Prologue: A Strong, Strong Wind

Rasha’s nightmares for the last week had all been the same. The Srisians attacked during the day, while her people were asleep. For a handful, that did not matter—her father, her uncle, Rashid, the leader of her father’s men, and a few of his best.

And Rasha herself.

As if she had the script memorized, she rolled off her divan, slid easily into her shoes, scooped up her bow and quiver, threw a keffiyeh haphazardly over her head and around her face, and whistled for Haboob.

In some of the nightmares, the horse never came. In some, she quickly found herself surrounded by Srisian raiders, their pale skin marred by the spider-webbed scar-pattern, their mark of servitude. Some—the ones she had the good sense to fear—had no spiderweb scars, only the bright red emblem of the stylized spider on their breastplate.

But it always ended the same: the dagger handle impacting her temple, the momentary weightlessness as she fell from Haboob’s back onto the hot, harsh sand below, her vision blurry from impact and seared by a harsh noon sun. A Srisian agent, pulling back his sword for a coup de grace. The arrow piercing his throat from behind.

And then, before she could get to her feet, her father, surrounded, stabbed through the heart by Caractus, and then, the surreal, un-natural fountain of blood from her father’s chest.

“FATHER!—”

“Bilal!”

Gasp.

And then nothing.

A voice to her left. “Azim!” her uncle. He laughed. “You are a welcome sight, friend!” He opened his arms, grinning broadly at the new arrival.

A night sky overhead. The position of the stars told her that it would be just over half an hour until dawn. Haboob shifted under her. A cold desert breeze blew, but chilled only her eyes. The rest of her face and head hid safely behind a navy-blue keffiyeh. Below her, a sleek, silken-furred Wind-hound looked up at her, curiously.

Had she gone to sleep on her horse’s back? She blinked drearily.

Azim laughed jovially. “How are your family and children, Bilal?”

“They are well. Jasmine is…taking his death hard.”

“And Rasha?”

“Better than I could hope, myself.” A little louder, he added, “In truth, it worries me. I think she suppresses her true grief too much, not that that hardheaded child ever listened to a word I’ve said before.” Her uncle signaled one of the serving women. “Dates and milk for our guest!” The woman bowed quickly and scurried off.

“I could not impose. Especially at such a time.”

Her uncle waved dismissively. “Oh pooh. If we cannot show hospitality, especially to a friend, the Srisians have destroyed us.”

Azim laughed. “From your mouth to the ear of the Wind, my friend. Then I accept. And as for Rasha, fear not, friend. She will grieve in her own way.”

“I pray daily it does not get her killed.” He looked around him and sighed. “The Srisians are not to be trifled with.”

Azim nodded solemnly. “It was the Spider then.”

“They wore their marks blazon in the sun, for all to see. But come. Such things should be discussed inside.” He guided Azim away. “So tell me of Kadesh Oasis. Has much changed there since my last visit?...”

Rasha sighed.

Two weeks.

Two weeks since the attack. Thankfully, an utter lack of sleep due to the recovery combined with a touch of shock had eliminated any possibility of nightmares for the first week.

But even a princess of the Wind had to sleep sometime, and every night made two-week-old horrors fresh to her mind.

Caractus. Her mind flashed images of that horrible man at a celebration, murdering, depriving another soul of his parents—

“Oh gods, Martin…”

Now there was a face painful to see, a mere child, hunted by these heartless monsters, but worse even than that, one she had betrayed, if not in action, than in careless inaction.

It galled her that her uncle wasted his prayers on her. Was she not safe among family? Had she not always had the reliable arms of a father and a mother to run to? A tent to sleep in? A divan to comfort her sleep, and a dog to guard her? Perhaps tonight she would go to her uncle and tell him to divert his prayers to the poor child who had never had a true home, who had stolen and scraped on the streets of Merukis, and done hard labor in Galdun and Talune, who had shifted from hands to hands like a used bolt of cloth, for the love of the gods!

If only she had realized the seriousness before…instead of letting him tell her the stories like a made up fantasy and treating it all like some grand adventure…

“May the Wind forgive me if anything has happened to him…”

Martin Lilac. A dear and old childhood friend, but more than that, the one to whom her marriage had been arranged since they were small children, the one who, if he ever made it back, would one day be her husband. She had not seen him since Talune. By now, he would be in his sixteenth year, as she was, if he weren’t dead.

Or worse.

“I swear, Martin, if you’re ever brought back to me…”

What? What would she do? The question stuck in her mind with taunting clarity. Could she protect him from Caractus? From the Srisians? Her own father could not, when he was alive.

She closed her eyes.

One of Rashid’s men approached her and saluted smartly. “Sir. Where shall we house the guests’ horses and camels?”

“With our own, Jubal.”

He looked shocked, then laughed, blushing crimson. “My apologies, Rasha. I thought you were Rashid.”

“He has broader shoulders,” she answered dryly.

Jubal chuckled. “That he does. Well is there anything you need?”

“Something to do. My patience is running dry.”

“Well I wouldn’t mind if you tended the guests’ mounts. I’ve been on my feet since sunset.”

She nodded. “I will.” She reined Haboob around toward the horses and camels.

“Rasha!”

Her cousin, Saud, a boy of 13, and every bit his father’s son—He had Bilal’s face and eyes, even if none of his reserved good sense in social interactions. He stopped in front of her, panting. He had an uncharacteristic nervous shift to his eyes.

“One of the guests who came with Azim insists on speaking to you. He has his keffiyeh around his neck and is hugging the tent-pole. He doesn’t look well.”

The signals for needing dire help and protection, though this one seemed to be overdoing it a bit—you usually only did one or the other. As if any of the Wind-tribes did not need dire help, with the Srisians throwing their weight about like rude guests at a banquet—and then murdering everyone in sight. A suspicion at the back of her mind made her wonder if it were not Uncle Haqim, Azim’s father, hamming it up in hopes of maybe cheering Rasha up. The old man was known to do similar things, and her father had said it got him in trouble on occasion. Rasha sighed, wishing the night would end, and debating if she really wanted Uncle Haqim to try to cheer her up or not. “I’ll see to it. Take care of the horses and camels.”

“I will.”

Rasha turned toward the guest tent, and ducked in, taking a moment to let her eyes adjust to the brazier light. She pulled her kheffiyeh back from her face. If this guest had asked for her, he would need to see who she was.

The tent stood mostly empty, except for some bedrolls that had been laid out, and a carpet on which sat plates of food and jugs of wine, water, and milk. In the middle, seated leaning back against the tent-pole with one arm around it, sat a tall, thin man with a head of curly black hair, and deep, black eyes. He wore a red-checkered kheffiyeh loose around his neck, his skin sallow, bags under his closed eyes. He shivered slightly, before quickly opening his eyes and looking at her uncertainly. Like the sun rising, recognition lit his face.

And then, as if she had been stabbed in the gut, the recognition hit her.

“Martin!” She covered the distance in two quick frantic strides, dropping to her knees next to him as he attempted to rise to meet her. Not waiting to be invited, she threw her arms around him and embraced him tightly.

It took him a few seconds to recover, and when he did, he returned the embrace with a needful fury. She felt his breath hitch with her, and they both sobbed as one.

So much fear and worry, nightmares of him being gated directly into Hell and eaten by demons, having his soul sucked out by Srisian vampires, being tortured to death, resurrected, and tortured again…

He curled his head down against her shoulder, as if trying to disappear inside her. His fingers dug into her back.

She pressed him closer. “It’s okay…”

Minutes passed. In time, his tears—and hers—subsided. She pulled back and looked at him. “Martin? Are you alright?”

