PEZ WATCHD WITH AGONY as Lazar fell to his knees. “Jumo…” His voice was so broken that Pez had to look away.
The dwarf turned his gaze to Salim, and the Khalid understood, quietly summoning his men with a small gesture. One by one they filed past, each touching his hand to head, lips, and heart, whispering, “May Lyana take you quietly to her breast.” Pez couldn’t believe what he was hearing; the desert people had not relinquished their faith in the Goddess, not out here in the Great Waste, where no one came to censure their spiritual devotion.
Salim was the last to offer his farewell to Jumo and then he turned to the dwarf and gave a small, sad smile. “It seems we have both exchanged a secret, brother,” he said, in halting Percherese.
“Indeed,” Pez murmured in flawless Khalid. “Yours is safe with me.”
Salim nodded, risked laying a hand on the Spur’s bare, trembling shoulder, and squeezed gently, wincing at the sight of Lazar’s back—a maze of scar tissue—before he quietly moved away and over the dune, leaving the three friends and their new companion, death, to make their peace.
Jumo had sunk almost to his chest. “Forgive me for bringing this pain to you, Lazar.”
Lazar was openly weeping now, although he made not a sound. “What can I do?” he begged in a distraught whisper.
“Let me go,” the brave man from the north beseeched. “And know you have been loved by another who has never had a better friend.”
“Pez!” Lazar looked around wildly. “The Lore. Surely you can—”
Pez shook his head. “No,” he said sadly.
“You have magic. Lift him free.”
“I cannot.”
“Then keep him alive long enough for me to fetch the camels. I will hurry,” he said, frantically leaping to his feet. “We might have a chance.”
Pez knew irreparable damage would be wreaked on his friendship with the Spur with his next words if he was truthful, so he lied, hating himself for the deception. “The Lore does not work that way.”
“What do you mean? It’s magic! Look, man, he’s to his breast. Please, I beg you.” He fell again to the sand. Lazar looked a broken man, tears streaming down his face, on his knees, all but naked, his arms open in supplication.
It was only the memory of Ellyana’s visit that kept Pez strong and resolute. He did not falter, added more weight to his lie. “I have to be touching him for the Lore to work,” he snarled. And something inside him broke as he watched Lazar wilt, his hands cupping his weeping face, his body racked with grief.
“Lazar.” It was Jumo, his voice still firm, filled with courage. “There is no time now. Listen to me. We never did speak of your parents. You must go on now. You must hurry and get to Galinsea. They are serious about this war and it has nothing to do with sacking Percheron for its riches. It is about you and you alone. And it is about revenge. No language barrier could prevent their understanding of my tidings. They wept at my news that you were dead—I wept with them. It is over, Lazar, whatever happened between you and them all those years ago. They believe they’ve lost a son to their enemy. The heir to their Crown. Go to Galinsea and tell them they did not.”
With much effort Lazar dragged his head up and looked at his friend. Pez had never seen him so haggard. Not even at the flogging had he looked so completely broken emotionally. During the flogging he’d fought back. Fought back with grim silence and by somehow holding on to life. Right now he looked ready to give up all of his spirit and let grief kill him in the sands beneath the blazing sun.
“They want forgiveness?” Lazar asked Jumo incredulously, his voice tight as a drum.
Jumo shook his head sadly. “As far as they know, you are dead; forgiveness cannot be sought or given. They want Percheron to pay and they’ll take that debt in blood, unless you and Ana prevent it.” The murderous sludge was inching toward his neck—it would not be long now. “I am ready to die, Lazar,” he said into the thick silence. “Do not let my passing stop your mission, or the Percherese will die, down to the last child. Your father didn’t need to tell me that, I could see it in his eyes. It was only your mother’s urging that convinced him to send the delegation, to give Percheron a chance to prepare itself.”
