The spear plunged deep into the sand. Leorah rode until she was just short of it, then reined her horse to a stop and called with a voice brimming with pride, “I would ride as well, Şelal Ymine’ala al Rafik! I would compete for the winnings on offer!”
Şelal urged her horse into a walk, leaving the long line of riders behind. Devorah could not see her well, but she looked incensed, her face red with anger. “You think you can compete in the traverse?”
“I do.”
“You’ve not been given leave.”
“I am my own woman.” Leorah’s horse was eager. It stamped its hooves on the sand as it turned. Leorah reined it over to face Şelal once more. “The traverse is open to all, is it not? Ehmel was to compete before he broke his leg on the journey here. Let me take his place.”
There was a stirring in the gathering behind Şelal. Leorah’s request was not unreasonable. The race was open to all. But the other tribes didn’t know Şelal like Devorah did. They hadn’t seen her darker side.
“What you say is true,” Şelal said loudly, “but all those gathered here sit atop their own steeds. What I see before me”—she flung a dramatic wave toward Leorah, as if she were arguing before a tribunal—“is a woman who stole a horse to ride in this race.”
Leorah rode back and forth, her face stern, committed. “This is a horse of Tribe Rafik, and I am of Tribe Rafik! I am a Biting Shield. Might I not ride one of the tribe’s horses to lift our honor higher?”
Sand and stone, Leorah was daring Şelal to reveal her true heritage. Şelal might be angry enough to do it, but if she did, she would be implicated as well. The days of the Kings’ actively hunting those of the thirteenth tribe might be past, but they’d hardly stand by and allow one to pass beneath their noses, nor would they allow a shaikh to knowingly harbor them.
“That is a horse of Tribe Rafik, it is true, but alas, dear Leorah, it has not been prepared for the traverse. You know by now the horses are selected weeks ahead of time. That they are trained daily, just as the riders are, for the rigors of this race. I will not jeopardize a single akhala because you, on a whim, have judged yourself worthy to ride beside the champions of the west.”
Back and forth Leorah rode, suddenly unsure of herself. She might have called for Ehmel’s horse, but it had turned up lame in the same accident that had seen Ehmel’s leg broken. “Tribe Rafik!” she called loudly. “Some of your horses have been conditioned. Will none of you lend me your steed to run this race?” Leorah knew the answer as well as Devorah did. The tribe had accepted her at Şelal’s request, but they all knew Leorah was not one of them. None would answer her call. Yet Leorah rode on, refusing to give in. She plucked the spear from where it lay in the sand. “None of you?”
As she galloped across the dune, she raised the spear high. Her bearing was proud, and all the more desperate for it—it was as sad a display as Devorah had ever seen.
Şelal looked on with satisfaction. Sukru watched with a hunger, as if he wished this all to end in bloodshed.
But then a voice rang out, “She may ride one of mine.”
Voices filled the warming desert air with a low murmur. All eyes turned to the end of the line of horses, where Kirhan stood tall in his saddle.
“I’ve two more that were trained,” he called out, loud and clear. “She may ride the one of her choice.”
Everyone turned to Şelal, who stared at Kirhan with a stony expression. Her eyes, however, were ablaze. “She is of my tribe.”
“And she wishes to ride,” Kirhan said flatly. “So let her.”
Şelal looked to Sukru, who had been watching this unexpected development with a look as sour as Malasani limes. His only response was to flick one hand toward Kirhan in assent. There was nothing for Şelal to do, not without looking the fool.
“How very gracious,” she said to Kirhan in a dead tone. “Quickly then. We’ve a race to run.”
As Kirhan waved to the Sharakhani gathering, two horses were led forward. Devorah ran over the sand to her sister, who was just then dismounting. “What have you done?” Devorah rasped.
“I’m sorry, Devorah. I cannot let it pass.” She strode purposefully toward where Kirhan was now dropping to the sand and accepting the reins of his two spare horses.
“Don’t let her do this,” Devorah said to him quietly as the three of them met.