He stared back into her eyes with a heartbreaking fear like a child waking from a nightmare, and shook his head.

Her stomach clenched in worry. “What happened.”

He shook his head again, and whispered, “Not now.”

“Alright.” She nodded. “You’re going to sleep in my tent tonight so I can keep an eye on you.” She stood up, offering her hand.

He stared up at her for a moment, then looked away, taking a deep breath. He shuddered once more.

Rasha knelt next to him again. “Martin?”

“Help me?”

She nodded, and rose again, this time reaching down to grasp his hand in both of hers. The “help” he seemed to need was more than she guessed—She had to pull against his entire body weight and physically lift him to his feet. Once upright, he leaned against her. She braced herself, and pulled his arm around her shoulders.

She waited a few seconds, and he eventually found his footing. She turned to face him, hoping to see some clue on his face as to where he had been the last 5 years. All she saw was a sallow hollowness, as if he had not eaten, his eyes cloudy and bloodshot with tears, lack of sleep, and constricted with what could only be memories of horror playing against them.

But he looked better even than he had a few minutes ago. As she watched, his eyes relaxed, and he sighed in some relief.

She brushed a strand of hair out of his eyes. “It’s alright.”

He nodded, and whispered weakly, “Let’s go.”

Rasha nodded once, and led him out of the tent.

The stars overhead had disappeared. The sky lightened to a deep blue. In the distance to the east, the sky began to glow orange. The Wind picked up, now lukewarm instead of night cold. It would be a hot day today. Rasha would be just as happy to sleep it away—once Martin was seen to.

“Wait.” Martin stopped abruptly.

“What?”

He turned to face the sunrise. She saw his eyes take on a hopeful ember.

“Martin?”

“Watch…”

She saw some color return to his face, though not much. He relaxed more, staring into the east.

And then, the sun peaked over the horizon. He took a deep breath. She watched as he closed his eyes, and took a few deep, easy breaths.

“Martin…” she brushed that same stubborn strand of hair out of his eyes. “Where have you been…”

“Alone…in the dark…”

Rasha looked toward the sun. “I’ll stay here with you for as long as you want.” She pulled him closer, slipping one arm around his waist, and gave him a squeeze.

---

Sunset.

Rasha patted the head of Opal the Wind-hound as she went by. The dog seemed to have the audacity to be offended, but not too much. Opal stood up and trotted along beside Rasha to her father’s tent.

Her uncle’s.

She stopped and closed her eyes as the pain of the mistake caught up to her. This place, these tents, they still felt like Junaid Windkin, the Wind-leader of his tribe. How easily the title of Wind-leader passed to her uncle Bilal, considering how well loved and respected her father had been.

As she ducked in, a conversation in hushed tones, stopped. Her uncle, Azim, and Rashid, seated around a plate of lamb and vegetables, all looked up at her.

Her uncle said, “How is he?”

“Sound asleep. He slept the day right through, and I’ll be surprised if he’s up before lunch. When were you going to tell me he was coming?”

“I didn’t know he was coming, Rasha. When have we ever known where that boy is or what he’s doing?”

Azim said, “A pair of Hope-priests handed him to us in Akazad, and emphasized that secrecy was of the essence.”

Bilal added, “I made sure he could be alone in the guest tent and sent Saud to find you.”

Rasha squinted.

Bilal returned her squint, somewhat peeved. “You’re welcome.” He took a sip of milk.

Rasha shifted her weight impatiently. “Where has he been?”

“We were just discussing that, and how the Hope-priests did not see fit to tell us.”

She pointed out the door of the tent. “Have you even seen him?! What happened to him?!”

Azim sighed patiently. “He did not eat. For three weeks we journeyed, he did not eat. He only drank water, and I don’t even know why if he wasn’t eating. He slept, if you want to call it that, he rode his camel, and for three weeks he said nothing. Not a word. This one was broken before he came to us, and I resent the implication that we took any less than sterling care with him.” He looked Rasha sternly in the eye.

Rasha sighed, remembering the cursory lessons in manners she had been given in her childhood. “I meant no offense.”

“It’s alright.” Her uncle rubbed his eyes. “You’re concerned for his safety, as are we all. In all my hearth’s history, I can think of no guest who has required more protection and help of us than Martin has, even as a child. If you know a man by his enemies…” He stared at the glass of milk, drumming his fingers absently as he thought, “he will have been worth it.”

Azim grunted. “That is my hope as well.”

Rasha heard the flap of the tent open behind her. She stepped back out of the way.

Martin poked his head in, surveying the interior of the tent uncertainly. His gaze found Rasha, and she smiled warmly.

“Martin!” Bilal gestured with open arms. “We were just discussing the tales of your travels. Come. Sit. Have some food.”

Martin smiled weakly at Rasha—a marked improvement over the night before—and said, with a hoarse stutter, “I…couldn’t impose…”

Azim looked genuinely surprised, glancing at Bilal, who only gave him a stern, knowing look. Bilal said, “Don’t be silly. We’ve saved a space for you. Rasha, you too.”

Martin slowly made his way to a space that was cleared for him by the rug. Rasha followed behind, noting that some weak steadiness had returned to his muscle tone—the sleep had done him some good. She sat next to him. Rashid offered a plate of dates, which Martin studied for a moment—as if he had forgotten what they were, and then quickly took one, nibbling at it hungrily.

Azim nodded appreciatively. “I am heartened to see your appetite has returned.”

Martin took another date, nodding to Azim.

“I…” Martin swallowed, looking to Azim. “I apologize if I seemed rude on the trip…I…”

Azim shook his head, putting one hand on Martin’s for emphasis. “Don’t worry about it. We all know who you are and what your circumstances are. You’re among friends here.”

The look on Martin’s face upon that statement nearly broke Rasha’s heart. He stared at Azim as if he had never considered they might be friends, as if he had even forgotten what the word meant.

And then he looked to Rasha.

Unsure how to respond, she simply looked in his eyes, perhaps hoping to convey the sentiment herself.

Martin raised one shaking hand and brushed his hair back from his head. “My gods…”

Bilal said, “Wherever you’ve been, it’s taken its toll. You may be here for a while. Junaid always thought of you as son, and we will do no less. If you need anything, just tell us.”

“I need a drink…”

Rasha reached for the jug of water, but found she was not fast enough. Nor was Azim or Bilal. It was Rashid who poured the cup for him.

Martin’s hands shook as he took it. He managed a nod to Rashid. “Blessed be the hands…” Martin took a long gulp of water.

Azim chuckled. “Alright then. I think that point has been made.”

Bilal smirked. “So we’ll work on the efficiency.” Bilal grunted seriously. “First, practical issues. Martin, in your travels, have you learned to use a sword with any reliability? Or any other weapon?”

Martin looked down, and shook his head.

“Can you ride a horse?”

“I…yes. I can.”

“Good. Rasha, as soon as possible, I want you to start teaching him to defend himself. Rashid, help her if she needs it.”

Rasha nodded. “Yes, uncle.”

Rashid nodded once, curtly. “Yes sir.”

Bilal glanced at Martin. “Alright?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

Bilal thought for a moment, again staring at his glass. Some thought seemed to stick in his mind like a bone in his throat. “I regret…that again we will not be able to protect you forever. Of course you will stay until you have…recovered…from your travels, but then, I am sorry to say, you will have to travel again. Staying in one place for too long puts you in danger.”

Rasha’s stomach tightened, as if she had swallowed a hot stone.

Martin nodded, impassively. “I know. Thank you for your help.”

“Uncle, isn’t there anything we can do?”