Jumo was fully buried to his neck now and Pez was amazed at how calmly the man allowed himself to sink. There was not so much as a flicker of panic in his eyes. Here was a man resigned to his fate, accepting his lot and using his last moments to build the courage of his great friend to accept as well and to go on with life. Pez felt the pricks of tears at his own eyes and knew he, too, would never recover from this sad scene. Jumo displayed such courage and grace and the best Pez could do was to lie to him. He hated himself. He could have saved Jumo, could have kept him somehow elevated in the quicksand long enough for camels to be brought and for him to be pulled free of death. But he could not risk openly using the Lore, not with Maliz so close, not with the demon paying him such close scrutiny. Before, he had escaped discovery because Maliz had stumbled across the Lore and not known what he was touching or to whom it belonged. And Pez had covered his tracks well. But out here, the coincidence would be too great. If Maliz detected magic it was obvious he would put it all together amongst only a handful of people in the desert. There was only Lazar and Pez to be suspicious of and Pez knew that Maliz had probably decided that Lazar was no threat—he was certainly not Iridor. And so in his fear that Iridor would be destroyed before he even fully discovered Lyana, he kept his Lore to himself and refused to risk using it so openly. Maliz would surely come rushing back with the rescue party and everyone would demand to know how Jumo had been kept from sinking. No, no! Too many questions, too much revealed…too much danger to the cause that was Lyana.
“I’m so sorry, Lazar,” Pez whispered as Jumo for the first time began to struggle to keep his chin high.
“Jumo,” Lazar croaked. “I have loved you better than any.”
“Don’t waste those words on me, my friend. Give them to Ana.” The mire began to close around the back of Jumo’s head, now turned to the scorching sun. “Lyana take me,” he cried to his Goddess, “I am ready.” And then somehow he pushed himself beneath the swallowing sands, no longer prepared to wait for death’s wet kiss.
“Jumo!” Lazar roared as he leaped to his feet. “Jumo!” He continued screaming until his voice was hoarse and there was not so much as a mark upon the surface of the quicksand to show where his friend had been.
Lazar, his throat raw, his eyes red and angry, and his cheeks wet from helpless, useless tears, slipped once more to the hot sands in a silence thick with grief. After several long minutes had passed, by which time Pez could see Lazar’s naked skin burning, the dwarf rallied himself from his dark thoughts and pulled himself up the dune to fetch the others who were waiting on the other side in their own grim silence.
“He will need help,” he said.
Whether Lazar was aware of the tenderness shown to him that sorrowful day, Pez could not tell, but the Khalid gently picked him up from the burning sand and having sensed he would not permit himself to be dressed, they made no fuss, simply wrapped his robe around his scarred back.
“Walk, Spur,” Salim whispered, “he died with courage. Hold yourself proudly for him.”
They were the right words to say, it seemed, for Lazar finally straightened. He took a moment to press his hands to his face, wiping away all trace of tears. Pez privately grieved that the carefree and wonder-filled expression that Lazar had worn that morning had been banished and the granitelike countenance had returned. Pez wondered whether Lazar would ever let that sense of lightness enter his world again. He feared the Spur would remember moments of lightness only as dangerous and heartbreaking: the Galinsean love, Ana of course, and now the hunt—on each occasion he had opened himself up to pleasure and each time he had been left broken, having lost someone precious.
No, Pez didn’t think Lazar would return from this loss fully and he felt the bile gathering in this throat that he had permitted it
to happen. He could have saved Lazar this pain, saved a life…two lives, in fact, if he counted Lazar’s, which would forever suffer by this experience.
One of the Khalid picked up the dead bustard and, with a soft murmuring of a prayer, tossed it into the quicksand where Jumo had been swallowed.
“That meat is tainted,” Salim said in explanation.
No one said anything more. The group, with hung heads, moved out silently from the now innocent-looking patch of desert where death had come to claim a life, leaving no mark that the man had ever existed, and walked with a heavy tread back to camp.
“AH, MEAT!” HEREZAH EXCLAIMED at the first sight of the men returning.
Ana, who had rallied these past hours and even gotten a blush back into her cheeks, noticed immediately that all was not right. “Something’s wrong,” she said. “Look at Lazar.”
He wasn’t difficult to pick out at the best of times, but half naked it was all the easier.