Kirhan looked at her, then Leorah. “She is a woman grown. She can do as she wishes.” He turned his gaze purposefully on the two horses. “You can take one as well, should you wish.”
“You’re smitten,” Devorah replied. “I can see it in you. But I tell you now, what you do places my sister in grave danger.”
“Oh?” He held the reins, one in each hand, toward Leorah. “And why would that be? Is your sister like to die in the desert?”
“It’s not to do with her riding.”
“Well, I’d judge you have about as much time as it takes tea to steep to tell me what it is to do with.”
Leorah, her face grim, had been inspecting both horses—one a bay stallion with a coat so rich it shone like molten iron against the brightness of the sun, the other a mare with a speckled coat that looked like pearls spilled over a pile of powdered kohl. Both were already saddled and provisioned with food and water for the trek ahead.
Devorah fumed, but what was there to say? She could hardly reveal their secrets to the King’s man, and Leorah knew it. She had the upper hand, and was using it to leave the camp with a chance at winning back the prize their mother had left to them.
Devorah could think of only one thing that might change Leorah’s mind. She nearly confessed it, the secret that had been burning inside her since they’d fled here to Tribe Rafik. But how could she? She couldn’t, not in front of Kirhan. So she held her tongue and watched as Leorah accepted the reins of the stallion.
Leorah hugged Devorah close. “Forgive me,” she said, then began leading the horse away.
Devorah had never felt so helpless, not even when her parents and brother had been murdered. She said to Leorah’s back, “You’re a selfish little girl, sister.”
Leorah answered without turning. “Selfish, perhaps, but selfish for the both of us.”
Moments later she and Kirhan were mounted and lined up with the rest of riders. Şelal cracked her whip three times, and then they were off, the champions and those who would accompany them, leaving Devorah to watch their forms dwindle into the distance.
❖ ❖ ❖
On the fourth day of the traverse, as true night fell across the desert, Leorah rode Kirhan’s stallion toward a large oasis. She’d left in such a rush she hadn’t even learned the horse’s name, but she’d taken to calling him Wadi for the way he liked to ride in the troughs between the dunes. Now that they were close, she kicked Wadi into a trot. He tugged at the reins once or twice but complied, perhaps as eager to reach the oasis as she was.
Tulathan was high in the sky, a beaten silver coin against a bed of broken diamonds. The oasis was a welcome sight, but Tulathan’s light made it look lonely and forgotten, a scene from the children’s tales where wights hid just out of sight, ready to prey on the living who arrived to partake of the cool water. The thought sent chills down her spine. A moment later, however, a warm feeling drove away the fear, for it also reminded her of the times her father had taken her and Devorah to swim. The desert’s bright sun, how she missed them. Holding baba’s bearlike hand. Making rosemary flatbread with memma. Chasing her brother between the dunes. She was so exhausted from the days of riding that a small part of her hoped they’d step out from behind one of the trees.
A moment later, she nearly shivered out of her skin as a viper skittered out from under a desert fern. She held the reins tight as Wadi’s head jerked back and his tail flicked. He danced from the snake’s path as it twisted with surprising speed into the sand. Guiding Wadi around the edge of the oasis, she finally spied three forms huddling close around a fire. Beyond the fire, horses were tied to a rope. A large tent
stood, its flaps fluttering in the cool breeze. Many small tents were pitched in a row beyond it, waiting for riders to take their rest.
This was the first of the contest’s two waypoints, a place where every rider’s passage was recorded, thereby ensuring that all were following the prescribed path. The second waypoint was a standing stone so remote from reliable sources of water that those who didn’t carefully plan their food, water, path, and pace back to camp risked not only their standing in the traverse but their own lives and the lives of their horses.
As far as Leorah knew, she was the first to arrive. She’d forgone any delays by skipping the smaller oases on the way, choosing instead to push and reach this oasis early, rest for as long as she could and, if her luck held, move on before anyone saw her.