“We do everything we can.” He shot Rasha an almost angry, worried look.

Rasha bit back her response, and simply nodded. “Yes uncle.”

“It would be best for your people as well.” Martin glanced at Rasha.

She looked to him, shocked.

“Trouble seems to follow me.” He chuckled sardonically. “I would never be able to forgive myself if I brought misfortune to those who have helped me so much.”

“Misfortune be damned,” she spat, “You can’t do this forever! Look what it’s doing to you!”

“I don’t have a choice.”

“You know some day I’m going to lay a proper ambush for Caractus, and then we’ll—”

“Rasha.” Bilal locked eyes with her with no less than stern command in his gaze. “That’s enough.”

“Enough?!” She looked at him in incredulous horror. “They’re trying to destroy him!”

“This conversation is over.” He looked to Azim. “Jasmine is traveling to Maskovy to see an old friend of ours there. What news from Kadir?”

“There’s talk of a water shortage, but otherwise, nothing. The lack of news disturbs me.”

Rasha started to speak again, to not let them out of the conversation so easily, but she quickly found she dared not.

Rashid said, “My own men say the same thing. Do you remember Kalifah Abd’Al Joharah? We’ve heard nothing new in a month from him.”

Bilal squinted. “What of the Vision church?”

“Also silent.”

Rasha stood up. “Please excuse me.” Without waiting for their response, she turned to the flap of the tent and stepped into the cold night air. She pulled her kheffiyeh up over her face again.

Opal stared at her, her head cocked to one side curiously.

Rasha’s hands clenched in anger. Her uncle’s words swirled in her head, belied by the remembered images of Martin’s face, stuck in hopeless fear, the feel of his desperate strength, holding onto her as if she were the last stable handhold of a vanishing sanity…

Her fists clenched in rage.

She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. As if in her mother’s voice, some sensible part of her psyche reminded her that she would do Martin no favors by drawing attention to herself.

How long could he possibly have? A month? Two at most, before he had to forsake all semblance of safety and stability again, and set out on his own, pursued by the most vile, evil, murderous…Could he possibly be recovered by that time?

She closed her eyes, turning to lean on nothing. Frustrated by there being nothing to support her, she stared up at the sky.

The tent flap behind her opened.

“Rasha.”

She turned.

Martin gave her a remorseful appraisal. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” She scowled. “No part of this is your fault. You’re the most…innocent person in this…catastrophe, and you’re the one suffering for it! For the love of the gods, Martin, why can’t you be more selfish?! How can you do this to yourself?!”

“Your family has always been so kind to me.”

“We can do more!” She shrieked, stepping close to him, right into his face. The tears clouded her eyes. “You deserve more!”

“Rasha.” He put both hands on her shoulders, staring into her eyes. “It’s alright.”

“It’s not alright…” She collapsed against him, now sobbing again.

“What happened to you?”

Rasha stared at him, incredulous. “You…You haven’t eaten or spoken in three weeks, you show up looking one step this side of having had your soul ripped out, and you want to know what happened to me?”

“You…used to be so…happy.” He looked away, somewhat embarrassed. “You used to think my stories were…”

“That was before I realized…” She shook her head. “Martin, I thought…For three years I thought my…childishness might have killed you…I made myself sick for three days when I realized—If I’d just known how serious this was…”

He sighed. “I’ve had my fill of the serious.” He smiled embarrassedly. “I…I’d hoped when I saw you again, I could tell you my tales…”

She squinted at him.

“But if I do…you’ll be angry.”

“Not at you.” She pushed the strand of hair back out of his eyes again, hurt by the thought that he would be afraid her anger. “No…I won’t be angry with you. It’s not you. It’s…”

He shook his head. “It doesn’t have to be at me. I don’t want you be angry. I don’t want anyone to be angry. I’m…I’m the one in the middle of this, and I can’t be burdened with anger or I’ll die. Everyone around me…They’re afraid, or angry, or…or so godsdamned serious…” He blushed. “I want you to…I want you to love my tales again like you used to. It makes them bearable. Too many around me protect me, and bear the weight of my life on their shoulders. You never did. You were my rest. My oasis. I could always tell you, and you would smile.”

She gasped a sigh. “How can I…How can I love a tale that left you in the state I found you in?”

“Because it ends happily.” His mouth twisted in a smile. Tears shone just under his eyes.

Rasha sighed, looking away. She had genuinely not expected such an answer. For the first time since she was 13, she found herself genuinely wanting to hear his story.

She nodded. “Alright. Come to my tent. I do want to hear you tale again.”

He smiled, sighing in relief. “You…really made yourself sick with worry?”

She slipped one arm around his waist, leading him toward her tent. “It was a rough week.”

---

Rasha tied the flaps of her tent and peaked out once more, before turning to look at Martin again. He sat on her divan with a stiff, pained grunt, and removed his boots, setting them by the brazier with its glowing coals—the only light in the tent, and a welcome contrast to the cold Wind outside. Opal trotted up to him, tail wagging, and rested her head on his knee. He obliged her with an absent scratch behind the ears.

Rasha reached up and pulled her kheffiyeh off with one motion, shaking her long hair out, relieved to be free of it for a few moments. She unslung her bow and quiver, setting them by the chest off to the side, near her bedroll.

She caught a glimpse of Martin staring at her, and halted in the motion of setting the bow down to see what he wanted.

He shook his head. “Sorry. I…It’s been so long since I’ve seen you. You’ve…grown much since Talune.”

It took her a moment to register what he really meant, but when she did, she blushed, and took a moment to decide if she truly needed to cover her hair or not. When she came to a decision, she said, with an edge of curtness to her voice, “Forgive my manners. I haven’t had time for feminine modesty in three years.”

“Rasha…What happened to your father?”

The explanation rose effortlessly, and unhindered by the inconvenient emotions it deserved. “He…The spider attacked at noon about two weeks ago. He fell in battle.”

Martin’s brow furrowed in alarm. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” She glanced idly to the door of the tent, to not have to meet his gaze. With a little more living emotion in her voice, she said, “I’m more worried about you.”

“I…I feel better than I have in a long time. Though,” he shifted uncomfortably, “I’m starting to get sore. I think it’s the travels.”

“And the fact that you didn’t eat for three weeks?”

Martin sighed. “I…didn’t want anything.”

“For three weeks?”

He rubbed his face with both hands, and leaned back on the divan, staring up at the cloth ceiling of the tent over his head. Opal curled up on the floor beneath him. “Have you ever been so afraid that you…retreated inside yourself, knowing that if you did anything more complex than breathing you might die?”

She took a few steps closer to him, examining him where he lay.

“Like…the entire world, everything around you is…such a horrible nightmare that, maybe…if you don’t interact with it, you’ll wake up…but if you say anything, or do anything…if you do even one, small thing wrong…”

She sat down next to him, looking down into his dark eyes, all her horrible fears of what could have happened to him suddenly all the more potent—apparently he had felt them too. She took one hand in hers and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Was that was it was like for you?”

He looked at her. “I was afraid to speak.” He shrugged. “I know it sounds strange…I was afraid to speak, I was afraid to eat…I think I thought…if I just…let them move me where they want me, if I just do what they want…”

“They wanted you to eat. And rest easy.”

He looked confused for a moment. “The Srisians?”

Rasha looked horrified. “Did they capture you?”

“No!” He looked around anxiously. “I—they almost did…a few times…but…” he shook his head. “Sorry. No, I mean…Rasha, you were all I could think about. I knew Azim was taking me to you. And I knew if I could just make it here…then everything would be alright.”

