Desert Wind

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  “Answer me, Captain,” the queen ordered. “What am I to tell her?”

  Halim heard the door behind them open and slowly turned his head. The princess was standing there gripping the edge of the door. He hopped up, rounded the chair and went to her, going to one knee before her. “Milady, please. It is not him. I am so sorry but it is not the prince.”

  Sitara lifted her gaze from Halim to the other man in the room, a man who stood facing her as though about to meet his executioner. She could see him trembling all the way across the room. She lowered her eyes to the captain.

  “Not my Ardalan?” she asked in a strained voice.

  Halim shook his head. “No, milady. It isn’t him.”

  The queen sat where she was, seemingly at a loss to know what to do or say. There was commiseration in her dark look. She waved a hand as though searching for words.

  “Not my Ardalan,” Sitara said, her shoulders drooping. She let go of the door and stepped around Halim, walking like an old woman to the man who had dropped automatically to his knees at her approach.

  Exento’s head was bowed, his newly tattooed wrists clasped in front of him in an attitude of prayer. When he felt the princess’ hand on his head, he groaned.

  “Look at me,” Sitara said. She wanted to see his face—the face that bore such an uncanny resemblance to her husband’s. She needed to see the man’s face.

  Wincing, Exento lifted his face to her, ashamed of causing even a moment’s hurt to the lovely woman looking down at him with tears glistening in her eyes. “I am sorry, Your Highness,” he confessed.

  Sitara reached out to touch his cheek. “Who are you?” she asked. “Are you kin to my husband?”

  “No, Your Highness,” Exento answered. “If I could be him for you, I would.”

  “Hush, fool!” the queen said, finding her voice at the audacity of the man. “How dare you make such a statement?”

  “Your name?” Sitara pressed.

  “They c-call me Exento, Your Highness,” he stuttered.

  “Is that your true name or what you are called?” Sitara queried.

  Exento cut his eyes across to Halim who was standing right behind the princess. With no help coming from that quarter, the young man gave her his real name. “Devrim, Your Highness. Devrim Ramseur.”

  “And from where do you come, Devrim?” she asked in a soft, hauntingly sad voice. Her scrutiny was on the tattoos that had so recently been applied to the man’s wrists. The flesh was still red from the needle and looked painful.

  “Ojani, Your Highness. From the Wadi of Abid-Gul.”

  “Is that where you found him, Halim?” Sitara asked, glancing around at the captain.

  “No, milady,” Halim replied. “He was on the pirate ship to which I was taken after…” His face creased with grief. “After,” he said, knowing she understood what he meant.

  “Come, sit down, dear,” the queen said, coming over to take her guest’s arm for the princess’ face was pallid and there was a tremor to the hand she raised to her forehead to push back her hair. “Do you want something to drink? To eat?”

  Sitara allowed the queen to direct her to a settee and she sat down, her attention going back to Halim. “I need answers, Halim,” she said.

  “And I will give them to you if I can, Your Grace,” he assured her.

  “Sit down beside me,” the princess asked, holding her hand out to Halim.

  He came forward and took her hand, seating himself beside but perched on the edge of the soft satin seat.

  “Were you going to take Devrim to Asaraba?” she asked. When he didn’t reply immediately, she pointed to the Ojani man’s arms. “Those look similar to Ardalan’s. What other reason would he have to be given such things if it were not your intent to pass him off to the sultan as Ardalan Jaleem?”

  Halim bit his lip. The queen knew of the ruse, but only a few others were privy to the plan. Those among the ship’s crew who knew could be trusted, their loyalty pledged to Halim by Vasquez. If there were ears listening in to the conversation, the preparations would have been for naught.

  “I assure you there are no eavesdroppers in my palace,” the queen spoke up, no doubt sensing Halim’s predicament. “Even if they heard us, very few speak Soqui and those who do are nowhere near us at this moment.”

  “That you know of,” Sitara said quietly.

  “I know my staff, dearling,” the queen stated. “Believe me when I tell you I would not keep people about me who gossiped.”

