“They tease me because I am different,” she said.
Niraj winked at her and rubbed his hand over his bald pate. “Not so different,” he explained.
Ruqiah smiled. Her father had told her that her lighter hair had been inherited from his side of the family, although she hopefully wouldn’t lose hers as he had shed his own. The young girl didn’t completely believe the tale, for others had told her that Niraj’s hair had been as black as a starless night, but that only made her appreciate her father’s gesture all the more.
“They will hit me with their mud balls and throw me in the pit,” she said.
“The mud is cool and soft to the touch,” Niraj replied.
Ruqiah put her head down. “They shame me.”
She felt her father’s hand under her chin, lifting her face up to look into his dark eyes, eyes very unlike her own deep blue orbs. “You are never shamed, my Ruqiah,” he said. “You will be like your mother, the most beautiful woman of the Desai. Tahnood is older than you. He already sees this truth of Ruqiah, and it stirs him in ways he does not understand. He does not seek to shame you, but to keep your attention, fully, until you are old enough to marry.”
“Marry?” Ruqiah replied, and she almost burst out laughing, before realizing that such a reaction wouldn’t be seen as appropriate from a child her age. As she suppressed her reaction, she realized that among the tribal Bedine, Niraj was probably correct. Her parents were not among the leaders of the tribe, but they were well-respected, after all, and had a well-appointed tent and enough animals to provide a proper dowry, even to Tahnood, whose family was in high standing among the Desai, and who was regarded as a potential chieftain. He was barely ten years old, but he commanded the children, even those about to be formally deemed adults, two years his senior.
Tahnood Dubujeb was the ringleader of the Desai’s child gang, Ruqiah thought, but did not say. He used victims like her to strengthen his standing—and no doubt with the great encouragement of his proud father and overbearing mother.
It crossed Ruqiah’s mind to pay the Dubujeb tent a visit when the tribe had at last settled in for the night. Perhaps she would bring some stinging scorpions along …
She couldn’t contain a little chuckle at that, conjuring images of Tahnood running naked and screaming from his tent, a scorpion stinger firmly embedded in his buttocks.
“That’s better, my little Zibrija,” Niraj said, patting her head and using his pet name for her, which was also the name of a particularly beautiful flower found among the windblown rocks in the shadows of the dunes. He had misconstrued her sudden gaiety, obviously, and Ruqiah wondered—and not for the first time—how Niraj and Kavita might react if they ever discovered what was really going on behind her five-year-old eyes.
“This way!” It was Tahnood’s voice, closing in, and it seemed as if he had figured out Ruqiah’s ruse at last.
“Run! Run!” Niraj said to her playfully, pushing her away. “And if they get you muddy, smile all the while and know that there is plenty of water to wash you clean!”
Ruqiah sighed, but did indeed start away, and she realized that she had run off not a moment too soon when she heard her father laughing as Tahnood and the others came rambling by. She thought of a dozen ways she might avoid them, and perhaps even make them all look foolish in the process, but her father’s laughter made her put those dark thoughts out of her mind.
She would let them catch her, and pelt her, and throw her in the mud.
For the traditions of the Bedine, the playful bonding the Desai tribe demanded of its children.
For Niraj.
Untaris couldn’t contain his gap-toothed smile as he kneeled before the small break in the windblown rocks, a narrow channel leading to a wider area that was protected from the wind and sand by the rock walls. They had passed by this spot several times already without even noticing the break, so completely did the rock shading camouflage the narrow entrance.
“It could be left over from the days of Rasilith,” Alpirs reasoned, speaking of the ancient city which had once dominated this region. “Some perennials are stubborn.”
Untaris shook his head and crawled through, coming into a small secret garden, hidden by the stones. It was too clever, he thought. This area was tended—well tended—and many of the flowers, vibrant and fragrant, seemed to have been recently transplanted.
“You see?” Jhinjab asked. “Like Jhinjab told you, eh?”
“Not enough water here to sustain these plants,” Untaris told his partner. He reached out and touched a large red rose, slowly wrapping his fingers around the plant and rubbing the petals into pieces.