Rasha looked down, ashamed—ashamed of herself, anew, for all the times she had failed to take his plight seriously, ashamed of Uncle Bilal for not giving him some glimmer of hope for a secure life, and ashamed that she, unable even to help her own family fend off the Srisian attackers, was his best beacon of hope.

She took a deep breath. “So that was why you wore your head-dress around your neck and clung to the tent-pole.”

He squinted. “I…when?”

She studied him. “When you got here. When I walked in, you were signaling for protection.”

He thought for a moment, then closed his eyes. He chuckled. “Ye gods…I didn’t even think.”

“What?”

“I was so exhausted, and I felt so dirty…I just pulled the kheffiyeh down off my head. I didn’t even think. I just wanted to be free of it. And then…I just collapsed against whatever was there.”

Rasha chuckled. “Well…you did the right thing. You got Saud’s attention.” She looked at him firmly. “And mine.”

“I’m sorry for any concern I may have caused—”

And at the absurdity of that, Rasha laughed out loud. Five years of worry, three of them with guilt, but for one unintentional cry for help—when he needed it—he apologizes.

But he laughed with her. It was a sound she did not realize how much she missed until its tones warmed her ears again. His voice had deepened in the last five years, but the soft, gentle quality had stayed the same. For now—just for the seconds it took to laugh—it was unburdened by fear and pain, and so was she.

He winced. “Ye gods…”

She quickly scanned him for any sign of injury. “What’s wrong?”

“I didn’t think I could get this sore this fast…I don’t think I can move…”

Rasha sighed. “Well you’re laying right where you’ll be sleeping. I’ll lay out my bedroll for myself. Should I bring you some water? Wine?”

“No. I’ll recover. Just…don’t go anywhere.”

She squoze his hand again. “I’ll be right here.” She glanced at the tent flaps again, then back to him. “Here. Look in my eyes.”

He did.

And she focused on him, on the soul behind his eyes, a trick her mother had taught her. “Watch the colors dance.”

He stared for a moment. “…How are you doing that?”

“Shh. Just watch.” She could imagine what he saw—her mother had done this for her more than a few times, during some of her sleepless sicknesses as a child, during the first growing pains of her thirteenth year, during the worst of her fears for Martin’s safety. There was almost no magic to the trick, only the background noise that existed all over the world. The effect was far more by suggestion than anything real. But the effect was striking. “Do you want to go to sleep? You can if you want.”

“No…”

“Then tell me something. Tell me your tale?”

He took a deep breath, still looking at her. She saw that pilot light of paralyzing terror he described before ignite behind his eyes. He had said he wanted to tell her, and he probably did—but wanting to and being able to were two different things. Suddenly, she understood what he said about telling her his stories making them bearable.

“Rasha…”

“It’s okay.” She kept her focus on him. “You don’t have to yet.”

He took a deep breath, and nodded.

“How do you feel now. Do you still hurt?”

He thought for a moment. “No…I don’t…How did you do that?”

“It’s something my mother taught me.”

“Ye gods…It’s only morning—Evening. Sorry…My timing is so confused right now…”

“It’s okay.” She brushed another strand of hair out of his eyes.

Outside the tent, Bilal’s voice sounded. “Rasha?”

She sighed. “One moment, uncle.” She gave Martin’s hand one more squeeze. “I’ll be back.” She scooped up her kheffiyeh and quickly and efficiently wound it about her head again before stepping outside.

Bilal waited with his arms crossed, standing with his face to the Wind, his eyes closed. He opened them, looking to Rasha. “There’s work to do.”

“I know. I was seeing to our guest.”

“I have been seeing to our other guests,” he added pointedly, “It does not require me to neglect my chores.”

“Sorry, uncle.” She set off in the direction of the food stores.

“Rasha.”

She turned to face him.

He looked at her with what she hoped was sympathy. His eyes had softened somewhat. He started to speak, but quickly glanced at the flap of her tent, and guided her away with a gentle hand on her shoulder. Once safely away, he said, quietly, “You’re worried about him. I know. We all are.”

She sighed. “Uncle, he can’t keep going like this. It’s tearing him apart.”

“I know.” He glanced up to see that no one eavesdropped, his expression grave. “We don’t know what to do. This is a situation where there are no good choices. We all know it, and none of us like it.”

She nodded. “I know. It’s just—You should have seen him.”

“I did.” He looked at her seriously. “I sent Saud for you, remember? And what I saw contests for the most heart-breaking sight I’ve ever seen, second to your mother’s face when she held your father in her arms, and you, for the last two weeks.”

Rasha squinted in surprise.

“The spiders are a vile, evil people. They’ve intentionally caused more harm than all the worst the natural world has to offer throughout the history of Shem. This is their doing, and we are all suffering for it, including you. And it—” He sighed, shrugging helplessly. “It grieves me to see you in such pain.”

She shook her head. “Have I slacked in my duties? Did I—”

“No. You haven’t. You’ve tended to every duty, every chore, and you’ve taken on extra to stay busy. You’ve come and gone, sunset to sunrise, as if it were a normal time. Rasha, it’s not a normal time. Your father died.”

She shook her head, hating him for putting her in this position. Her hands shook with anger. “Uncle, he wouldn’t want me to—to ignore my duties, just because he died!” Tears pressed at her eyes, but she squoze them shut, sniffing back the flood.

“He would want you to take care of yourself, niece, and he would want you to trust the people around you who care about you, instead of snapping at them when they do the best they can for you, like you did in my tent.”

“Stop.” Despite her best efforts, some tears leaked through.

“And most of all, he would want you not to waste your soul dwelling on vengeance and anger.”

“STOP IT!” Her fists clenched.

“If you have to be mad at me, be mad at me. I couldn’t protect your father and I can’t protect Martin. It’s alright if you need to—”

And that statement was all it took. She screamed helplessly, and dropped to her knees, holding her head in her hand, sobbing.

Bilal knelt next to her, and gathered her up in a hug. “It’s alright.”

Hating him, loving him, wishing he would go away and hoping he didn’t, she relaxed in his embrace. Stopping the tears now was a futile effort. She let them flow. His statement about her father and Martin rang in her ears.

“Shh.”

The sobs came in crippling waves. She had not the strength to fight them.

“You can’t protect him from everything either, Rasha. I know you want to.”

She wanted to contest the statement, but lacked the will.

“But you can keep him from starving himself. We all know it is your influence that saved him once you got to him.”

“What good will it do…”

“You do that for him, and he will find his own strength. And there are some things that we, and you, can protect him from. You just have to understand that the Srisians are a very very delicate matter. They must be fought by other means, and you cannot throw yourself at them in a blind rage.”

She gulped. “Alright.”

“Now. Do you feel better?”

She nodded. “A little.”

“Good.” He pulled back a little. “You needed that. Far more than you realize. If you need to talk, come to my tent. I’ll assure us privacy if you need it.”

She nodded. “Thank you.”

He got up, patted her on the shoulder, and departed.

---

The rest of the night passed relatively uneventfully. Rasha stopped in to visit Martin at regular intervals, and found him napping on her divan for a few hours, with Opal happily curled up at his feet. When he was awake, he ate heartily, but quickly took to the divan again when his muscles began to ache again.

In the between times, Rasha helped the women cook and clean, and helped Rashid shoe the horses. At one point, Saud left the camels untied after taking them for water, and she had to help him round them up again. The camp tensed for a few minutes when the alarm was raised for a sighting of something unidentified, but it turned out to be a young Shellen who lost his way out of Kadesh Oasis and would be spending the day with them before departing again.

As the night wound down, and the sky overhead began to lighten with the blue hues of a coming dawn, Rasha dragged herself back to her tent.