Old Khyrn was the judge from Tribe Rafik. Noticing Leorah’s arrival, he stood and limped his way toward her. “Well met, friend. Come. Sit by the fire awhile. Take a sip of araq if you like.” The words were cordial, meant for any rider who might have come, but when Leorah slid down from Wadi’s saddle and approached, Khyrn’s eyes went wide, then thinned. “Why are you here?”
Leorah allowed her annoyance to add bite to her words. “I was out for a bit of a ride when I saw the oasis. Thought I’d harvest some dates before moving on.”
Annoyance mixed with the distrust in Khyrn’s eyes. “Don’t sass.”
“Then don’t ask fool questions!”
“You weren’t on the list of champions the day I left!”
“What matter is that? Şelal allowed me to race. So I am.”
The others by the fire, a woman from Tribe Okan and a man from Narazid—each only a handful of years older than Leorah—watched the exchange with amusement. Cheeks rosy, smiles easy, they looked as though they’d had more than their fair share of araq already.
“It’s only strange is all,” Khyrn went on.
“Are all not welcome in the race?”
“Now, see, welcome’s a funny word,” Khyrn replied. “There are times when we welcome friends. And times when we welcome our enemies as well.” He glanced back at the other two. “Is it not so?”
Before either could respond, Leorah—still working out the leagues of riding from her bones—limped straight up to Khyrn and poked him hard in the chest. “Are you calling me your enemy, Khyrn Rellana’ala?”
Khyrn’s eyes went wide, as if he had no idea why she was acting in such a way. “No!” He turned awkwardly and motioned to the fire, a bumbling attempt at welcoming her to share in its warmth. “It’s true, though, isn’t it?” He nearly tripped over a rock as Leorah led Wadi past him.
Leorah tied Wadi to the long rope running between two palms, leaving more than enough slack so he could drink from the nearby water. Then she unsaddled him and returned to the fire and settled herself down, exhausted. The aches and pains from days of riding returned with a fury, but the fire felt good. So good that, though she was amongst strangers, she unwound her turban and let her long hair fall down around her shoulders. Khyrn tried to make chit-chat. He asked about the start of the traverse, how it was Leorah had come to join it. He was friendly enough after his strange greeting, but Leorah still harbored the feeling that she’d always be an outsider to Tribe Rafik, and answered only in clipped responses.
The two lovebirds sat whispering, leaning into one another, knees touching. Leorah was curious about them, curious for news from the other tribes as well, but they were well and truly smitten. Their words were whispers. Their eyes were only for one another. Soon they were standing, bowing a pleasant night, and heading for the water, hand in hand. As they neared the water’s edge, they quickened their pace and splashed into the pool, giddy as children.
“Well,” Khyrn said a short while later. “I’m off for a bit of sleep. Wake me if more come, won’t you?”
Leorah nodded, and Khyrn toddled away in that strange gait of his, leaving her alone. For a time she merely breathed the night air and listened to the riot of insects chittering and buzzing around her. She might have heard a giggle coming from the water. A pleasant silence followed, but it was broken by the distant sound of grunting, then muffled cries of passion, and finally by the woman crying, “Lai, lai, lai!” as if she were going to war.
The two of them laughed immediately after, and Leorah chuckled to herself. War of another sort…
The sort the desert should foster instead of constantly feeding the sands of the Great Mother with battle and blood.
As the sounds of lovemaking faded, a great lethargy overcame her. I should be sleeping already. She knew there was little time to spare. She needed to be ready to leave before sunrise. “But I would drink of the night,” she said to the darkling sky. “Can you see it as well, baba?” She hoped her father, who’d given her and Devorah their love of the night, might be standing on the farther shores, watching a sky not so different from this one.
I should be sleeping.
But the peace of the expansive sky over an oasis after four days of hard riding felt not merely welcome, but necessary. She ached all over. Her crotch felt like a mule had kicked it. She had blisters along her thighs and rump, though she’d done her best to tend to them on the few short breaks she’d allowed herself. Now it was all catching up to her.
As if her fears had been given life by the desert gods, there came the sound of plodding hooves. Slowly, it emerged from the darkness: a tall beast with a coat of molten silver, fetlocks of wrought iron and a mane to match. The horse’s large, round eyes glittered in the firelight. Beside the akhala was Kirhan, who matched the majesty of the beast in every way.
