Kirhan spoke for a long while with Şelal. Devorah somehow managed to take her eyes off him—long enough to finish her bowl of honeyed rice and lamb, in any case. She felt certain he’d already forgotten about her, but when she looked over at him again, he was staring straight at her.
He laughed as she quickly turned away.
Sand and stone, how she hoped the fire’s ruddy light was enough to hide the flush in her cheeks.
After the meal ended, a space was cleared. Şelal stepped into it and filled it with her presence. She was a fit woman of nearly fifty summers. The black in her hair was slowly giving way to grey, but that only seemed to intensify her steely gaze, the sharp way in which she spoke. It even made her bearing, that of a statue crafted from granite, seem even more godlike than it already did.
“Three years have passed since we last met,” she began. “As we have for centuries, we come once again to rejoice. We come to share tales of the desert. We come to meet those new to each tribe and to lament those no longer with us.” An eerie chorus of whistles lifted up in honor of the dead. It sent a chill down Devorah’s spine for her lost mother and father, for her little brother, all of whom were lost before the last traverse.
An outsider might think the whistles were meant for Devorah’s lost family. They were not. They were for the twelve tribes of the desert, not the thirteenth, the lost tribe to which Devorah and Leorah both properly belonged. It was why the two of them had fled and begged for a place in Tribe Rafik. The attack that had killed their parents had been a complete surprise, an ambush during a terrible sandstorm. Word came that the Kings’ soldiers, the Silver Spears, had been involved. How the Kings had learned of them she had no idea, but the explanation was likely simple enough. Was the desert not full of tales of men, women, even children, taking up the Kings’ bounty to identify members of the thirteenth tribe?
Whatever the reason, one thing was clear: the only way to remain alive had been to flee. For years their mother and father had been drilling it into them. It was why they’d come to Armesh; as the shaikh’s husband, he held high status in Tribe Rafik, and he’d used it to secure their place in the tribe. Even so, they’d been forced to bargain away nearly everything of value to ensure their heritage remained secret.
“We have also come for Annam’s Traverse,” Şelal continued, “a race that begins with the coming dawn and runs until a lone champion has been declared victorious.”
A joyous roar filled the night. The men stomped their feet. The women ululated their high calls, “Lai, lai, lai!” The youngest, babes and skirt-holders, watched with wide-eyed fascination, some with outright fear, others with so much unbridled joy they burst out laughing at the carnival of sights and sounds around them.
Şelal took all this in with a satisfied air, a performer in that moment as much as a leader. “Tomorrow, the first contest begins, a race of endurance, one that will last many days and cross many leagues over the desert. It is but the first of the challenges that await our champions. The first ten to return will enter the second contest”—she pointed west, where the outline of an imposing mountain could be seen, dark and brooding beneath a scintillant sky—“a climb to the very pinnacle of Annam’s Crook, a peak that challenges even the finest horses, the most skilled climbers. The first two to return from that dread peak will be entered into the third and final contest, mounted combat in which the winner need but knock their opponent from their horse in any way they can.
“Those who compete,” Şelal continued amid cheers, “will gain the undying respect of all three tribes.” She waved to King Sukru. “As well as that of our visiting King.”
At this, the cheers settled considerably. Not completely so—the tribes were not so foolish that they would risk insulting a King of Sharakhai to his face—but it was a clear sleight. Sukru, for his part, hadn’t seemed to pay attention. He was staring at Şelal with an expression of boredom, as if the concerns of the desert and its tribes were of no more importance than the ever-changing shape of the dunes.
Şelal went on quickly, somehow managing to appear unhurried as she did so. “There is more!” She spread her arms as if to encompass the sky. “Much more. Each of our tribes, and King Sukru, have brought a prize!” She waved toward Sukru first, who flicked one hand absently to a stately woman by his side. The woman, Sukru’s vizira, if rumors were true, opened a small chest. In the chest were stacks and stacks of golden rahl—coins stamped with the mark of the Kings. It was a symbol of Sharakhai’s power, and so, a symbol of oppression in the desert, but no tribe would scoff at such a prize. It would do much to help them through tough winters, or better prepare them for skirmishes with the tribes of Kundhun, which had become all too frequent of late.
