Herezah nodded at Ana, who moved to hold the plate out to him and spoke for the first time. It struck the Valide that her soft tones touched Lazar as tenderly as if she had used her hands. “Don’t let Jumo’s life be given in vain, Lazar. From what I can gather, he was chasing down this food so we could all eat well this night. Honor him: eat.”
WHERE HEREZAH’S WORDS HAD lifted his spirits somewhat, Ana’s words injured him. The Zaradine’s easy tenderness, her ability to touch deeply on all that troubled him, seemed to rub salt into the wound that was Jumo’s death. He wanted to reach out and bury his head in her hair, hold her close. He despised that she belonged to the Zar.
He reached for the plate instead. “I will eat, Zaradine, for Jumo’s sake, and in his memory, if you will, too.”
It was the capitulation he knew they had been hoping for. Both women instantly moved to sit beside him.
Lazar had to admire Herezah for risking rebuke as she laid her cool fingers lightly on his bare arm. “Thank you,” she said, then removed her hand swiftly.
Lazar had not flinched away from Herezah’s touch—it was his quiet acknowledgment to the Valide that he understood and admired the courage it must have taken for her to lay out her emotions in such bareness, to him of all people. However, as she spoke more brightly, looking out into the distance rather than at him, to cover the fleeting awkwardness, Lazar took the plate from Ana and he deliberately allowing his hand to brush hers. In that moment he felt the connection, saw it in her eyes, sensed it in the soft caress she returned to his palm.
Later that night he mourned Jumo deeply, and that only intensified his sorrows over Ana, over the touch that told him she was his, had always been. The hurt over his two favorite people blended and his grief that he could never be with either again intensified his sadness. He grieved again at the thought that they could never be together. He needed to be alone with his thoughts, to clear them. He must accept that Jumo was gone from his life and he must lay his desires for Ana to rest once and for all. Love equaled pain, and he had no more room in his heart for it. Loneliness could never get worse, a solitary life was quantifiable and once accepted, became routine, manageable, and even comfortable…familiar as a comfy old chair or a favorite shirt.
As everyone was settling down to sleep, he drifted away from the main group, unnoticed, and in the cover of darkness moved stealthily from the camp. He needed to walk, to feel the cold of the desert night, to let it chill him and cool the flames of desire that Ana’s simple touch had fanned.
It occurred to him in the dark that he was in danger of walking straight into quicksand as Jumo had, and that made him slow his urgent stride and make for a dune rather than the flat earth. The sand slipped beneath his feet, still warm in its depths, but he pushed on until he crested the dune, and there he lay, hands cushioning his head as he stared up at the bright crescent moon that had just emerged from a shadowy cloud. From an early age he had sought the moon for solace, but now it mocked him. Still alone, Lazar? it asked. No parents, no friends, no lover? He lost himself in sad thoughts of a life that felt unfulfilled, even though as few as fifteen moons ago he might have believed his life full and happy. Fifteen moons ago he had not met Ana and he had had a companion called Jumo. Fifteen moons ago nobody knew his identity and voices did not speak to him in his mind.
He did not hear the soft scramble of someone climbing the dune, but he did recognize the figure when it reached his eye level. He sat up, alarmed.
“What’s wrong? What are you doing here?”
“I had to speak with you…alone.”
“How…” He was lost for words.
“No one knows I’m gone. I told Pez—I think he understood. He’s not happy, of course, but he will warn me should the need arise.”
“Ana, I—”
“May I sit beside you?”
He nodded, then thought better of it. “Perhaps we had better sit on the other side,” he suggested.
He knew she smiled behind her veil. “Yes, we are illuminated here on the top of the dune, aren’t we?”
Lazar did not return the smile. Instead a tension, emanating from him like a tautly strung bow, stretched to the one person he’d least expected to find himself alone with. His throat felt too dry to talk and he cleared it nervously. “How do you feel?”
“Happy now that I’m here.”