Inside, she reached up and pulled her kheffiyeh off. In the dying light of the coals in the brazier, she saw Martin, on his knees, his back to her, examining something on a blanket in front of him. Opal sat on her haunches next to him, as if mimicking his pose.

Rasha approached. Opal looked up at her, and vocalized her uncertainty with a canine groan. But Martin did not look up.

“Martin?”

As she stood over them, she could see that what he examined in front of himself was a sword, a curved scimitar of Sun-Caliphate design. Three polished gems of topaz made the pommel, and a stylized sun adorned the blade just above the hilt.

Rasha stopped.

“For a year I never saw the sun.” Martin sniffed. “We…We landed in Pyropolis…and from there…He told me it took us five months to get to the heart of Srisia…”

Rasha’s heart fell into her stomach.

“We…stopped over in a place called Ironstag. It was ruled by an old Ender. The Master Sender said his name was Bartolo…We…I got separated from the Master Sender…For a week…”

Rasha knelt next to him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Bartolo had these dogs…they were…crossbred hounds and demons of some kind…he hunted me through Ironstag for four days…”

“Martin…”

“He captured me. He was…telling me everything he was going to do to me…He got me all the way back to his manor house when he just…dropped dead…Before I could do anything his dogs jumped me…Everything went black…Then…I woke up, and the Master Sender was there…”

Rasha pulled him closer.

“We got to the Capital City, and…We met this man…The Master Sender promised him a favor for his help…He snuck me into the Palace, into the vaults…” Martin picked up the sword. “We stole this.”

The sword caught the glow of the last of the coals, flashing orange for just an instant, as his hand trembled.

“I…Don’t know what to do with it.”

Rasha nodded. She wanted to offer to teach him, or to suggest that maybe, just maybe, the time had come for the Lilac family to return to their own, unrealized by countless generations of them. The hope for its reality had decayed to legend, then to myth. Few believed it anymore.

It pained her to see that he did not.

But she said nothing, fearing to scare him into silence again.

He looked at her, questioningly. She responded only by pulling him close again.

---

Again, Rasha found herself on the glare-blinding dunes in the middle of the day, falling off of Haboob’s back. Again, the Srisian assassin rose to plunge his sword through her heart, and again, an arrow from Rashid’s bow pierced his neck, stopping him cold.

But this time it was not her father who died under Caractus’s knife.

This time, it was Martin, the sun-blazoned sword falling limply from his fingers, a look of abject horror on his face, his kheffiyeh down around his neck.

Rasha tried to scream, but for all the rush of breath out of her mouth, no sound came forth.

“Rasha!”

She stumbled as she tried to rise, but reality dissolved to nothing.

“Rasha!” Her uncle leaned over her, looking down into her face. All was quiet.

She turned her head, seeing the divan, and Martin sleeping peacefully on it with Opal at his feet, one blanket slid down off his chest limply. She looked at her uncle.

“Get up and get ready. We’re going to Kadir.”

“Kadir?” She sat up drowsily. “Why?”

“There is a man there. I think it’s time to ask for some more help.”

Rasha nodded. “We’ll be ready.”

Bilal patted her on the shoulder and left.

Rasha rubbed her eyes. Opal raised her head, and cocked it to one side inquisitively.

Time to get ready to go. She truly hated to disturb Martin in his sleep, probably the first peaceful, restful sleep he could have had in a very long time. She rose to her feet and stood over him, tapping his hand.

“Martin.”

He stirred, and opened his eyes, looking at her with the look of someone who really should have been allowed to sleep.

She smiled in sympathy. “Come on. We have to go.”

His face fell, abject fear radiating from it like a fire. “No, Rasha, it hasn’t been a month yet, please…”

Surprised, it took her a moment to realize what he thought was happening. “No! Martin, all of us. The whole tribe. We’re going to Kadir. You’re coming with us.”

Martin thought about that for a moment, then relaxed. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” She gave his hand a squeeze, then stood up. “Uncle Bilal says there’s a man there who can help us.” She started to unbind her shirt, but then stopped. Looking at Martin, she said, “I’ll let you get ready, and then you have to do the same for me.”

He smiled weakly. “I thought you didn’t have time for feminine modesty.”

“I don’t. So be quick.” She left.

Outside her tent, a cold Wind blew. She shivered, hugging herself. The Wind whipped her hair about her face. In the distance to the west, the last glow of a sunset sank below the horizon.

Bilal chuckled. “You could at least have put your kheffiyeh on.”

Rasha grimaced. “I don’t have time for feminine modesty.”

“So I’ve gathered.” He stepped up a little closer, glanced around once, and spoke quietly. “this tribe and Azim’s tribe have no problem with you dressing as a man, fighting as a man, and giving orders as a man. But remember that outside the confines of our territory, you will either have to be a woman…or a very convincing man.”

“Until we get to Kadir,” she added.

“Even in Kadir. As open as they are to the influences of travelers, there will still be those who follow the old ways to the letter.”

“I know, uncle.” She shivered again, her teeth chattering a bit. “You would think I had never been to Kadir before.”

Bilal laughed. “Just make sure you remember your diplomatic skills among your own people. Now, I need to go see that our Shellen guest is sent off safely.” He patted her on the shoulder and went to tend to his own duties.

---

Kadir was one of the largest cities in the Sun-Caliphate. It sat on the border of Azar, and every trader, traveler, mercenary, visiting lord, and dignitary came through it on the way to other parts. At any given time, Kadir would have more foreigners than natives of the Caliphate or tribesmen of the Wind. Rasha had been to Kadir many times to negotiate with some of these merchants, including noblemen and royalty of foreign lands. In fact, not six months ago, she secured the shipment of steel that kept her tribe reasonably armed in light of the Caliphate steel shortage. The supplier was an eccentric Galdunic nobleman whose family oversaw joint mining and refining operations between his duchy and a neighboring Kerrupinish barony. Duc DeLisle, as he was called, also happened to have a soft spot for pretty faces, and Rasha was more than happy to play on it. It turned out that he liked her so well, he invited her to a ball the next night, and asked his wife to have her seamstress make her a dress for it. Such was life in Kadir.

Kadir was also a city that operated mostly in the day-time, a hard change for the tribesmen of the Wind, who, because of the unbearable desert heat, were mostly nocturnal.

It was a week from their camp to Kadir, under a vast blanket of stars and moons, traveling at a decent pace, in a long line. Bilal rode first, followed by Azim, Rashid, Saud, Martin, and Rasha at his side, followed by a long line of the men and women of the tribe, with their baggage and camels.

Rasha glanced over to Martin. “You look much happier.”

He nodded. “I am.” He gave her a warm smile. She returned it happily, not that he would be able to tell behind her kheffiyeh.

He went on. “I…didn’t tell you about the rest of my journey.”

“Oh?” She tensed somewhat, hoping that what she heard last night had been the worst of what he could tell her.

He grinned. “I climbed the World Tree.”

She squinted. “You what?”

“Yeah. I…I had help, of course. There was this leafpad, and a wood goblin…And later, I met a Tsukikuma.”

Rasha watched him incredulously. “Are you serious?”

“Yes! Remember when I used to tell you these stories? They were all true.”

Rasha stared at him. It was a concept she had quite forgotten about. The day she realized how serious his situation was, she forgot that more than half of his stories had really been grand adventures, and how many had even been comical in their own way.

She had taken on all the guilt of the harsh realities, but it never occurred to her that not all of his reality was harsh.

“I…want to hear more.”

“Well we have the time.” Martin smiled.

