by Troy Denning
Disconcerted by her unexpected surge of curiosity, Ruha dressed the wound with the cloth she had used to clean it. When she removed Lander’s cloth belt to use as a bandage, she heard something jingle in the pocket of his robe. She reached inside and found six glass vials. Five contained a thick golden liquid, but the sixth was empty. The widow had no idea what the fluid was, but she feared the unconscious man would roll over and shatter the containers, so she laid the vials aside.
After Ruha finished bandaging the dressing into place, she laid down in a corner, pulled a sleeping carpet over herself, and closed her eyes with her veil still covering her face. Later, when her father was not surrounded by the gossiping elders on the council, she would go to him and tell him of the berrani.
At dusk Ruha awoke. For a few minutes, she laid beneath her carpet, listening to the doves coo and the quail chatter as they watered in the gulch. From the camp came the roars of thirsty camels and the shrill voices of tired mothers ordering neglectful children to fetch the evening’s water.
Lander lay just as the widow had left him, on his back, with his belt holding his blood spotted bandage in place. He remained so motionless that Ruha began to worry her surgery had killed him. Finally he drew a great deep breath, and Ruha knew that he was alive.
The widow rose and rubbed the sleep from her eyes, then took a long drink from the waterskin. When she finished, she placed it next to her patient in case he woke, straightened her aba, and left the tent.
Ruha went straight to her father’s tent. As she passed through the camp, she could see that it was an unusual evening. The camel herds were tethered close to the tents, as if they were going to be loaded at any moment. The women were not quite packing, but they were arranging their possessions in neat bundles, as if they expected the order to leave at any moment. The eldest sons were sharpening their father’s scimitars and testing bowstrings, casting anxious glances in the direction of the sheikh’s khreima.
When she reached her father’s tent, Ruha stopped outside the entrance. The elders were inside with the sheikh, as were several of the tribe’s best warriors. All were arguing loudly. Loudest among the voices was Al’Aif’s.
“The invaders will make drudges of our camels and slaves of our warriors,” he declared. “I would rather die with my enemy’s blood on my blade.”
“And would you also leave your wife and daughters to the Zhentarim and their beasts?” countered an elder’s shrill voice. “If we refuse the treaty, we perish like the Qahtan.”
“But neither can we ignore our pact with the Qahtan. We swore that their enemies were ours,” cried a sonorous voice that could only belong to the tribe’s strongest man, Nata. “So let us scatter the women and children in the desert. With so many men and beasts, the invaders need a lot of water. We’ll poison the wells within a hundred miles. The invaders will die within a week.”
“What will we drink?” queried an elder. “And what will the other tribes think of us? Surely they will all swear a blood feud against us for such a sacrilege.”
“The witch has brought this upon us,” said a warrior. “Just as she brought it upon the Qahtan.”
“Fool, do you think the Zhentarim will disappear when she leaves us?” demanded Al’Aif. “We must be concerned with the invaders, not her.”
Ruha listened to the argument for several minutes and realized that it had long ago degenerated into angry shouting and the stubborn reiteration of contradictory positions. She was just about to turn and leave when she heard her father’s weary voice rise above the rest. “Here is what we will tell the Zhentarim!”
The tent quieted immediately.
“You have argued for a full day without coming to any understanding,” he said. “Therefore, it is my duty as sheikh to decide for us all.”
Muffled murmurs of weary agreement came from inside the tent, and then Ruha’s father continued. “Let any warrior who will not do as I ask leave the khowwan and call his family by some other name than that of the Mtair Dhafir.”
A surprised mumble rustled from inside the tent, for Ruha’s father was invoking the sheikh’s ultimate threat to secure obedience to his will: that of banishment. It was a risky thing to do. If too many families took him at his word, the tribe would dissolve.
Whatever her father had decided, Ruha realized, he was determined that his decision would be the tribe’s.
“We cannot fight the Zhentarim,” the sheikh began. “They are too many and we are too few.”