“Zarab save us!” Herezah said, startled.
“They got the birds, I can see, so the hunt’s been successful,” the Grand Vizier said, frowning. “But you’re right, Zaradine, there’s nothing triumphant about this arrival.”
“There’s one less of them,” Ana said suddenly, having had the wherewithal to count the party.
“Probably one of the tribal men has run off,” Herezah said, distracted by the sight of Lazar and the promise of a good meal tonight.
Ana joined the Grand Vizier, who had stood. She squinted. “I think it’s Jumo. I can’t see him.” Her fears were confirmed as the men drew closer, sorrowfully entering the outskirts of the camp, where the camels sat patiently.
Lazar strode past the royals but gave a swift glance to Ana, who saw the pain reflected in his eyes and lost her breath anticipating what was coming. Salim could speak only a smattering of Percherese. He tried to explain but it was hopeless. Pez could hardly translate in present company.
“What is going on here?” the Grand Master demanded.
Pez arrived flapping his make-believe wings but now stood still. “The sands swallowed Jumo,” he sang, “the Spur has no appetite, and the fat birds fell from the sky.” He began to dance before flapping off.
The royal party looked back at the dazed group of men before them and one of the Khalid began to mimic sinking, struggling for breath.
“Drowning?” Herezah asked. “How do you drown in a desert?”
“Oh, this is ridiculous. Where is the Spur?” the Grand Vizier said. He walked to where Lazar was busying himself, grimly pulling back on his robes and tying back his hair. “Spur Lazar, we gather something has happened to your friend, Jumo. Would you settle our confusion, please?” His voice was low, kindly.
“Certainly,” Lazar said matter-of-factly, but there was a tone of danger in his voice now that even the Grand Vizier would be able to recognize as the sign of a man on the very edge of his emotions. “Jumo is dead. Quicksand. There was nothing we could do.”
“Spur, I can’t imagine—” The Grand Vizier reached out his hand to convey his condolences but Lazar stepped backward.
“I prefer to be alone.” It was all the courtesy he could show at this time. “Forgive me.” He pulled on his turban and walked away, Pez crawling on all fours beside him.
The Grand Vizier did not hear Lazar’s comment to the dwarf but Pez suddenly stopped, stood up, and watched the tall man stride away.
THE FRESH MEAT THEY had all looked forward to tasted bitter in their mouths. Only Maliz, it seemed, took real pleasure in the roasted bustard. Even Herezah had the grace to dine quietly and sparingly in her tent, though Salim had urged all to eat the food that the gods had provided and that Shahin had risked her life to give them.
Through gestures he managed to convey this and the Vizier took up the torch for him, insisting everyone in the royal party and all the Elim partake of this rare opportunity for freshly cooked food.
“We have a long journey ahead,” he counseled, “with no idea of when fresh meat will come our way again.”
They ate in moody silence. Pez was nowhere to be seen and Maliz presumed he might be with the Spur, but judging from the body language of both earlier, he was reluctant to assume that the dwarf was welcome at Lazar’s side. He wondered what had happened between them.
Herezah emerged and Maliz was surprised to see her thank the Khalid for their gift of meat. The men of the desert bowed to her. The desert did strange things to one, Maliz decided, and then he watched, intrigued, as she cut herself another piece of the roasted bird and reached for some of the cooling flatbread.
“You have a good appetite, I’m pleased to see, Valide,” he said, unable to mask all the sarcasm from his voice.
“I eat but little, Tariq, as you should know. This is for Lazar.”
He smirked. “Good luck.”
“The point is, Grand Vizier, we cannot have our guide and protector dropping dead from starvation. I’m hoping to appeal to his practical side, at least persuade him to eat for his health, if not pleasure.”
“You’d do better, then, to let the Zaradine take that food to him.”
Herezah bristled. “You think her persuasive powers are greater than mine?”
