moved a plain blue tile forward, capturing three of Isra’s pieces.
“Cheater!” Isra howled, dropping the brown tile he’d been holding in disgust. “Why do I play this game with you?”
“That is a mystery only the Lady could ever answer,” Shihab replied, snickering, rolling out of the way as Isra made a lunge for him.
Snarling, Isra picked himself up and again went after Shihab, this time catching him about the waist, twisting until he successfully had his friend pinned.
Only to be abruptly hauled back, letting out a startled yelp, blinking as he landed on what he realized a moment later was Bahadur – more precisely, Bahadur’s lap. “Desert rose,” Bahadur said calmly. “Did you really need to step on me to get to the little shadowfire?”
“Step on you?” Isra asked, frowning, wincing as he realized that he had, in fact, stepped on Bahadur. He’d thought the ground felt strange… “I was on a mission, warhorse. ‘Kill the red-haired nonheathen’.”
Bahadur gave an inelegant snort. “Yes, I’ve seen how well you ‘kill’ him, desert rose.”
Isra struggled to think when he had started allowing three men to call him by such an absurd name. But fighting with Shihab always stirred him, and after a night of worrying over Sahayl, all of that built up on the problems surrounding Wasp…the looming marriage…letting himself get distracted by his current position was not hard to do. Bahadur was warm, arms a strong and solid weight around him, and he’d long been curious about the Jackal Shihab had brought with him from the far reaches of the Sands.
Twisting sharply, he wrapped his arms around Bahadur’s neck and drew the man close, kissing him hard, in no mood for slow and patient – humming in pleasure when after a moment of frozen shock Bahadur matched it full measure, those strong hands settling him so that Isra straddled Bahadur properly.
“So that’s how I keep Isra from killing me,” Shihab said with a snicker.
Isra broke the kiss to glare briefly at Shihab. “I’ll kill you in a moment.” He turned away while Shihab laughed to take a second taste of Bahadur, whose flavor was rough and spicy, but whose lips and touch were as gentle as they were fierce. A warhorse indeed, able to control the fire that made him so strong.
The sound of the door opening, followed by a cheerful greeting from Shihab, drove him to break the second kiss. He stood up as Sahayl drew close to them, moving immediately to kiss him, laughing softly into Sahayl’s mouth as the Prince froze in surprise. So very alike, these pure sons of the Lady.
He broke away from the kiss slowly, nipping gently at Sahayl’s bottom lip as he finally pulled away. “You were finally permitted to seek your bed?” he asked. He frowned as he noticed just how tired Sahayl actually was, face tight with strain, exhaustion.
“I think they finally ran out of things to say,” Sahayl said with a tired smile. “That or they caught me nodding off, perhaps. I hope it was not that, but who knows?”
Isra rolled his eyes. “I hope they go home to nattering wives, the lot of them. You should get a bath, I’ll have one drawn.” He ignored Sahayl’s protest, and nodded when Shihab motioned that he would take care of the matter.
Soon, a proper bath for their prince would be ready. They’d not told Sahayl of it, as he would protest such an extravagance – just as he had the efforts which had been made to properly appoint his private chambers.
Blacks, browns, deep oranges and touches of dark gold, the room was reminiscent of a sunset. It suited the Sandstorm Prince, who never failed to smile now whenever he saw it. Every day brought new changes and improvements to the long-neglected Broken Palace, and that alone was enough make Sahayl smile.
Shihab joined them, stealing a kiss of his own. “So what did everyone finally decide?” Sahayl had ordered them to leave an hour or so after the dinner had ended, knowing it would drag on for ages and not wanting them to be as bored. Unable to disobey in front of the Sheiks, they had reluctantly left him to it.
“We have sent missives to the relevant persons,” Sahayl replied. “An answer came from…my brother…” He shook his head, and Isra knew he still found it odd to think of the King of Tavamara as his brother. “He approves of the strategy.” His mouth quirked and he reached out to trail his fingers lightly through Shihab’s hair. “He says the fact that his Advisor squawked about it tells him it’s a good idea.”
“What are my father’s misgivings?”
“That we are being tricked, or will be betrayed.”
Shihab nodded. “Definite possibilities, but I do not sense duplicity from the Princess. Her cousin is harder to read…but I would be on guard for betrayal from Gollen.”
“Of course, shadowfire.”
Bahadur joined them, frowning at Sahayl. “So in how much danger have you put yourself, my Prince?”
Sahayl shook his head, laughing softly. “No more than usual, my warhorse. Assuming Gollen replies positively, we are to meet them at the edge of the Desert in seven days time. If not…I suppose we will devise another strategy.”
A soft knock came at the door, and Isra reluctantly disentangled himself to supervise the preparing of Sahayl’s bath, frowning in thought, glowering at the very real possibility that the heathens could betray them.
His fingers went to his scar, a memory of another attempt at peace that had gone astray. That meeting had not concerned the fate of several countries, and if it went awry no one would get out with merely a scar.
If the heathens were smart, they would take the peace Sahayl was offering, but if there was one thing he knew about heathens – nearly every last one of them was the epitome of stupid.
no subject
Date: 2007-04-08 11:56 pm (UTC)