The tent rumbled with disgruntled murmuring.
“Neither can we become their slaves, for the children of the lion were born to roam free.”
Again, discontent resounded throughout the tent.
The sheikh continued steadily. “Here is what we must do. We will agree to serve the Zhentarim as guides, biding our time and always keeping our camels ready for a long journey. Sooner or later, Kozah will send another storm, or the Zhentarim will grow unwatchful, or their army will dwindle as At’ar takes her due. When that happens, we will take our camels and disappear into the desert, leaving the Zhentarim and our troubles far behind.”
A murmur of reluctant consensus whispered from the tent, but no one protested too loudly or threatened to force the sheikh to make good on his threat. Ruha realized that her father had developed the only compromise that would hold the tribe together.
Al’Aif was the only warrior to question the sheikh’s plan. “Of course, I will do as you say, Sheikh,” he said slowly. “But I do not like this plan. What if Kozah does not send another storm? What if the Zhentarim do not grow lax?”
Several warriors added their voices to Al’Aif’s question, but the sheikh was ready with an answer. “If we cannot escape within six months, my friends, I promise that we will slit the throats of more invaders in one night than we could hope to kill by fighting now.”
Save for Al’Aif, both the warriors and the elders greeted the sheikh’s contingency plan with hearty approval, but Ruha could not help feeling they were fooling themselves. Remembering the shrewd, appraising eyes of the pale man that had accompanied Zarud, she suspected that the Zhentarim had already thought of this plan and developed a method to counter it.
“Now fetch Zarud, boy,” the sheikh said. “The sooner we tell him what we have decided, the sooner we will be free again.”
A moment later, the servant left the khreima and started for the far side of camp. Hoping to tell her father about Lander before the boy returned with the Zhentarim, Ruha entered the tent.
In the dim light cast by the flickering butter lamps, she saw that her father sat in his usual place at the head of the tent. To his left sat the five elders of the tribe, and across from them were seated Al’Aif, Nata, and four more warriors. As Ruha approached her father, they all turned toward her with disapproving frowns. In the Mtair Dhafir, decision-making was men’s business and women were not welcome at the councils.
Ruha ignored their stern gazes and looked directly to her father. “I have heard your decision. Before—”
“Our decision does not concern you, witch,” interrupted Nata.
Ruha turned her stare on the burly warrior. Speaking in a calm, even voice, she said, “That is just as well, Nata. I would rather live a shunned life than share slave bonds with you.”
The warrior’s face darkened with anger, and he tried to stammer a reply, but Ruha turned back to her father before he could spout any words.
“Father, before you commit your tribe to this course of action, there is something I would like to show you.”
The old man furrowed his brow. “Then show me quickly.”
Ruha glanced at the curious eyes to either side of her. She still felt that revealing Lander’s presence in front of all these men would be the same as telling Zarud herself. “It is for your eyes alone.”
Angry mutters and grunts rustled throughout the tent. Her father looked from the warriors to the elders, then said, “Did you not tell me everything you knew earlier today?”
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p; Ruha nodded. “There is something else.”
“If it is important, then you can tell me here,” the sheikh said. “Otherwise, it will have to wait.”
“Then it will wait,” Ruha sighed.
As she turned to depart, the servant boy returned with Zarud, Kadumi following on their heels.
“If it pleases you, Sheikh, I would like to hear what you have decided,” Kadumi announced, pausing at the tent entrance.
Sighing, the sheikh waved the boy into the tent. “You deserve to know.”
Glancing grimly at her brother-in-law, Ruha started to step past him and Zarud. As she passed, the Zhentarim caught her by the arm and shook his head, then said something in a language she did not understand and motioned for her to stay.
Ruha looked to her father, and he nodded.
Zarud took the widow’s sleeve, then gently tugged her along as he stepped into the center of the semi-circle of the sheikh’s council. When he stopped, both the warriors and elders frowned at his presumption in touching a Bedine woman. Ruha pulled free of his grasp.
