The Parched Sea

Eight

Ruha’s mount suddenly slowed its jolting pace, jarring the widow out of the lethargic daze into which she had fallen. For the last five days, the three companions had been riding hard, hoping to overtake the Zhentarim. The effort had exhausted Ruha and, despite her best efforts to stay alert, she often felt as if her mind had left her body to fend for itself.

When Ruha looked up to see why her camel had halted, she saw Lander stopped twenty feet ahead. He was staring at the horizon, where a broad, black line of apparent nothingness separated the dun-colored ground from the cerulean sky. Ruha squinted at the dark line. When it did not disappear or become more distinct, she dismissed it as one of the desert’s thousand and one visual illusions.

“What’s he doing?” Lander demanded, pointing at a black fleck on horizon, where the blue sky met the black strip of illusion.

The speck was Kadumi. At his own insistence, the boy was riding ahead to scout. Since learning that his sister-in-law was a sorceress, the boy had said no more than a dozen words to her, and all of them had been disparaging. Ruha was not surprised by his reaction, for she suspected that he blamed her magic for the bad fortune that had brought the Zhentarim down upon his tribe. Most Bedine would have done the same.

Whatever the cause for Kadumi’s detachment, it set Lander’s nerves on edge. The Harper preferred to do his own scouting and did not like trusting his safety to someone else.

“Why’s he dismounting?” Lander demanded.

Ruha squinted at the distant figure. “You can see that?”

“Of course,” he responded gruffly. “You don’t think I’d let him out of my sight!”

“But that far—and with only one eye?” Ruha immediately regretted her question, fearing that she would touch a sore nerve. “Please forgive me. I didn’t mean—”

The Harper chuckled and raised a hand. “No offense taken,” he said. “It’s a badge of my own damn stupidity.”

“How so?” Ruha asked, anxious to appease the curiosity she had felt ever since meeting the stranger.

“When I was a boy, my mother gave me a pet hawk that didn’t want to be a pet. I had to keep it on a tether.” He paused, unconsciously rubbing a finger along the edge of his patch.

“And?” Ruha prompted.

“One day it made its feelings known.”

Ruha grimaced, imagining the raptor tearing at Lander’s boyish face. “What did your father do?”

Lander smiled. “Let it go, of course.”

“A Bedine would have killed it,” Ruha said. “I think I would have, too.”

“Why?” Lander asked, meeting her gaze with his one good eye. “You can’t blame an animal for wanting to be free. Your people should realize that more than anybody.”

“The Bedine would have been more concerned with vengeance than with what is right.”

Instead of commenting on Ruha’s reply, the Harper turned his attention back to Kadumi’s distant form. “Why is he stopped? Is it the Zhentarim?”

The faint whistle of a high-pitched amarat horn wafted across the barrens. “I don’t think it’s the invaders. Kadumi’s signaling us to come.”

Urging his camel forward, Lander asked, “Why?”

“We’re there,” Ruha replied. “He dismounted to meet a sentry.”

The Harper scanned the horizon with a scowl. “That’s unfortunate.”

“Why?”

“I’d rather Kadumi didn’t meet this new tribe without us being there,” Lander replied. “I don’t trust him to keep your secret, and there’s too much at stake here to let superstition get in the way.”

Ruha glanced back to make sure everything was in order with the string of Kadumi’s camels she was leading. “We can only hope that he remembers his duty to protect his brother’s wife.”

“Will he?”

Ruha shrugged. “I think so. He’s seemed very bitter since the fight, but that’s only natural, considering what he’s been through in the past weeks. The blood runs hot in boys that age, and any Bedine would be upset to discover that his brother had married a witch. Still, I don’t think he will let his emotions overcome his honor. He impresses me as a boy who listened closely to his father and knows what is expected of a man.”

“And what happens if you’re wrong?”

“I don’t think the sheikh will kill me,” she said, avoiding the Harper’s gaze. “But he won’t listen to you, either. You and I will have to leave.”

Lander frowned. “The Zhentarim—”

Ruha lifted her hand to quiet his objection. “If it comes to that, nothing you say will change the sheikh’s mind. In that case, I’ll help you find another tribe. You can repay the favor by letting me ride with you to your land.”