Şelal bowed to King Sukru. “From the Kings, a chest of gold awaits the winner of Annam’s Traverse!”
Şelal then waved to Duyal, the shaikh of Tribe Okan, a burly man in a pure white thawb and ivory turban who held a finely crafted shamshir with an etched blade. The metal was dark. Not so dark as the ebon steel of Sharakhai’s famed Blade Maidens, but enough to make it clear that the blade itself was of extremely high quality. “From the Black Wings, the Sword of the Willow awaits!”
Next she addressed the shaikh of Tribe Narazid, a tall oak of a man named Jherrok who lifted high above his head a golden chalice, bejeweled with rubies and emeralds. “From the Bloody Manes, the golden chalice of Bahri Al’sir awaits!”
Here Şelal paused, building the anticipation. “And from the Biting Shields!” She spun in a circle, arms raised, a gesture both formal and inviting. Then, with a flourish, she lowered her left hand and lifted her right high overhead.
Despite herself, Devorah gasped. She wasn’t sure when Şelal had done it, but a ring now adorned her forefinger. It had a beautiful setting, but it was the jewel that attracted the eye. It was a massive amethyst that glinted brightly in the firelight.
Before Şelal could say more, someone behind Devorah uttered a single word in a long, terrible scream. “No!”
Devorah turned in time to see Leorah stalking forward. Devorah immediately intercepted her, and when Leorah tried to stalk past, she stopped her with both hands to her chest.
“You cannot have it!” Leorah shouted at Şelal.
“Leorah, stop it,” Devorah hissed.
But Leorah didn’t care. Her eyes, her anger, were only for Şelal. “You cannot have it!”
Şelal stared evenly, almost amusedly, at the spectacle unfolding before her. All around, the tribe watched in silence. Many were shocked or confused. Only a handful were aware the ring even existed, and likely only Şelal and Armesh knew it had once belonged to Devorah and Leorah’s mother. Most, however, knew that they’d come to Tribe Rafik under strange circumstances, which was why the anger in some people’s eyes worried Devorah so. The King might wonder after the story behind this ring. He might ask questions of Şelal. How long would it take for him to wonder if they were from the lost tribe? The conclusion might not be a simple one to reach, but neither was it all that difficult. And if Sukru did reach it, or even suspect it might be true, their fates would be sealed.
As Sukru eyed them with something like amusement, Devorah gripped Leorah’s arms tightly. “Leorah, don’t do this,” she whispered harshly. “For once, control your temper.”
Leorah was breathing heavily. Her eyes were afire as they fixed on the amethyst ring still raised high on Şelal’s right hand. She looked as if she knew she was about to make a terrible mistake, but no longer cared.
“Do you have anything to say, Leorah?” Şelal asked with a calm that was beginning to light a fire in Devorah’s heart as well.
Devorah whispered into Leorah’s ear before she could say another word, “You seal both our fates with your next words.”
At last, the fury in Leorah’s heart seemed to cool. With the release of one deep breath, her body lost much of its pent-up tension. “No, my shaikh.”
Devorah immediately guided her away, leading her into the da
rkness as the sand grasped at their sandals. Behind, the celebration resumed, the entire crowd raising their voices in excitement over the prospect of winning the spoils of the traverse, or having someone in their tribe declared victor.
“Leorah,” Devorah said, spinning her around, “you’ve got to control your temper.”
Leorah stabbed her finger over Devorah’s shoulder, toward the sound of celebration. “That is our mother’s ring. That is her gemstone. Our birthright.”
“I know very well what it is.”
“She has no right to offer it up as a prize! She promised us we could work to win it back.”
“She’s apparently changed her mind. You know very well we’d likely ceded it to her when we found our place here.”
“We do our work. We pull our own weight.”
“I know,” Devorah said, “and we are alive because of it. It was ours once, Leorah, but no longer. Let it go. It is a thing. We still have each other, and I would not lose you because you couldn’t stand the thought of giving it up.”