Paying no attention to either the widow or the advisors, the Zhentarim asked a question. No one spoke his language, but there was no need to understand his words to know he requested the Mtair Dhafir’s decision about the treaty. In the eyes of every Bedine present, however, there was an unspoken question: why had he wanted a woman, especially Ruha, to stay?
The sheikh glanced at his daughter, then looked back to Zarud, carefully masking whatever curiosity he felt behind a blank face. “The Mtair Dhafir accept your treaty,” he said, nodding his head.
Wry grins crossed the lips of several elders and warriors. The sheikh had sworn no loyalty and pledged no friendship. In Bedine terms, at least, Sabkhat had not bound them to any alliance.
Smiling, Zarud inclined his head to the sheikh, then to the elders and the warriors. He spoke some more words that no one understood. The men of the Mtair looked from one to another with querying eyebrows and blank eyes.
Zarud spoke again, this time grasping Ruha’s wrist and pointing toward the Bitter Well, where the Zhentarim were camped. He put his hand in front of his mouth and made speaking motions, then did the same for the widow.
“He wants to take her to teach them our language,” concluded an elder.
Ruha jerked her wrist free. “Never!”
The Zhentarim grabbed her arm again, nodding and speaking sharply. He pointed to two elders, then to Al’Aif and Nata, and then toward the Bitter Well again.
“Why does he need with so many teachers?” demanded Nata. “This isn’t right!”
Kadumi stepped toward Zarud, his hand drifting toward the hilt of his jambiya. He stopped when Al’Aif rose and motioned for him to stop. The scarred Mtair turned toward Ruha’s father. “Already the Zhentarim tighten their reins, Sheikh. Is it still your wish to placate them?”
The sheikh locked gazes with Zarud, giving no sign that he had heard Al’Aif’s question. Finally, without looking away from the Zhentarim, he said, “It is the only way, Al’Aif. You will all be ready to leave at dawn.”
Kadumi stepped forward again. “No,” he yelled. “Ruha is the wife of my brother. I cannot allow this!”
Al’Aif intercepted the young warrior. “The sheikh has decided, Kadumi,” he said, pushing the boy toward the exit. “Don’t worry about Ruha. I’ll protect her.”
After Al’Aif and the boy had gone, the sheikh looked at Nata and the two elders Zarud had selected, then rested his gaze on his daughter. “I’m sorry that it has to be this way,” he said. “We must think of the welfare of the whole khowwan.”
“You must think of the tribe,” Ruha retorted, turning to leave the tent. “I have not been bound to do so since I was five summers old, when you banished me from the Mtair Dhafir.”
Six
When Ruha returned to her tent, Lander was gone. He had taken the waterskin she had left for him, abandoning the featherless arrow and two empty glass vials in its place. Nothing else was missing, and there was no sign of a struggle, so Ruha assumed the stranger had left of his own will.
The young widow could not understand how he had managed to leave under his own power, though she could certainly understand why he would want to leave. With the Zhentarim in camp, almost any place would be a safer haven than a Mtairi tent.
It is best that the berrani is gone, Ruha decided. It would be difficult enough to sneak out of camp tonight without taking an injured stranger along—or feeling guilty about leaving him behind. The young widow took a kuerabiche and stuffed her possessions into the carpet shoulder bag. There was not much to pack: a ground loom, Ajaman’s jambiya, an extra aba, and three veils. She did not pack her heavy cloak, for she would need it later.
Ruha did not even consider becoming a Zhentarim captive on behalf of the Mtair Dhafir. Even if the sheikh rescued the hostages, she would never be welcome in the tribe. Besides, she knew her father well enough to doubt that he would even attempt such a rescue. Sheikh Sabkhat always thought of the welfare of the khowwan first, and trying to save the five prisoners would make the tribe’s escape from the Zhentarim that much more difficult.