Bloody gods, he doesn’t look the least bit tired. How can that be?
He continued past the fire to tie up his horse to the same rope where Wadi and the judges’ horses were resting. He unsaddled him, ran his hands along his neck, whispered to him awhile. He even pulled out a small, dried apple and fed it to the tall beast. He had another for Wadi. Both horses nickered, tossing their heads back, then huffed, the two of them nuzzling one another.
As they did, Kirhan wet a towel and began to wipe away the dried froth that had built up along his horse’s neck and chest during the day. Leorah should have done the same, and now she felt thoughtless for how she’d treated Wadi. She levered herself back to her feet and wet a towel of her own. Kirhan didn’t overtly watch her, but she could feel his attention on her as she rubbed the dried sweat from his coat.
When she was done, she scratched behind Wadi’s ears. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. Wadi didn’t seem impressed. Still, she rubbed his coat awhile longer, and he didn’t object.
“My thanks,” Kirhan said as they sat by the fire.
“It wasn’t for you.” She held out the nearly full bottle of araq Khyrn had left.
“Even so.” He took a short swallow, though it seemed more out of custom than any desire to partake in it. After stoppering the bottle, he held it out for Leorah. When she declined he set it carefully beside him on the sand. “He doesn’t really need it.” He glanced over at the horses. “I’ve been training them for races like this since they were born.”
“You trained them?”
For the first time, a smile cracked Kirhan’s weary features. “You’re surprised?”
“It’s only… I thought you merely rode them.”
His muscular shoulders lifted in an exaggerated shrug, as if he were so physically inclined, so accustomed to economy of movement, that he was combining his reply with an attempt at working out the kinks from the journey without even realizing it. “My father was a horse trainer. I took to it early.”
“How many do you train?”
“Only the three.”
“No more?”
“I would like to one day. I’ve had offers from several lords and ladies in Sharakhai. But my duties for my Lord King led me elsewhere.”
“Duties… Some would call it stealing glory from the tribes.”
Kirhan drew one arm across his chest and hugged it close with the opposite.
“Some would say the desert tribes have glory to spare.”
“Some in Sharakhai, you mean.”
He switched arms, wincing as he drew the other close. “Where else?”
Leorah snorted. “Well, some say the Kings should leave well enough alone. You have your own customs. Leave us to ours.”
“It may surprise you to learn, Leorah of Tribe Rafik, that it wasn’t my Lord King’s idea to come here to steal your glory.”
At this, Leorah laughed. “Come now… You seem a wise enough man. You can’t possibly believe such a story.”
“It’s no story. Your shaikh, Şelal, sent a messenger months ago, offering the amethyst ring to him.”
Leorah’s words died on her lips. “She offered it?”
“Just so. Your messenger said that, having learned of his desire for baubles that might possess some magic, Şelal had a prize that would likely interest him greatly.”
“So, just like that”—she snapped her fingers over her head—“she offered him the jewel?”
“No. Not just like that. There was the traverse to consider.”
“That makes no sense. Why would she force Sukru to race for it?”
“How would I know? I’m just a man who trains horses.” He got to his feet, somewhat less gracefully than when he’d sat down. “One final thing. Your horse, Alir, was trained for this, as I said, but you cannot maintain the pace you set on the way here. I would feel poorly if you died of thirst, but I would never forgive you if you killed Alir over a simple refusal to grant him rest. Watch for the signs.”
Wadi had been showing signs of exhaustion. She’d noticed them near dusk and still she’d pushed. In that moment, she realized something that shamed her to such a degree that she could no longer hold Kirhan’s gaze. As her eyes drifted to the fire, the realization hit her full force; she’d been treating Wadi as if he were the King’s property and nothing more, as if he were expendable, because what did it matter if a King lost some small portion of his vast wealth? Wadi hadn’t deserved that.
The Doors at Dusk and Dawn: A Shattered Sands Novella Page 3