“Yes, the desert can offer comfort. The harem has been very cruel to you.”
“I’m not referring to the harem,” she said, releasing the veil and pulling away her head cover so that her golden hair could feel the touch of the night’s soft, chill breeze. Some of the silken strands blew away from her face and he could see her profile in all of its ethereal beauty beneath the moonlight. “I mean here…with you.”
He had to look away from temptation. “It’s too dangerous, Ana. I cannot risk you—”
“What can they do? Tell me off? Tell Boaz? Kill me?” She laughed softly without humor. “They’ve tried it all before and I fear none of it. I am their only hope apparently and I do this for one reason alone. You should know now that I care nothing for Percheron, I care nothing for my own life, I really don’t care if war comes, save for the anxiety I have for my father, brother, and sisters. I was meant to be dead by now, and in truth, death suited my needs, for it would have brought closure to a life filled only by misery.”
He remained silent, guarded, wishing he could turn back time, wishing he had never visited that hut in the foothills. He was the reason for her misery.
She continued softly now, none of the passion gone from her voice but the fire of her words settled to a more gentle glow. Her eyes were not turned toward his but out into the darkness where shadows of dunes hunched like ancient creatures. “My only reason for not objecting to this marriage and this journey was that it meant I could see you, share your life for just a little longer. We have never spoken truthfully, you and I. It is time we did, before it is too late and our mission is done and I am either dead in Galinsea or returned to a living death in the harem. I am sure that we will not be allowed to see each other again once this is done with.”
He tried to sound unfazed, even though he was intimidated by her forthrightness and unsure of how to respond. “I don’t see why not. They have no reason to forbid—”
“They have every reason. Herezah would no more trust me alone with you than she would herself. And Boaz kno—”
The mention of the Valide made him bristle. “I admired the Valide’s candor earlier this evening but that’s where my admiration ends. Let me assure you that I can trust myself alone with her, Ana. Whatever she might try, nothing would come of it,” he said sourly.
“She would find a way, Lazar. She always finds a way. She admitted as much this evening. And I know this from bitter experience.”
He remained silent.
She qualified her earlier statement. “She would seek out some way to compromise you.”
“Herezah has nothing that can surprise me.”
“No? I imagine her next move will be to alert you to the fact that I might be carrying her grandchild?”
Shocked, Lazar was unable to form any words for several long moments. Finally she turned her gaze from the distance to focus fully on him, and even in the dark he could see the sparkle of her eyes. She waited for him to speak.
It all fell into place for him now. “That’s why you’ve been feeling so sick. Is it true?”
She shrugged. “I do not know, yet,” she replied carefully, “but I hear them whispering. She and Tariq have already convinced themselves that I am pregnant with the next heir. They have almost convinced me.”
Lazar felt dizzy with dismay. So many thoughts swirled around his mind, mainly selfish, angry ones, directed at Boaz for having tasted the pleasure of Ana’s body. But he fought those back into the recesses of his already scarred heart, where he could lock them deeply away, and focused instead on the practical worries. “We should not have you and the child endangered in the desert
,” he blustered.
“Everyone seems quite happy to endanger me. My child, if there is one, is hardly a problem and should not change anything. The baby is safe as long as I am, whether I am in the desert or imprisoned in the harem. The only suffering is borne by me and there is no impact on anyone else, least of all the child. I am the tired one, the one who is constantly feeling sick. If we broker this peace, then it matters not whether I am with child or without. The baby would be killed anyway if war came to Percheron—don’t try and tell me otherwise.” She glared at him.
“No, you’re right,” he admitted. “You and the baby would be two of the first dealt with. No heir to Percheron would be permitted to survive.”
“Then he’s in danger whether I’m here in the desert or cocooned in my prison at the palace.”
“He?”
She hugged her knees to her chest. “Herezah thinks of her grandchild as a he.”
“When will you know if you are pregnant?”