Still, the elders might force the old sheikh to try such a feat, for the Zhentarim had chosen their hostages well. The two elders were the heads of large families that would certainly never abandon their patriarchs. Al’Aif and Nata, the tribe’s two best warriors, would also be sorely missed. Their absence would make the Mtair more reluctant to take up arms, and deprive the tribe of combat leadership if a revolt did occur.
Ruha felt that she was the only badly chosen hostage; the Mtair Dhafir would just as soon be rid of her anyway. The young widow could see why the Zhentarim had made their mistake, however. As the sheikh’s daughter, the tribe leaders would normally hesitate to do anything to put her in danger. Ruha suspected there was more to the choice than that, however.
The pale, purple-robed man accompanying Zarud originally had struck her as being the real leader of the pair, and he had also used some sort of magic. From the way he had studied her during their original meeting, it would not surprise Ruha to learn that he had somehow sensed that she was a sorceress. No doubt, being magic-wielders themselves, the Zhentarim had concluded it would be better to have her where they could watch her.
When she finished packing, Ruha sat down to study the spells she had sewn inside her aba. She was certain she would need the wind shadow and sand whisper spells, and she also thought that a sand lion would be useful if she ran into any Zhentarim tonight. She did not know whether to memorize any sun spells, however, for it was difficult to decide what needs the light of day might bring with it.
Ruha was still contemplating her choice when someone cleared his throat noisily outside her khreima. The widow quickly rearranged her aba, then called, “Is there someone at my door?”
“Kadumi,” came the response.
Before inviting the youth inside, Ruha thought about unpacking her bag, then decided that she could always claim it had been packed with tomorrow morning in mind. “Come inside, Kadumi.”
The boy stepped inside, then sat very close to Ruha’s side. “One of Nata’s sons sits in the shadows twenty yards from your tent,” he whispered.
Ruha nodded. “That does not surprise me. My father knows I have no wish to be a hostage.”
“He is wrong to ask you,” Kadumi said. “You are of the Qahtan now, not the Mtair Dhafir.”
“Yes.”
The boy nodded at the kuerabiche. “That is why you are leaving.”
Ruha thought to deny it, then she realized that if Kadumi had not come as her friend, he would not have told her about the warrior watching her tent. “The Mtair have no right to ask anything of me.”
“If it comes to you escaping this night, I will go with you.”
“No. You should stay with my father’s tribe.” Ruha put a hand on the boy’s arm. “We are a long way from your home sands, and it will be hard to find another of the Qahtan’s allies for you to join.”<
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Kadumi shrugged. “That doesn’t matter. If you go, I must go as well. Yet that may not be necessary. Al’Aif thinks your father will change his mind.”
Ruha frowned skeptically. “Al’Aif should know my father better than that.”
“He seemed very sure of himself, and he thought you should know.”
“Why?”
The boy shook his head. “He didn’t say, but he is a man who can be trusted. Just wait until tomorrow. If your father has not changed his mind, then I will get you before you reach the Zhentarim.”
The youth returned to his feet, saying, “I should leave before the guard thinks I am taking liberties with my brother’s wife.”
Beneath her veil, Ruha smiled at the boy’s swagger. “We wouldn’t want that.”
“Until tomorrow, then,” he said as he left.
Without unpacking her kuerabiche, Ruha returned to studying her spells. Whatever Al’Aif was doing, she didn’t see how it affected her decision. Since her return, the warrior had treated her with a certain amount of respect, but she doubted that he or anyone else had changed their views on having a witch in the tribe.
Ruha continued studying her spells until an uncanny quiet crept over the camp and the night chill wafted into her tent on silent puffs of wind. Judging the time to be prime for sneaking away, Ruha went to the door of her khreima and peered outside. The moon cast a weak silvery light over the camp, but there were plenty of murky shadows to hide in beneath the ghaf trees and behind the tents. The sentry Kadumi had mentioned was nowhere in sight, but Ruha did not doubt that he was wrapped in a dark cloak and lying beneath one of the bushes or trees she watched.