  Sitara put her other hand over Halim’s. “Was it your intention to install Devrim in Ardalan’s place?”

  “Aye, Your Grace. The reason—”

  “I know the reason, Halim,” she interrupted him. “Ardalan and I spoke about his concerns for his people.” She looked at the queen. “Even though I am sure you know your people, I have heard much gossip about the palace, Your Highness. I know the sultan is a very sick man, likely not to rise from his sickbed.”

  The queen blinked. “I have not heard such a thing! Who told you this?”

  “My maids were speaking of it when they thought I was asleep. They were concerned for me because they heard the news from other servants in your palace who had overheard an emissary speaking to the king. My women were afraid the king would inform the sultan of his son’s d…” She smiled tiredly. “My widowhood,” she continued, “and he would send men to bring me to Asaraba. It would probably amaze us all to learn all the things those about the palace know.”

  “Captain Halim assures me the sultan does not know his son is no longer with us,” the queen said. “Never would my husband, the king, send word to that evil despot in Asaraba concerning you, so you can rest assured you are safe here with us.”

  “I appreciate that, Your Highness,” Sitara said.

  “If he is on his deathbed—and praise to the goddess I hope that is the case—then you must not tarry here, Captain,” the queen admonished Halim. “Time will be of the essence.”

  Sitara was staring at the man who had not moved from his crouched place on the floor. He was kneeling with his back to her, still quivering. “Devrim, would you come here, please?” she called out to him, and he scuttled around like a crab to face her, risking a small look at her face before lowering his head again.

  “Aye, Your Highness,” he answered, and there was a tremor to his voice.

  “Do you have family in Ojani?” she asked.

  The man known as Exento cringed. “Aye, milady, I do. Just one, though.”

  “A wife?”

  He nodded miserably and risked another look, meeting Halim’s angry gaze then whimpering.

  “Why did you not tell me this when I asked you?” Halim demanded.

  Exento seemed to pull in upon himself. “I left there, sir. I’ve been gone two years and I had no intention of ever going back,” he blurted out.

  “Does your wife know where you are, Devrim?” Sitara asked.

  “No, Your Highness,” the man whined.

  “Where does she think you are?”

  The terrified man put his hands over his face. “She believes me dead, Your Highness.”

  Pain drove through Sitara’s heart. “Look at me, Devrim,” she ordered softly.

  He lifted his head, his hands covering the bottom of his face.

  “Why does she think that?”

  Exento started keening, rocking back and forth on his knees. “Forgive me,” he said over and over again.

  Halim cleared his throat, gaining Sitara’s attention. “I think I can answer that, milady. He was a conscript with the Ojani army. There is a fortress there and he was on duty when a Diabolusian pirate ship was spotted on the coast. I am told he was sent along with a platoon of troops to arrest the pirates. He was the only one to survive the operation.” Halim pursed his lips. “He is not a brave man from all indications and readily agreed to take up the pirating life.”

  “I see,” Sitara said. It was obvious she felt sorry for the man, for she was looking at him with
sad eyes. “You did not love your wife, Devrim?”

  The keening man shook his head. “No, Your Highness. Ours was an arranged marriage.”

  “Ah,” Sitara said. “I know a thing about such arrangements.” She was unaware she was clutching Halim’s hand very tightly. “Did she love you?”

  Exento’s keening became shrill and the queen yelled at him to cease his noisemaking. He flinched and nodded vigorously. “Aye, Your Highness but—” He gathered his courage and looked up into the princess’ face. “She was touched.”

  “Touched?” Sitara repeated, not understanding what he meant. She looked to Halim.

  “I believe he means she is mentally off,” Halim explained.

  “Was that your meaning?” Sitara asked.

  “She’s crazy, Your Highness,” Exento stated. “As crazy as a loon.”

  “If she was that way before she learned of his death, the goddess only knows how mad she is now, Sitara,” the queen pointed out. “Of course if he were my husband, he’d drive me crazy too!” Her tone of voice left no doubt what she thought of the quivering man.