---

Kadir opened their gates at sunrise, and Rasha wished she were already in bed. Bilal handed down the instruction that all of his tribe would stay awake all day, and not sleep until the sun set, to be polite to their hosts.

The streets of Kadir thronged with people. Brick, stone, and wooden buildings rose sharply to either side of the streets, and vendors, entertainers, and people going about their business crowded the walkways. In the distance, a Wind-kin argued with a Dwarven smith over the price of horse-shoes, and a Ka’ar fire-dancer kept a crowd of visitors entertained.

Martin sidled his horse closer to Rasha, keeping his head down nervously, and the tribe bunched up together.

“We’ll stay at the Sultan’s Hideaway. Master Kalifah usually has room, and he’s an old friend of your father’s, Rasha.”

“Is he who we’re here to see?”

“Yes. Kalifah Abd’Al Johara is…knowledgeable of many things.”

Rasha nodded, debating the wisdom of pressing her uncle for the information about which he seemed so cryptic.

A voice from the crowd nearby, accented with some foreign flavor. “Please, good travelers, a moment of your time.”

Rasha looked down to see a tall, thin, frail, almost starved drow elf, his long white hair flowing down behind his head in unruly brambles. His tattered clothes seemed almost to want to fall off him, held in place only by some force of mercy. He carried a simple staff, and bowed low.

Bilal reined his horse to a stop. “Yes?”

“I am a walker of the path of despair, and I would challenge one of you to a contest. If I win, you must reward me in some small way. If you win, I will reward you.”

Rasha saw Bilal squint in distrust, and Rashid watch the man carefully. Rasha quietly edged between the Drow and Martin.

The Drow went on. “Is there one among you who has seen terrible things in his life?”

Rasha resisted the urge to glance at Martin. Instead, she looked right at Rashid, seeing Martin out of the corner of her eye, as he went pale.

The stranger looked to Martin, studying him intently. “You sir, have the look of one weary of his eyes. Would you take my challenge?”

Bilal straightened up. “I will take your challenge. What reward do you seek?”

The Drow shrugged. “Whatever is in your heart to give. Once, a horse-breeder gave me a night’s lodging and dinner at his table. A child once gave me a small purse of coins, and told me of the virtues of saving money. A milkmaid gave me a travel flask of milk.”

Bilal nodded. “What is the contest?”

“We will each tell each other of the most heartbreaking thing he has seen. Whoever’s tale is more sorrowful wins the contest.”

Bilal nodded. “I agree.”

“Shall you go first, or shall I?”

Bilal said, “I was present, as the four people most dearly loved by a man watched him be murdered. His attackers came during the day, and but for the blessing of the Winds, we would all have died. His wife, his daughter, his brother, and his most trusted warrior, all four could do nothing to save him.”

Rasha glanced at Rashid, and wished her mother were here. Rashid sat in his saddle, betraying no emotion.

“This man’s wife,” Bilal went on, “Ran to his side, cradling his dead body helplessly. Her wails…covered the desert sands. His daughter made no sound. Instead, her soul burns now with hatred for his killers, and sometimes I think she would throw herself upon them to destroy them.”

Rasha squinted angrily at Bilal, but said nothing. Instead, she noted that Martin looked at her with concern.

“His best warrior, a man strong of arm, stout of heart, and steady of soul, broke down in tears on the desert sands.”

“And his brother?”

“Is left with the great burden of filling his place, and taking care of those he left behind. It is truly a hard burden. How he carried it while he lived…”

The Drow nodded. “Truly a sad tale.” The drow took a deep breath. “I saw the Prophetess of the Web-Weaver gloat.”

Bilal squinted. “When was this?”

“A year ago, in the Minotaur Khanate. She led an army of demons of all stripes to the city of Haurkizadh. They attacked in the night, as the people slept. Women, children, infants, the old…But the saddest part of the tale is not who died…but those who lived to grieve…and to see the face of the Prophetess of the Web-Weaver as she laughed at their pain.”

Rasha saw Martin double over.

The Drow regarded him with an arched eyebrow.

Bilal nodded. “Truly I must concede this to you, sir. What may I offer you?”

The Drow bowed. “Whatever is in your heart to give.”

Bilal signaled to Rashid. “Fetch forth my blanket and pillow.” Back to the Drow, he said, “It is the custom of my people to show hospitality to all. But as we are guests in this city as well, we cannot offer it. Instead, may you be comfortable wherever you sleep tonight.”

The Drow smiled, and bowed. “You are generous, Master Wind-kin.” Rashid handed the Drow the blanket and pillow, who took it with a nod of thanks. The Drow said to Martin, “And I hope one day to challenge you, good sir. I am certain your tale must be truly worth hearing.”

The Drow bowed once more, and left.

As he left, Rashid said, “Sir, why did you give that man the time of day? What manner of fool challenges people to such a contest on a street?”

Rasha put one hand on Martin’s shoulder. He had a pale, sick look to him now. Something in the Drow’s tale had caught his attention.

Bilal said, “I’ve heard of these Walkers of the Path. Only good things, even the ones on dark paths. Still…” he shivered. “Sometimes, even those with good reputations can be frightening.”

---

The Sultan’s Hideaway was something new that had been brought to Kadir by Kalifah Abd’Al Johara after his many travels. The architecture appeared to be of Caliphate design from the outside, but inside, it was a spacious, palacial blend of Kerrupinish, Galdunic, and Talunic, with a few of the latest Gnomish inventions to automate a few things.

It was the pride and joy of Kalifah Abd’Al Johara, one of Kadir’s wealthiest entrepreneurs. Visitors had a hard time believing he was not Kerrupinish by birth—his favorite mode of dress was the suede vest and shirt with vented sleeves of the Kerrupinish bauers, and he kept his hair and beard short, and his hat with the long pheasant-feather near at hand. It was only his accent that gave him away, and the mannerisms typically manifest only in a man of standing in the Caliphate.

Bilal stood by to make sure everyone removed their shoes on the way in. A Halfling servant put their shoes on a shelf, handing each of them a small card with a number. More servants greeted them with smiles, and took their packs and baggage. It was not long before a young, plump, dark-haired woman jogged up, grinning.

“Bilal Windkin! How long has it been!”

Rasha saw her uncle brace for the impending impact with an uncertain, uncomfortable look on his face. Rasha averted her eyes just as the woman threw her arms around Bilal’s neck and hugged him.

Bilal finally relaxed, and patted her shoulders. “Anje. It’s good to see you again.”

She gasped, pulling back. “Bilal, I heard about Junaid. I’m so sorry. Is there anything we can do for you?—Oh my gods! You haven’t heard the news! Did you hear about my father?”

Bilal squinted at her. “No. Is he here? We do need to speak with him.”

She shook her head, clearly about to speak, but she burst into tears. This time, when she embraced Bilal, he truly returned the sentiment.

In a grave voice, he said, “Anje, what happened.”

“He…he was murdered in the streets not a week and a half ago. Someone cut his throat…He was buying sausages for breakfast for some Dhunnic guests…They took his money and his hat and…”

Rasha felt her heart sink.

“Oh, Anje, I’m so sorry.”

“He…He was planning to invite you to come stay, Bilal. You and your family. He felt it was the least he could do, in your time of grief…” She sobbed again. After a moment or two, she sniffed back her tears, and pulled back a bit from Bilal. “I’m…sorry…It’s just been so hard, he and I ran this inn together…”

Bilal nodded. “We understand, Anje. Is there anything we can do for you?”

She seized his arm. “You must stay. He intended to invite you. You need to take a load off your minds, and I need the company of friendly faces. Please. It would be my honor.”