The Harper raised an eyebrow and looked her over from head to toe. “I don’t think you’d like Sembia,” he said. “Still, if you really want to go, I’ll take you there.”

“Sembia,” Ruha said, smiling to herself. “That is a nice name for home.” Aside from its name, she knew only one thing about Lander’s home, but it was the only thing she needed to know. In Sembia, at least if the Harper was any example, no one would care that she was a sorceress.

After a moment of silence, Lander scanned the horizon with a furrowed brow. “If we’re getting close to Colored Waters,” he asked, “why do I see no sign of an oasis?”

“You will,” Ruha replied. Though she had never been to Colored Waters, she had heard descriptions of it. The black strip on the horizon was no illusion. It was the great basin where the oasis sat.

As they rode, the sable strip took on the distinct appearance of the abyss marking the site of the final battle before the Scattering. The Bedine believed this was where, centuries before, the gods had destroyed the denizens from the Camp of the Dead. When Ruha was close enough to see the far edge, the hollow assumed the shape of a great, ebony bowl. It was ten miles long, eight miles wide, and over a thousand feet deep.

Except for a few star-shaped dunes of golden silt, its steep walls were covered entirely with a fine, sable-colored soot. In the center of the basin floor, an amber cone, said to be made from the ashes of the denizens, rose nearly as high as the lips of the great bowl.

Five lakes, each the crescent shape of a scimitar’s blade, ringed the base of the cinder cone. Each lake was a different color: emerald-green, turquoise, silver as the hilt of a jambiya, sapphire blue, and red as a ruby. According to legend, the different colors resulted when the dried blood of the immortals was washed or blown into the water and dissolved.

Around each lake were clumped wild fig trees, tall golden grasses, and leafy green bushes. Over the entire floor of the basin, salt-brush and hardy lime-green qassis plants poked through the ebony ash, and the grayish yellow camel herds grazed in every part of the black bowl. The huge valley was as close to paradise as any place Ruha had ever seen.

“In the name of Mielikki,” Lander gasped. “What hell has that boy led us to?”

Ruha ignored the Harper’s question to ask one of her own. “Who is Mielikki?”

“You wouldn’t worship her here,” Lander answered, unable to rip his gaze away from the ancient caldera before him. “Mielikki is the goddess of the forest. She’s my patron and protector, at least until I go down there. What is it?”

Amused by Lander’s reaction, Ruha smiled. “Colored Waters, of course.”

A few minutes later, they reached the edge of the basin. Ruha could feel heat rising in swells, and the air shimmered in liquid waves that made every distant line a serpent. Noting the caldera’s shape and dark color, she could only guess that it acted like a giant funnel for collecting At’ar’s radiance. It was a good thing there was plenty of water at the bottom, for any living being staying down there for even a few minutes would grow very thirsty.

Kadumi was waiting with a thin Bedine dressed in sooty black robes. As Ruha and Lander approached, the sentry came forward with a waterskin.

“Stop and drink, berrani.” The sentry offered his skin to Lander, repeating a typical Bedine greeting. “You have had a long ride and must be thirsty. Are you hungry as well?”

Lander accepted the other waterskin. “Hungry, no,” the Sembian said, taking a long gulp.

The sentry did not mind the rudeness. He grinned and turned to Kadumi. “At least he shows more courtesy than the Black Robe and his short guide.”

Lander pulled the waterskin away from his mouth, spewing water all over his camel’s neck.

“Black Robe?” he gasped.

Kadumi nodded. “The Zhentarim arrived this morning,” he said. “We’ll have to wait until he leaves to meet the sheikh.”

“No!” Lander protested, thrusting the skin back at the sentry. “We must meet the sheikh before the Zhentarim poisons his thoughts. Perhaps if I had reached the Mtair Dhafir’s sheikh earlier, they’d still be alive.”

Kadumi grimaced, but turned to the sentry. “At which lake is your sheikh camped?”

The sentry pointed at the emerald pool. “Sheikh Sa’ar makes his camp at the green waters. I’ll announce your arrival.” The sentry lifted his amarat and blew three shrill notes, then lowered it again. “I’d take you into camp myself, but the Zhentarim are only five miles to the north. The sheikh has ordered the sentries to stay at their posts under all circumstances.”