She shrugged. “My bleeds are unreliable at best. Another moon perhaps.”
“How did you get past Herezah anyway?”
“Pez. He gave her a sleeping draft.”
Lazar gave a very halfhearted tweak of a smile. “Crafty.” Then he sighed, wishing he wasn’t being tested like this with Ana so close and the unique opportunity of being alone. Again he chose safe ground. “What did you want to talk to me about?”
“I wanted to share my sorrow for the loss of Jumo, but not with an audience, and one that in all truth doesn’t really care. He was always so kind to me. I loved Jumo.”
“That makes two of us,” he said miserably. “It was a terrible way to die.”
“Is there a good way?” she asked, echoing his gloom.
“In battle perhaps, or whilst one sleeps. I would take either.”
She smiled sadly. “I also wanted to have this chance to talk about us.”
He felt the catch in his throat again, swallowed back the fear that she was moving them onto less secure ground. This was how Jumo must have felt, panicking, sinking further into the mire. He grappled for a hold on something solid, something real, something irrefutable. “There is no us, Ana,” he said, his voice betraying how hard it was for him to remain this distant, this controlled. “You are the Zaradine, now potentially the carrier of the heir to the throne of Percheron. I am your servant. There is no us. There never was.”
“You’re not very good at lying, are you, Lazar? You’re far better at the gruff, angry truth.”
“I do not lie.”
“Then why did you touch me so surreptitiously this evening, if not to steal a part of me for yourself? Why did you touch me fifteen moons ago when I was first being presented to the Valide, if not to hold on to me for just a little longer? Did you think I didn’t feel that fleeting kiss of our skins through the sheath I was forced to wear? Did you think that because I was so young I didn’t have blood pounding through my veins or the desires of any young woman?”
“I…I…”
Lazar could tell she was not going to let him off the hook now that she had him squirming at the end of her line. “Why did you come in search of me when I escaped? Was it all about duty or was it about getting to me first, seeing me again? You could have led me from the temple—I was capable of walking—and yet you carried me. Was that sheer generosity of spirit or did you want to feel me against your body?” He hung his head and still she persisted. “At least Boaz declares his love, you just sneak around it. You prolonged our time together in the market on the first evening we came into Percheron and on the morning of my discovery. You fought for my freedom during the Choosing Ceremony, and later, after I’d not only relinquished it but brought the full might of the harem’s censure upon me, you fought for me again, this time with your own life. You took my punishment. You died for me, or so I was told. You think you hide your feelings but you are transparent to me, Lazar. You always have been, even though you act in a way to confuse me.”
“I betrayed you.” He was desperately grasping at straws, hoping to incite her rage, to turn her from him, but especially to prevent her from speaking more truth, and showing him so clearly for the duplicitous person he was.
She touched his long hair, a tear escaping down her cheek as he closed his eyes for fear that he might just reach for her and never be able to let go. “I know now that the betrayal you speak of was not of your own making. Zafira and Ellyana created the deception, not you. I can see how sick you’ve been. Sick enough to no longer have the strength to dye your hair and stop running from the person you are. A Galinsean Prince.” She shook her head, seemingly still unable to fully digest the truth. “This hair color suits you more.”
“This is dangerous. We can’t…” He stammered, unable to finish his sentence for the rush of longing that engulfed him, rendering him helpless beneath her fingers as they moved to caress his soft beard.
“We might never have another chance,” she said, shocking him further with her reckless, suddenly mature approach. He tried to tell himself that she was shy, reluctant, that the loneliness of her life and despair over Jumo’s death had provoked her into seeking him out—the one person who might understand and share her grief. He told himself he must not take advantage of her in this state. But the truth was that he knew Ana had always been precocious and wise beyond her years. And she was not shy, far from it. She had registered his desire from the first moment they had met and although she might not have fueled it, she had certainly accepted and welcomed it in her quiet, guarded way.