“So someone is bringing water out here,” said Alpirs.
“Not ‘someone,’ ” Jhinjab insisted. “De girl.”
“So you claim,” Alpirs said skeptically. He turned to his partner, who was much more acquainted with gardening than he, and inquired as to how much water would be needed by these particular plants in any given day.
“In the heat of the desert sun?” Untaris shrugged. He looked around at the area, some ten strides across and half that deep, and all of it filled with vibrant plants, flowers, vines, and even a small cypress tree, flat-topped and shading the southern half of the secret garden.
“More than a child could carry,” Untaris decided, and both the Shadovar turned to regard Jhinjab.
“She does not bring out de water!” the Bedine informant insisted. “Never have I seen her. Never has Jhinjab said dat!”
“But you claim it’s her garden,” said Alpirs.
“Yes, yes.”
“Then how does she sustain it without water?”
“M-many is de water near Rasilith,” the Bedine stammered, and he looked around as if expecting to see a river flowing through the garden under the flora.
“The ground is moist,” Untaris reported, rubbing some dirt between his fingers. “But there’s no water source here.”
“Nearby, den,” said Jhinjab.
“Or the girl creates it,” said Alpirs, and he and Untaris shrugged. She was, after all, a mortal Chosen of a god, so they believed.
“However it is done, it is clearly maintained,” Untaris pointed out. “The plants are neatly trimmed, and I see no weeds, and no desert plants at all in here. And they would be in here if there really was a water source nearby.”
“So someone tends it, and well,” Alpirs agreed.
“De girl!” Jhinjab insisted. “It is like Jhinjab told you. All of it.” He eyed the precious igal looped on Alpirs’s belt as he spoke.
“Do we lay in wait for her to return?” Untaris asked.
Alpirs shook his head. “I have seen enough of Rasilith and smelled enough of these Bedine dogs already.” He turned to Jhinjab. “Her name is Ruqiah?”
“Yes, yes, Ruqiah. Daughter of Niraj and Kavita.”
“She comes out here? Just her?”
“Yes, yes. Just her.”
“Day or night?”
“In de day. Maybe in de night, but Jhinjab only see her in de day.” Alpirs and Untaris looked to each other. “Miles to the Desai camp,” Untaris said. “Long walk for a little girl.”
At that moment, a lion called out in the darkness, its mournful cry echoing off the stones.
“Long walk through dangerous lands,” said Alpirs.
“De lions, dey don’t bother her,” Jhinjab interrupted, seeming a bit frantic once more, and reverting more fully to his thick Bedine accent. “I have seen her walk right past dem as dey sleep in de grass.”
Alpirs motioned for Untaris to follow and started out of the secret garden. He paused to glower at Jhinjab, and told the man, “Wait here.”
“Quite a tale,” Untaris said when the two were back out among the windswept rocks, near to a large dune with an alabaster spire protruding at a strange angle.
“Too much so to be a lie, perhaps.”
Untaris shrugged, seeming unconvinced.
“Someone is tending the garden,” Alpirs r
eminded him.
“We can make Shade Enclave by midday,” said Untaris. “Let Lord Ulfbinder unravel this mystery.”
Alpirs nodded his agreement, then motioned with his chin back toward the secret garden. While he went to retrieve the horses, Untaris crept back in to offer Jhinjab his reward.
They left the old Bedine face down under the cypress tree, his blood pouring from his opened throat and wetting the ground around the roots and flowers.
The indignity assaulted Ruqiah’s sensibilities. Thrown over Tahnood’s shoulder like a sack of feed for the camels, the poor girl kept reaching back to pull her sarong down over her bare legs. There was no use in resisting. Tahnood’s friends were all around, escorting the pair between the many Desai tents, and out of the village to the wellspring just to the south.
The parade collected many happy elders, chanting and singing—many others, nearly the whole of the tribe, were already down at the growing mud pit. Barefoot women danced without inhibition in the slop, kicking their feet up high and often sliding and slipping down into the mud, to the happy howls of the onlookers.