“Surely we could not impose—”

“Oh, stop being so damned polite, you know he hated that!” She slapped his arm in motherly scorn. Then, she put one hand on his arm again. “Know what I’ll do? I’ll make his falafel recipe. He developed it after our last trip to Anaheim. It has sour cabbage in it for flavor.”

Rasha tried to get her head around any recipe of falafel that used Kerrupinish sour cabbage.

Bilal laughed. “We would be honored, Anje. Thank you.”

She clapped her hands twice, and was immediately attended by her staff. She said, “See their belongings to the suites on the third floor, north wing.”

“Yes, Madam.” They bowed, and ran to do as they were told.

She turned back to Bilal. “Come. I wish to hear everything. Any news from Kadesh? Oh! What am I thinking! You must be so exhausted after your travels! Shall we meet this evening to talk?”

“That would be most helpful I think. Though, we will not be sleeping until after sunset. Perhaps this afternoon?”

“Wonderful! I’ll have dinner ready by then!”

A half-elven servant bowed to her. “Madam. Father Al Rafiki has come for his morning appointment.”

“Ah yes. I will be there momentarily. See that he is comfortable.” She turned to Bilal. “Please excuse me. It’s the Order-Priest about the dispensation of my father’s will.”

Bilal bowed. “By all means.”

Anje started to leave, but stopped, and hugged Bilal once more before leaving. When she was gone, Bilal sighed, his face dropping in sorrow.

Azim nodded. “Grave news indeed.”

Rasha sidled up. “What are we to do, then?”

Bilal said, “Let us hear what Anje has to say, and determine our next course of action then. Until then, we are not to put any more strain on her household than we must.”

“Yes uncle.”

---

In spite of her drowsiness, Rasha determined to go to the bazaar with Martin. The bazaar, even if you intended to buy nothing, was a wonder to behold; Rasha, who normally had no use for jewelry, found herself captivated by the sheer variety of baubles and trinkets from the subtle to the profoundly gaudy available for purchase. She had to restrain herself from showing interest in a few things for sale, for fear of being expected to buy them.

Martin, she was pleased to see, was coming back into his own. His face still bore the heavy palor of some sorrow, as he appeared to still be dwelling on their encounter with the Walker of the Path earlier in the day, but some of his light-hearted nature had returned. He dealt easily and smoothly with the shopkeepers, and even spent a few minutes with some Revels after buying them baklava from a wandering vendor.

Once, a fight broke out between a Minotaur soldier and a handful of Goblin mercenaries, and Rasha physically pulled Martin away from the scene by the back him of his vest just before one of the Goblins went flying into a stand of cooking pots not five feet from where he had been standing.

“It reminds me of Merukis,” Martin said, looking back nervously.

“The city watch will take care of that.”

In the distance, on the tower of the church of Time, a clock sounded. Rasha stopped, and listened for the chimes.

“Five…” She cursed under her breath. “We’re late. We have to get back to the Sultan’s Hideaway.”

---

Rasha led Martin into the restaurant of the Sultan’s Hideaway, looking for any sign of her uncle. The restaurant, very much an anomaly in any city of the Caliphate, was of Galdunic design: instead of carpets and cushions, where the customers could sit on the floor, there were wrought iron tables, with filigreed decorations and claw-footed chairs. Right now, the restaurant seemed mostly empty, but a few people did trickle in. At a table in the corner, Bilal sat with a mug of coffee.

Rasha and Martin jogged over. Rasha waited patiently. Bilal set his cup of coffee down, and for the first time since they arrived, she realized how tired he looked. She hoped it was just the lack of sleep.

“Sit down.”

She did, and Martin sat next to her. She resisted the urge to take his hand in hers.

He drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “Rasha…Martin…Have you ever heard of the Order of the Crysanthemum?”

Rasha thought back over her travels, but could find no reference to it.

But it was Martin who spoke. “I have.”

“What have you heard?”

He swallowed. “My…parents mentioned it, before they were killed. I’ve also heard Junaid mention it.”

Bilal nodded. “Martin, your family and ours have been in close contact for many years. You know this. It goes back to well before your birth. The fact is, the Windkin and the Lilac family have been close with each other for many generations. During that time, the Order of the Crysanthemum has been a force for some good in the world. We’ve tried to stop the spread of the Srisian empire, we’ve tried to help people who had no other help, and we’ve tried to restore the Empire of Tarahin to its place in the world.”

Martin nodded.

Bilal said, “And we’re almost gone.”

Rasha looked to Martin nervously. He only nodded, downcast.

“Right now, Azim and I are the only ones in the area. There used to be half a dozen in Kadir, and on most days you could find two or three visiting.”

Martin said, “It’s…my fault.”

“No. Not yours. The Spider is to blame for this. Rasha, Martin, the time is fast coming when the Order will need you. I won’t ask for a commitment now, but think about it.”

Rasha took a deep breath. “Was Kalifah one of the order?”

“Yes. As was your father.”

Rasha nodded.

After not much longer, Azim and his family came downstairs to the restaunt. Rasha and Martin found a table out of the way, and ate olives and pita-bread with hummus while they talked. Martin still seemed distracted, but was at least conversant. More and more guests came in, and soon, the restaurant was full.

As the evening wore on, even Rasha’s family began to lighten up a bit, enjoying laughter and good conversation with their food. They were soon joined by Anje Abd’Al Johara, who drank her wine a little faster than Rasha was comfortable. Rasha contented herself to keep Martin warm with her company, as he sat mostly silent, watching the goings-on.

Later in the evening, some belly-dancers supplied some entertainment, one of them indulging Azim in a round of dance, causing him to blush bright red and Bilal to laugh uproariously. Even Martin tapped his feet in time with the music, watching the dancers as they moved.

After another hour, Rasha felt the sleeplessness begin to catch up with her. As her family began to drift to their rooms, she and Martin retired to their room of the family suite. The music lingered in her memory, and as she shut the door, she raised her hands over her head and turned in place once with a swaying motion of her hips, humming the tune.

She smiled at Martin. “What do you think?”

He smiled weakly.

She took her kheffiyeh off, and worked the motions of setting down her bow and quiver into her dance. With a spin, she took Martin by the hand and pulled him close.

He seemed surprised, and blushed crimson as he looked away, smiling nervously. “Rasha, what are you doing?”

“No one danced with you tonight.”

He chuckled nervously. “I don’t dance.”

“Neither do I.”

“You seem to be doing alright.”

She tilted her head in concern. “Martin? Are you alright?”

He nodded. “I just…The news about the Order…I think I just need to sleep.”

“Alright.” She stepped away.

“Rasha?”

“Yes?” She stepped behind a privacy screen and began to untie her shirt. While she loved living with her family, one thing she truly missed about her few travels was the opportunity to sleep in a comfortable gown rather than her clothes.

“Do you ever think about…about when we’re…going to be married?”

She grinned. “I was thinking about it as I decided if I needed to learn to dance or not.” She removed her shirt and went to work on the knot holding her upper wrap on. She could hear Martin blushing from here.

“Uh…Alright. Well…Goodnight, Rasha.”

She laughed. “Goodnight Martin.”

---

Sleep was fitful for Rasha. It was now night, a time she would normally be wide awake. Exhaustion made it possible for her to take a short nap, but once she had napped, she found herself tossing and turning on the divan.

She glanced at the bed, hoping to see that Martin was awake as well, so that perhaps they could talk, but she was alarmed to note he was not even in bed.

She rose and quickly put her shirt and trousers on over her gown, and slung her bow and quiver onto her back. “Martin?”

She glanced at the door of the bath room, but it appeared uninhabited. She stepped out of the suite, and went to look for him.