  “She should be told, Devrim,” Sitara stated, and when his head jerked up and he stared fearfully at her, she assured him he would not be returned to Ojani. “You are needed elsewhere.”

  Halim breathed out a long sigh. “I was hoping you wouldn’t make him go back there.”

  “I wouldn’t do that, Halim, but his wife needs to know her husband is alive.”

  “For what purpose?” the queen asked. “What if she has remarried?”

  “What if she mourns him every day of her life?” Sitara countered. “Have you any notion how that feels, Your Grace?”

  The queen shook her head. “No, dearling. I don’t.”

  “And I hope you never have to,” Sitara said. Her gaze fell on the Ojani’s tattoos once more and she winced. “Do they hurt, Devrim?”

  Miserably, the man nodded. “Aye, very much so, Your Highness.”

  Sitara looked at Halim. “And they would have hurt my Ardalan too. How old was he when they did that to him?”

  “The tattoos were applied when he was thirteen, milady.”

  Sitara held out her hands. “Give me your wrists, Devrim.”

  Surprise fluttered through the Ojani’s gaze but, after a quick glance at Halim, he extended his hands toward the princess. When she lightly wrapped her fingers around his wrists, he bit his lip.

  The queen frowned. “What is it you are doing, Sitara?” she asked, for the princess had closed her eyes and her lips were moving silently.

  “She is healing him,” Halim said quietly.

  “She can do that?” the queen queried, and at Halim’s nod, she looked back at Sitara with what could only be growing respect.

  When Sitara let go of his wrists, the man known as Exento held up his hands, the undersides of his wrists toward him. There was wonder on his face. “They don’t hurt,” he said. He lifted his gaze to Halim. “They no longer hurt!”

  “I would like to heal your wife’s pain as I healed yours, Devrim,” the princess said.

  “That is compassionate of you, dearling,” the queen said, “but if she has remarried, would that not open her old wounds and pour salt into them?”

  “Regardless if the woman has remarried or not—and especially if she has or is thinking of doing so—she needs to be told of Devrim’s survival. It is not fair for her to live the rest of her life thinking him dead. It is better she be hurt a little at learning he does not want her than spend an eternity grieving for him. Better she be angry with him than sorrowing at his loss.” She turned to Halim. “I know divorce is fairly simple in your world. Can she not be given her freedom based on his refusal to go back to her? Would that not be considered abandonment?”

  Halim explained Ojani men didn’t need a reason to divorce their wives. They could do so at the drop of a hat if she displeased them in some way, but it was very difficult for an Ojani woman to be granted a divorce. The Tribunal most likely would not grant her one.

  “I see,” Sitara said, “then it is up to you, Devrim.” She locked eyes with the worried man. “You will have to sign the papers and have them delivered to… What is your wife’s name?”

  “Alara,” he replied.

  “Halim, can you arrange that?”

  “If that is your wish, milady,” Halim said, but his tone left no uncertainty he thought it was a waste of time.

  Sitara looked to the queen. “Would you be so kind as to provide a vessel to take the divorce papers to Alara?”

  “Certainly.”

  The princess turned to Halim. “And will you take that document to Devrim’s wife?”

  Halim’s mouth dropped open. “But why, Your Grace? I am sure Her Majesty has messengers who could—”

  “I want you to do it, Halim,” Sitara interrupted him, “for I would like to know firsthand that Devrim’s journey to Asaraba will be as a free man, unencumbered by a wife.”

  “Why?” the queen asked.

  Sitara’s smile was brutal. “Because there’s a woman waiting there to marry him.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Ardalan plucked another flea from his arm and squashed it. In the dim light of the jail cell he couldn’t see where the evil things were until one bit him and he was covered with bites, scratching constantly when he wasn’t trying to sleep on the cold stone floor of his prison. He clawed vigorously at his beard—hating that it was longer and now extending down his neck. He preferred it short, cropped close to his skin and not untidily creeping down his throat.