For the first time, Leorah seemed to see Devorah. Truly see her. Whatever words she’d been about to say withered on the vine, and Leorah took her in anew. “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” she said, and took Devorah into a deep embrace.
“Likely die while raging at the desert for being too hot.”
“It is too hot.”
“So are you.”
Leorah laughed, and Devorah laughed with her.
❖ ❖ ❖
When Devorah woke in their tent the next morning, Leorah was gone. She made some flatbread on their small oven, hoping she’d return. When she didn’t, Devorah searched the camp, but saw no sign of her, nor, apparently, had anyone else. It made Devorah instantly nervous, as if Leorah were planning something rash. Şelal had overlooked Leorah’s outburst during the feast, but she wouldn’t do so again.
Devorah made her way, slowly at first, then at a tilting run, toward the center of the camp. Please don’t make a fool of me, Leorah. At the entrance to the largest of Tribe Rafik’s tents, she found Şelal lounging with Armesh, both sipping tea on the long square carpet beneath the sunshade.
“Ah,” Şelal said easily as she plucked a fat red grape from the nearby table. “If it isn’t our wayward daughter.”
“Good morning, Şelal,” Devorah said. “Armesh.”
“I’m surprised I didn’t see you last night.” She spoke with a forced ease, her anger thinly veiled.
“Begging your forgiveness, we only thought to leave you to the festivities. Unhindered, as it were. I hope you can find it in your heart to pardon our outburst.”
“Our outburst?” She popped the grape into her mouth and munched on it loudly. “It seems to me you can hardly be blamed for Leorah’s outburst.”
“She was caught off-guard. We both were. We’d thought…”
“Thought what?”
“We’d thought the stone still ours.”
“Yours? After sailing my ships for nearly four years? After eating my bread, drinking my wine?”
“You’d said we could work off the cost…”
“And you think you’ve done enough to gain this back?”
Her right hand had been hidden behind the armrest of her low wooden chair, but now Devorah could see that she was still wearing the ring. Şelal examined it with leisure. It was a show, of course, a way for Şelal to prove that she and she alone ruled this tribe. It was also meant to make Devorah feel small and helpless. And it was working.
“With the speed at which you two work,” Şelal said, “this ring would take a lifetime to earn back. Even then, I fear you would still owe me a chest of rahl like the one Sukru showed us last night.”
“You said we need but work faithfully, diligently, and the ring would be returned to us.”
“Well, you weren’t exactly honest about the nature of the ring, were you?”
“What do you mean?”
Armesh was staring into his teacup, avoiding Devorah’s gaze.
“Come, come. Surely you’re aware of its properties?”
Devorah could only shake her head. The gods of the desert as her witnesses, she had no idea what Şelal was talking about. Her mother had never mentioned anything about it, and Devorah herself had hardly worn it before it was gone, taken by Şelal as the price of entry into the tribe.
Şelal pushed herself up off the chair, smoothed the wrinkles from the front of her blue jalabiya. “Well, if you’re not aware, then it hardly seems appropriate for me to tell you, does it?”
She strolled toward the center of the camp, leaving a terrible chill in her wake. Devorah had always felt small and weak in this tribe, but she’d never felt like chattel. Not until now. Something had changed, and the only thing Devorah could point to was Sukru.
She turned to Armesh, who looked as uncomfortable as Devorah ever remembered seeing him. “What does the ring do, Armesh?”
He stared intently at the tea in his cup as he swirled it around. He downed the last of it, then stood, looking suddenly and uncharacteristically resolute. “There’s much to do before the race begins, Devorah.” He turned and headed toward the door of his tent. “Best you go and help.”
Devorah grabbed his arm and spun him around. “Why does Sukru want the amethyst?”
The determination in Armesh’s eyes transformed into a boiling rage. “You would do well to release me, girl.” Devorah did, realizing she’d gone too far. “And you’d to well to watch your tongue, and see that your sister does as well.” He lowered his voice. “Unless you’d like the King to learn of your history.”
This time when he walked away, she let him.