Several hollow poles were driven down into the ground around the area, the water bubbling up over their hollow tops, catching the fiery reflection of the many fires that burned around the edges of the pit. The Desai would celebrate through the night, as tradition demanded whenever a wellspring was discovered.
Ruqiah tried not to be distracted by the cheering and the singing and the tumult all around her. She focused on her own song now, hoping to heighten the celebration even more. She whispered to the winds, calling upon the clouds to gather.
Then she was pitched through the air, her song turning into a shriek. She twisted around and even managed to get her feet under her as she landed, but it did her little good as the mud slipped out from under her and she unceremoniously flopped down on her back, legs and arms splayed wide.
The women laughed, the men cheered, and Tahnood stared down at her superiorly. He crossed his arms over his slender chest, the supreme conqueror.
Ruqiah didn’t react, just fell back into her quiet song, calling to the clouds. Strong hands grabbed her by the ankles and began swirling her around, then rolling her onto her stomach and swirling her some more. Her brown hair matted against her head, and she couldn’t see where her sarong ended and her bare legs began, for they were all the same color then, a mat of muddy clay. She smelled it in her nostrils and tasted it in her mouth.
The torment continued for some time, but Ruqiah didn’t notice, for she had her song, and it was a safe place for her. Up above, the clouds gathered, answering her call.
Finally the older boys let her go, and a chant went up for Tahnood the Conqueror, and the older women sang a song to him, and of him. Ruqiah noted his father, beaming with pride, and noticed her own parents, Niraj standing with a wide and warm smile for her, nodding his gratitude to her for accepting the game with dignity and restraint. Beside him stood Kavita, with her silken black hair. She wore an uncomfortable smile, and tried to nod, but Ruqiah could tell that she was filled with sympathy for her daughter, or perhaps it was simply a silent lament that Ruqiah had been so chosen.
There were implications to this “game,” after all. Tahnood had singled her out, above all others. He had signaled to the Desai that pretty Ruqiah, with her lighter hair and startling blue eyes, would be his choice.
Ruqiah noted that many of the tribe’s girls, some her own age or just a bit older, looked upon her with open hostility now.
“Clean her!” Tahnood’s mother called out, and several other women joined in the call. “The water! The water!”
Ruqiah looked to Niraj, and again he nodded, and offered her a warm smile. She felt Tahnood’s hand grasp her by the wrist, strong but gentle. He pulled her up to her feet and began leading the mud-covered girl to the nearest spigot. They had just arrived, the cold water splashing over her, when a streak of lightning split the sky above, and the accompanying boom of thunder brought with it a sudden and heavy downpour.
Cries of surprise became shouts of joy as all the tribe began to dance and sing, and surely this was a good sign that promising young Tahnood had chosen wisely this wellspring night!
Ruqiah lifted her face to the sky and let the rain wash the mud away.
“You cannot escape me,” Tahnood whispered at her side. “You can never escape me.”
Ruqiah looked at him, almost with pity, and certainly with enough clear amusement to unnerve the boy. So suddenly, in that simple exchanged glance, Ruqiah had gained the upper hand. Tahnood licked his lips nervously and sulked off to dance with the others.
Ruqiah watched him go. Despite his puffery and his near-constant picking on her, she liked the boy. He was playing against high expectations, she knew. Many of the Desai had placed their future hopes upon his slender, boyish shoulders. He had been born of good blood, born to lead, and any failure would crash down around Tahnood many times more heavily than the foibles of other children. Ruqiah could not but sympathize with him.
The rain settled into a steady rhythm, shots of lightning occasionally lighting up the clouds above. Ruqiah moved to the spigot and let the cold water pour over her, invigorating her as she rubbed the last of the mud away. She found as she did, though, that she had torn her sarong. With a heavy sigh, she slid across the mud over to her parents.
“Zibrija!” Niraj greeted her. He tousled her wet hair with his thick hand, then pulled her against him for a hug.
“Are you all right, my love?” Kavita asked, bending low to look into Ruqiah’s eyes.
Ruqiah smiled and nodded. “Tahnood would not hurt me,” she assured the woman.
“If ever he did, I would stake him to an anthill!” Niraj proclaimed.