  He had no idea of how long he’d been incarcerated. Though he had fought as best he could, considering his weakness and enforced bed rest, he’d been dragged before the commandant. No one had believed his claim of bring Prince Ardalan. When he’d continued to tell them who he was, they’d gagged him. He could still taste the filthy rag that had been wedged between his teeth. He tried to thrust his hands toward them, to show them his tattoos, but they ignored him, the captain of the guard barely glancing at the strange symbols.

  “He’s as insane as that cunt of a wife of his!” the captain of the guards had laughed.

  “I have no respect for deserters. Twenty lashes and twenty years,” the commandant had proclaimed. He had not seen the tattoos and no one brought them to his attention. Had he seen them, he would not have been so quick to extend punishment to his prisoner.

  Ardalan had bellowed beneath the constriction of the gag. He bucked and twisted under the guards’ tight holds but the kameez had been ripped from his back and his wrists manacled to the whipping post.

  “He’s run afoul of the cat before,” the captain of the guard pointed out.

  The lashing had not been as brutal as it could have been, or else the years of accumulated scars on his back made the punishment easier on him. Unshackled and taken to a cell, he had been thrown in and left to bleed, a dirty shirt that had seen better days tossed in behind him.

  Everything had come back to him as he spent his first miserable day in jail. All his memories had sprang up to torment him and he had sat there with his knees drawn up, his hands covering his face and groaned at the vagaries of fate that had thrust him into such a vile place.

  His cell was a living nightmare. There was no pallet to soften the lumpy rocks of the cell floor, no blanket to keep out the cold dampness of the stones at night, no window to bring relief from the stifling heat of the day and only a slop bucket that was emptied every day or so. The food was nothing more than gruel and tasted so bad he had to force it to stay down. The brackish water was no better, but at least they brought that to him on a regular basis. Despite the horrors of his present conditions, nothing could compare to Alara’s daily visits during which she sat beside the bars of his cage, tearing her clothes, pulling at her hair and moaned and trilled in her loud, piercing leeleeleelee that made the hair stand up on his dirty arms.

  “My husband!” she would repeat over and over again. “Release my husband!”

&nb
sp; He had long since given up trying to keep her quiet, and when he heard her shuffling along the corridor, turned his back to her and lay there grinding his teeth, his hands over his ears. It didn’t matter to him that she believed they’d been torturing him and he was unable to speak to her or even face her. He had no desire to see her puffy face, her eyes wild with insanity.

  “Consider yourself lucky that you don’t have to live with the crazed one,” his guard told him.

  When he was first incarcerated, she had come to the fortress bringing food. No matter how hungry he was, he would not touch the stuff, even though it had smelled wonderful. She had left it beside the bars, hurt that he would not take her offering. As soon as she was gone, one of the guards snatched up the bowl.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he’d warned the guard, but the man paid no heed, scooping it up with two fingers and stuffing it into his mouth. The guard had wolfed down the food and within five minutes was unconscious.

  “The food was poisoned!” another guard cried out.

  “No,” Ardalan said. “Merely laced with a powerful sedative.”

  From that day forward, Alara had not been allowed to bring food. Instead, she sat by the cell—chanting, crying, skirling her insane trill.

  Days slid with boredom into nights. Nights lingered long and cold and lonely into more boring days. There were no other prisoners in the fortress with whom Ardalan could talk and when he realized he was talking to himself, made a concerted effort to keep silent—speaking only to the guards when they came to check on him.

  All there was for him to do during the long days and even longer nights when sleep refused to come was think of his life as it had been before that fateful day in Kishnu. He went over old snatches of conversation with Sabir and Halim, and silently mourned their loss. Images of his childhoo—when he wasn’t being tortured by his bastard of a fathe—soothed him. The scenery of Asaraba, the sea, the snow-capped mountains in the distance, the rugged coastline—he went over every detail he could remember, trying desperately to keep those sights alive within him. He relieved his journey to Kishnu but meticulously pushed the imagery of war and death and destruction from his consciousness. Sometimes he believed he could smell the scent of jasmine wafting on the air and he would find himself crying, sobbing like a child, for along with that smell had come the floating, wavering picture of the wife with whom he had such a short time.