He regarded her with a soft look of vexation. “Are you truly interested in his health, Valide, or would you also appreciate his company?” He stayed the inevitable rush of insults coming his way by raising a hand. “Forgive me. I simply mean that perhaps they can encourage each other through this maudlin time. They are both miserable and neither is eating. We need both strong and healthy—they are our most important companions. The Spur as our guide into Galinsea and the Zaradine for the deal she must broker.”
Herezah did not respond, but she walked back to her tent and looked inside. A quiet exchange took place and Ana stepped out this time, pale and watchful.
“Come, Ana, you have a task to achieve,” Herezah said, and led the girl away from the camp to where they knew the Spur brooded.
THEY FOUND HIM WITH his head between his knees, long arms encircling all, as if by closing himself off to the rest of the world, he could avoid its pain. He heard their soft footfall and raised his head. Herezah saw Ana wince to see the grief in his face.
“Please.” He began shaking his head.
“Lazar, you must eat something. The desert is unforgiving, I’m discovering,” Herezah began softly, conversationally. “It makes no distinction. I gather it will happily kill the healthy without mercy, although it prefers the malnourished, I’m sure.”
He nodded, but said nothing, although his expression showed a quirk of surprise. She knew what it was—he had never heard gentleness in her voice. Perhaps the Vizier was right, she thought—perhaps the desert does make strangers of us.
She pressed on. “The journey ahead is perilous enough—you’ve warned us of that so many times—without our adding to the danger through lack of food or care for ourselves.” Herezah pushed Ana forward as she continued arguing her case. “Please, eat something. I don’t care whether you don’t taste it or even want it. But we all care that you remain strong and see us through this trial. You need this meat.”
The Spur turned his gaze fully onto Herezah now and she felt the familiar weakness that his regard could always provoke. She was used to it being loaded with disdain and felt suddenly unsettled that on this night nothing but vulnerability was reflected in his eyes.
“Imagine what a fine counselor you could be to Boaz if only you’d…” He didn’t finish.
“Yes,” she said, a little more brightly, “the Grand Vizier urges the same. If I didn’t know better I’d think you two were in cahoots.” She tried to laugh but it came out a choked sound. “But none of you men has lived in the harem. You don’t know how it shapes everything about its inhabitants, how it turns you from a happy and carefree eight-year-old into someone who is forced to scheme in order to protect yourself. No man can know the fear of bringing a son into this world when you know from his very first cry that he wil
l probably be slaughtered—except you don’t know when—and that all that stands between him and the blade is what lies between your own legs and how well you wield that weapon.”
She was breathing hard, was surprised by the effort it took to reveal her true emotion to this man…the only man she had ever wanted for her own—the one she hated more than any other because he wouldn’t capitulate to her.
Lazar looked at the ground and Herezah had to wonder whether he felt a prickle of shame as she continued: “No man can know what it is to fight every day of your life to secure your own and your child’s longevity. This fight means shutting yourself off to everything from friendship to pity. Compassion, care, sympathy—they are all emotions I have not been able to risk, Lazar, and after a lifetime of having to be strong and ruthless, of keeping all weakness at bay, you forget how to even touch again on those emotions.” She unveiled herself and he saw the movement, raised his head to look at her. “I have only this,” she said, pointing to her face, “to win favor, and this,” she said, pointing to her head now, “to use that favor to its best effect. I won, Lazar, because of my face, my body, my wits. My son was not slaughtered. My son is Zar.”
He watched her for several moments before he replied, Ana’s presence hardly registering with him at this moment. “Then your work is done, Herezah. You have succeeded in your life’s mission. Boaz is safe. You are safe. It is time to tear down the barriers and be the person you might have been had you not been attached to the palace.”
“I might say the same to you,” she replied swiftly, “except we are creatures of habit, you and I; we are too old perhaps to change what we’ve become.”
“It is never too late,” he murmured.
“I shall try, then, if you will,” she challenged. “I am genuinely sorry for the loss of your companion. I didn’t know him until this journey, but when I bothered to notice, he seemed pleasant, intelligent company. And anyone who calls you friend clearly is something special, seeing as how you let virtually no one into your life. So do the right thing by this man. Begin by eating something.”
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