“I may help you, Father,” Ruqiah said, and she showed her parents the tear in her sarong.
“It is nothing,” Kavita assured her, inspecting the rip. “Come, let us fetch another and hang that over the chair to dry. I will sew it in the morning.”
“In the afternoon, you mean!” Niraj said heartily, and he grabbed Kavita by the hands and began to twirl her in a dance. “For tonight is the wellspring and the rain! Oh, the rain! Tonight we dance and we drink, and tomorrow, we sleep through the morn!”
The woman, laughing, spun away from her husband, took her daughter’s hand and started from the celebration. Together they moved down the empty lanes between the many tents. The drumbeat of rain on the tents accompanied them, like the background music of the celebration at the mud pit. Every so often another boom of thunder shook the ground.
“You make your father so proud, Zibrija,” Kavita said to Ruqiah. “The elders watch you closely. They believe that you will be among the leaders of your age. They will train you as such.”
“Yes,” Ruqiah said obediently, though she didn’t think Kavita’s prediction likely—in fact, it seemed impossible to her.
They came around the corner of their tent, and Kavita reached for the flap. She didn’t pull it open, though, and noting that hesitation, Ruqiah looked up to her, then followed Kavita’s frozen expression across the way, to the form of a large man, a man who was not Desai, coming toward them, torch in hand.
“What do you—?” the woman started to say, and she grunted and stepped forward.
She looked down at Ruqiah and pushed her away, whispering, “Run, run!” and there was such pain in Kavita’s voice that Ruqiah knew even before her mother stumbled past her that Kavita had been stabbed.
The swordsman behind Kavita grabbed the woman and threw her in through the tent flap. The other shade—for these were indeed Netherese shades—circled fast to cut off Ruqiah’s escape.
But Ruqiah wasn’t running away. No, she rushed into the tent after her stumbling, falling mother, her little feet splashing in the mud and the blood. She yelped as she crossed in front of the smaller shade, feeling the bite of his blade.
She didn’t care as she desperately scrambled to keep up with her wounded mother. She fell over Kavita
as the older woman tumbled in the tent, her lifeblood pouring from a deep wound in her lower back, already too far from consciousness, too near to death, to even respond to Ruqiah’s frantic calls.
“You stabbed the little one, fool!” the larger Shadovar said to his companion as they came into the tent.
“Bah, but shut your mouth,” the other said. “Ruqiah, girl, come along now, or your father will be the next to find death at the end of my sword!”
Ruqiah kept calling, but her words were not aimed at Kavita. She had fallen into a special place now, singing the sweet refrains. A scar on her right forearm began to glow as blue as her eyes, the light wafting out of her long sleeve in curious, magical tendrils, as if it were smoke. She felt her hands growing warm as that soft glow enveloped them and she pressed them against the hole in her mother’s back. The blood washed over her, for just a bit, before subsiding.
She could clearly sense her dying mother’s spirit trying to leave the body, then, but she held it in place, her song pleading with Kavita, begging her that it was not time to pass on. Ruqiah put her other hand over her own wound then, feeling her lifeblood dripping from her side, just under her ribs.
“Ruqiah, girl!” the Shadovar said from behind her.
Ruqiah sat back on her heels, moving away from her mother a bit, and slowly rose up from the floor. “My name is not Ruqiah,” she said quietly.
“Just get her,” the other Shadovar said, and she heard the first step coming toward her.
She spun around, blue eyes flashing, now with both sleeves glowing and wafting blue magical energies, like trained serpents of drifting light, reaching forth and twirling around her.
“No!” she cried, and she waved her hand, and a burst of smoke issued forth, right in the smaller man’s face.
“No!” Ruqiah repeated, and the smoke became a hundred bats, a thousand bats, swarming around the intruders, slapping against them.
“My …,” Ruqiah said, and bat’s wings became like scythe blades, slashing at the two Shadovar, who began to thrash and call out in surprise. Spinning and cutting, the bats swarmed in focused rage, taking fingers and digging long lines of blood.
The Companions: The Sundering, Book I Page 2