Would you be the one to tell him? she wanted to ask. But what did it matter? This was the way of things for the thirteenth tribe; unless she was willing to risk Leorah’s life as well as her own, she had no choice but to accept it.
Ahead, the tribes were beginning to gather. A bell was rung, and Devorah, thinking surely Leorah would come for the start of the traverse, went along with nearly every man, woman, and child in the camp. Even the crew of Sukru’s galleon were at hand, watching as several dozen riders galloped across the sand, loosening the limbs of their grand akhalas. Each tribe had ten or twelve riders entering the race. The crimson manes of Tribe Narazid were the easiest to spot as they sprinted over the dunes. The riders of Tribe Rafik rode their akhalas hard, most standing in their saddles with their shamshirs raised high, as if they rode for war. The riders of Tribe Okan, however, were putting on a show. Their riders worked in unison as they galloped over the sand. Like a weave of threads, they traded positions, showing mastery of their horses, and their horses’ mastery of teamwork. Annam’s Traverse had only one winner, but Tribe Okan, working in concert, often filled the most positions in the race’s second contest, improving their chances of securing one or even both positions in the race’s third and final contest.
And then there was Kirhan. Now that she could see his akhala properly, it was much more impressive. It looked to be a full hand taller than any of the other horses preparing to take the traverse. It was well muscled. Its silver coat gleamed in the morning sun. One might wonder if it could withstand the harshness of the desert race, but it galloped with an eagerness, as if it had long been waiting to test its mettle against the mounts of the Great Shangazi.
After a time, Şelal mounted her own horse. The other shaikhs did the same. As was custom, they would ride with the champions for a time, and then let the race continue. Dozens of others from all tribes would follow a respectful distance behind them, a grand opening to the legendary race.
Pulling a whip from her saddle, Şelal cracked it over her head several times. “Riders!” she called. “To me!”
Devorah still saw no sign of Leorah. It worried her greatly. Leorah loved horses. Loved riding them. She’d want to see this. But in all likelihood she couldn’t bear to see the start of a race that would give up their ring, one of the handful of things their mother had left them. And
then another, all too real possibility occurred to her, a thing she dearly hoped she was wrong about.
Please, Leorah. Please don’t be so foolish as that.
The riders gathered. Each was announced by Şelal. Their respective tribes whooped and shouted as the riders lined up along the top of a dune, some to Şelal’s right, others to her left. The reception for some was naturally louder than others. Past champions, young hopefuls who’d proven themselves in their own tribe but not in the traverse, received tumultuous roars, prayers for the gods to rain favor down upon them. There was Alize, a short, fierce woman of Okan who wore a patch over her left eye. Urdman, a rangy Narazid who’d won two traverses in the past, and Ornük, his son, whose introduction was nearly as loud as his father’s had been. Rafik’s most skilled riders were Şelal and Armesh’s son, Benan, and a woman named Derya who was thrice Devorah’s age but also thrice the rider.
Kirhan came last. Polite applause spread over the gathered crowd, there and gone in little time. The crew of Sukru’s ship did no more than smile, and Sukru himself watched with bored impatience, as if the outcome was never in doubt and he was ready to take his winnings and set sail for Sharakhai.
The mood of the crowd was eager as Kirhan moved into line with the rest. They were ready to burst into a combined shout of approval, encouragement, celebration and joy. But then there came from behind the crowd a hiyaah! followed by the plodding sound of galloping hooves. Devorah knew before she came into view who it was; she hadn’t even needed the rider’s shout to know it was Leorah.
She rode a copper akhala, with a spear held high above her head. She rode crouched in the saddle with perfect form, just as their father had taught them. Devorah tried in vain to intercept her. Leorah saw and easily guided the horse wide while skirting the massive gathering. She rode out onto open sand, then guided her horse onto the path where the riders of the traverse would soon spill forth. With a grunt and a blurring sling of her right arm, she lofted the spear toward the distant line—the ancient desert symbol for a challenge, be it single combat or tribes going to war with one another.
The Doors at Dusk and Dawn: A Shattered Sands Novella Page 2