As she passed the staircase, she felt a cold breeze. A door at the top had been left open. She jogged up, and out onto the flat roof, into a cold Wind. Across a hundred feet of expanse, she saw Martin, silhouetted against the moon, standing on the brick railing around the roof three feet off it’s wooden surface.

She stepped carefully, so as not to startle him. In fact, she was not sure how close she should get, or if she should make any noise at all. If he faltered even a little…it was a hundred feet to the street below.

It occurred to her to wonder what the hell Martin was doing. Her heart twisted when she remembered how he had responded to the Walker of the Path, and the news of the Order.

“Oh my gods…”

She took a deep breath, but as she attempted to call out his name, she stopped herself.

“Who’s there?” His voice had a frenetic, tense quaver to it.

“It’s me.”

He took a deep breath, clenching his fists. “I didn’t intend for you to see this. I intended to be done before you awoke.”

“Done with what.”

“I was at Haurkizadh. A year ago would put the Prophetess of the Web-Weaver there within at most two weeks of myself and the Master Sender passing through. Haurkizadh is the port of call for Ansulym and the Srisian Empire. I wonder if she found out what she wanted to know.”

Rasha cautiously began to walk forward.

“Stop.”

“Martin—”

“Can’t you see what life is going to be like for you because of me?” His voice was forceful, energetic, Manic. “She destroyed Haurkizadh because I was there! They come for me, and they destroy everything dear to me! I could save all of you by jumping off right now. But more than that, I could end it for myself. I’d never have to be alone in the dark again.”

And now the fear moved into her stomach.

“Martin, please, just come down and talk to me.”

“What good will it do?! I can’t escape this! I’m going to be on the run for the rest of my life, and the people I care about will all die! Everyone who’s tried to help me! What am I really worth, Rasha?! How many more can I endanger like this?!”

Rasha took a deep breath, choosing her words carefully. “Martin, I don’t have any answers for you. But I want you know what it’s going to do to me if you do fall.”

He sighed. “You’ll get over it. I’ll be in a better place, and you can find a strong, stable…safe man to marry.”

“Wherever you end up,” Rasha rasped, doing her best not to cry, “I won’t be there.”

“I’ve only got a month with you anyway. Then…I’ll be on the run again…and some day I’ll come back to your camp, and find out…that you’ve been murdered…”

Rasha started to contest that, but wondered if she really could.

“I can’t keep running, Rasha. But if I don’t…more will die. This is the best way.”

“I love you, Martin.” As she said it, she began to cry.

He sighed heavily.

“I’ll let you do this if you really have to,” she forced through her hitching breath, “I’ll stay and watch if you want me to. But I won’t be there when you land…”

She could see him tense. He opened and closed his fists again.

“I…I wish you more peace in the next life, Sunshine…And I love you.” She turned to go back inside, having to force herself to look away. Every instinct in her heart wanted to run to him, to try to save him.

But she knew she could not save him from himself.

“Do you…Do you mean that?”

“Yes.” She wiped the tears away as fast as she could, shivering in the night air.

“Rasha…”

She looked up.

The manic force in his voice broke. “I…can’t get down.”

She gasped in relief. “Stand still! Do not move!” She ran to him, reaching up to take his hand. “Stand perfectly still…now lean back.”

“Rasha, it’s a three foot drop to the roof!”

“Lean back! Trust me!”

He closed his eyes. “Oh gods…” He leaned back, slowly toppling like a great felled tree. He screamed at the last instant as he fell.

Rasha grunted under the impact, her knees buckling. But she caught him. Immediately, his arms reached for her, and she embraced him tightly. The tears began anew. She said, “Don’t ever do that again.”

“I won’t. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright.” She kissed him on the forehead.

“What now?”

What now? Her first instinct was a good dose of wine, though he probably did not need that. Instead she said, “Lets get in out of the cold to work that out.”

“Alright.”

---

The next morning.

Rasha found Martin again in their room of the suite. She found him again seated on the carpet, with Opal next to him, examining the sword. This time when he looked up, he smiled.

Rasha approached. “How are you feeling?”

“I…I think I got a lot out of my system last night.”

“I think you did too.”

“Rasha…Thank you…for being there for me. Whether I intended to or not, I don’t think I could have survived if…if you hadn’t been there.”

“You’ve been through a lot.” She sat down next to Martin, taking a fleeting moment to examine the sword. “None of it is your fault. I wouldn’t ever have blamed you. I would have blamed the Srisians for what they’ve done to you.”

He nodded. “I don’t want to blame them any more.”

She looked at him curiously.

“I…think it’s time for me to take back my life. You made me realize that.”

Rasha smiled.

“They’ve run me around, they’ve murdered people I care about, they murdered my parents…I think It’s time I do something proactive. In a way, stealing this sword back from them was the beginning of that. I just…needed to get clear of it enough to see it.”

“Martin…” She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him into a hug.

“And you have my word, I will never ever do what I did last night again.”

“Thank you.”

“I…Rasha, did you mean it when you said you loved me? I don’t want you to feel bound by that if you only said it to save my life—”

“Martin, I love you.” She brushed a stray hair out of his eyes.

“And you…don’t have to marry me if you…”

“I mean it.” She smiled.

Martin sighed, and smiled. “Because…I don’t guarantee I don’t get…moody sometimes…”

“I’ll be there for you.” She gulped. “At the end of a month, when you leave this time, I’m going with you. I don’t ever want you to be alone in the dark again.”

Martin nodded, the glimmer of a tear showing in his eyes.

Rasha did the only thing she knew to do—she leaned in and kissed him, full on the lips. When it was over, she rested her head on his shoulder, pulling him close.

Opal groaned a canine vocalization, and trotted off.

Rasha chuckled. “We should get some breakfast.”

“I agree.” He stood up and helped her to her feet, leading her down to the restaurant.

---

Rasha found her uncle in the restaurant, sipping coffee and eating baklava, as Martin went to study the food laid out for breakfast. Rasha sat down with Bilal, glancing around to see if any of her tribe were here.

“Good morning, Rasha.” He did not look as though he meant it. She could sympathize.

Still, she replied, “Good morning, Uncle.”

“And how did you sleep?”

“Very well, for about three hours.”

He chuckled. “I slept that way myself.”

“Uncle…I’ve come to a decision.”

“Oh?”

“When Martin leaves us in a month…I’m going with him.”

Bilal looked shocked at first, but then nodded. He said, “Your father always knew this day would come.”

Rasha said, “Do I have your blessing?”

“Yes. You do.” He sat forward in his chair. “This is what you were meant for. And to that end, I have the last of my advice to give you for you to ignore.” He smirked.

Rasha blushed, and laughed. “I will listen.”

“Take good care of him. The time is fast approaching when Tarahin will rise again. He may be the one to do it. If so, he will not be able to do it alone. You have to protect him from his enemies, but you also have to help him.”

She nodded. “I know.”

“You were not meant to live among any one tribe any more than he was. He is a man of no family, no tribe. You are the opposite. You have skill with every people, and every tribe. You have to guide him, and protect him. The world forced him to be a man by not letting him be a man. You were raised to be a woman by not being raised to be a woman. Do you understand?”

“I think so.”

“There will be far worse ahead, for him and for you. But if you stick together, you will find that together you have what you need. And if he is the one to revive the old Empire…you two will be unstoppable together.”

She took a deep breath. “I don’t care about Tarahin. I only care about him.”

“If he is the one,” Bilal sat back again, “That will be enough.” He glanced at Martin. “When he comes, we should all talk. Some things we have put off for too long.”

---