“When you were flogged for me, do you know you told me you loved me?” she breathed near his ear, sending fresh currents of fear and lust racing through him.
“I was dying,” he groaned in a last ditch attempt at denial.
“No, you were honest. It was the one occasion I have seen your emotions bared, your expression so free of disguise. You knew you were as good as dead, that it didn’t matter anymore. And you released the truth of what was in your mind.”
He tried once more. “I don’t remember.”
She pulled his chin around, forcing him to face her. “I remember it clearly. I clung to it for all these moons as my touchstone. I kept my veil, spattered with your blood, as a way of keeping you alive for me. Before you succumbed, I told you I loved you back, Lazar. And unlike you, I never lie to those I love.” She leaned close and touched her soft lips to his.
Lazar, Spur of Percheron, mustered all the courage he had left inside and pushed her back. It took all of his willpower, for he wanted her so badly he knew he could not fend her off again. “Please, don’t do this,” he beseeched. It was more of a warning.
Ana shook her head sadly. “It is done,” she whispered, and this time when she leaned toward him, he did not resist. He had nothing left with which to ward her off, no more weapons with which to fight her, no more armor with which to shield himself.
And so he yielded.
He pulled her close and returned her kiss with such passion that starry explosions winked and blinked behind his closed eyelids, his hands cupping her face in an effort to own her. And then, as the moon once again slipped behind the clouds, Lazar surrendered wholly to her warmth, which banished the cold whipping at their bared bodies, and to her brightness, which burned like a golden fire within him. He knew no other thought but Ana for what felt an eternity; he familiarized himself with every inch of her young, velvetlike skin. As he kissed the curve of her waist he mumbled, “This bit belongs to me,” making her laugh throatily, and with surprise. He had not heard Ana laugh like that before and would never know that neither had she. It was the sound of sunshine and calm seas, of blue skies and heavy-scented blossom; it was happiness, fulfillment, satisfaction, all in one. He told her this and she accused him of sounding like one of Pez’s nonsense rhymes. And as, finally, their lovemaking subsided into a languorous, sensuous quiet that wrapped itself around their entangled limbs, she stroked his damaged back and he lulled her off to sleep humming a Galinsean lullaby.
Lazar, however, did not sleep. He wrapped her nakedness with his robe and silently begged the night’s frost to kill him, for if he could not have this moment again, he would sooner die. His melodramatic thoughts eased as time passed slowly and he chose instead to memorize the curves and planes of her face, so childlike in repose. She breathed softly, a wisp of her hair rising and falling with those breaths, and he gently touched her belly in aching jealousy, wondering whether it did indeed carry the heir to the Percheron throne.
She stirred at his touch, stretched slowly, sensually, and smiled at him. “How long have I slept?”
“Long enough here,” he murmured reluctantly. “You must go back to the royal tent.”
She began to object but he placed his finger over her mouth. “We have put Pez at risk enough.”
She nodded and sat up. “I hadn’t thought that I’d put him in danger. You’re right, Tariq sleeps lightly.”
“And Mal—er, Tariq, he—”
“You wanted to say Maliz, am I right? Do you believe this tale that I am Lyana?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know what to believe, Ana. Pez believes it.”
“Earnestly,” she said sadly. “But I think he’s going to be disappointed.”
Lazar nodded. “So do I. If you were who he thinks you are, the demon would have already made his move.”
She looked startled by his directness. “The Grand Vizier kill me?” She shook her head. “And how do you know that Tariq is Maliz anyway?”
“Ah, well, I think in this respect Pez has some argument. I have known Tariq for more than a decade. This is not the Tariq of fifteen moons ago. This is entirely a different man, who looks the same and has the same tone of voice but doesn’t use the same words or even mannerisms that Tariq did.”
“So you believe in Maliz? In his existence, I mean?”
He nodded. “Yes, and as firmly as I believe in Iridor’s existence—and I have seen Pez as himself and as the owl. The magic is real.”
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