“Sheikh Sa’ar is a wise man,” Kadumi responded, climbing onto his kneeling camel.

The first five hundred yards of descent were steep. The camels plunged down the slope, almost galloping to keep from tumbling head over heels, kicking up great billows of black ash that engulfed each rider in a tiny dust storm. With each jolting lunge, Ruha gritted her teeth and grasped her saddle more tightly, expecting to go sprawling through the ebony cinders in a whirlwind of waterskins, kuerabiches, and roaring camels.

A few moments later, the beasts slowed into a jolting canter. With the ash clouds billowing no higher than the camels’ humps, the trio could carry on a quivering conversation.

“You didn’t tell the guard about my magic, did you Kadumi?” Ruha asked.

“Perhaps I will tell the sheikh,” the boy responded, avoiding the widow’s gaze.

“A man must do what he thinks is right,” Lander agreed.

The Harper’s statement stunned Ruha. She began to wonder if she had misjudged Lander’s character.

Before she could condemn him, the Harper continued, “Of course, a man’s duty to his brother’s wife counts for a lot.”

The youth glowered at Ruha. “My brother would not have knowingly married a witch.”

Lander nodded. “Probably not. Still, Ruha was his wife …” The Harper let the statement drift off without adding anything further, and they continued in silence.

A short time later, Kadumi asked, “What will you say to Sheikh Sa’ar, Harper?”

“I don’t know,” Lander responded, grasping his makeshift saddle with both hands. “What do you think I should say?”

“The Zhentarim will no doubt promise him many great gifts for becoming his ally,” Kadumi began.

“And threaten him with swift destruction if he does not,” Ruha added.

“I can promise neither.”

“What about your Harpers?” Kadumi asked, motioning at the pin still hidden over Lander’s heart. “What will they give Sa’ar for joining them?”

Lander shook his head. “They don’t work that way,” he said. “Even if I were in contact with them, they would promise him little. We prefer more subtle methods.”

“Subtlety will not drive the Zhentarim from Anauroch,” Ruha said. “That will require warriors.”

“Bedine warriors,” Lander replied. “Not Harper warriors. If the Bedine will not fight for their freedom, the Harpers have no interest in doing it for them.”

“Then why did they send you here?” Kadumi demanded, precariously twisting about on his camel’s back. “I lost three good mounts getting you here, and you brought nothing to offer Sa’ar?”

“I can offer him liberty,” Lander replied.

His voice was so calm that Ruha knew the Harper was missing the point. “We do not know Sheikh Sa’ar,” she said. “And he does not know us. The destruction of the Qahtan and the Mtair Dhafir mean nothing to him. You cannot expect him to turn the Black Robes away just because they destroyed two khowwans to which he had no ties.”

They reached the bottom of the basin. As the terrain leveled, their camels slowed to a jolting walk.

“The Zhentarim are strong,” Kadumi said, still taking care to avoid speaking directly with Ruha. “Sa’ar will want to ally with them.”

“I thought the Bedine loved freedom,” Lander countered, relaxing his grip on his saddle harness.

Ruha guided her camel closer to the Harper’s. “They do, but the desert has always been here. No Bedine can conceive of the chains that will stop him from escaping into it.”

Lander shook his head sadly. “The Zhentarim don’t hold their slaves with chains—”

“They hold them with hostages, blackmail, fear, and worse,” Ruha responded. “But Sa’ar will not know this. He will think only of what the Zhentarim can give him, not what they can take away.”

“If we cannot promise gifts from the Harpers,” Kadumi said, driving his mount to Lander’s opposite side, “perhaps we should concentrate on what we could steal from the Zhentarim. With such a big army, they must have a lot of camels and a fortune in steel blades. Raiding is something Sa’ar will understand.”

Kadumi’s idea was the best they had come up with so far, but Ruha did not think it would work. “Why raid when you can simply ask? Will the Zhentarim not promise all these things in return for an alliance?”

“Being paid is not the same as taking,” Kadumi countered hotly, finally addressing Ruha directly.

The widow was not listening. A sudden flash of insight had just occurred to her. “We can never promise more than the Zhentarim,” she said. “So what we need to do is get rid of the Zhentarim agent before the sheikh makes an agreement.”

Both Kadumi and Lander frowned.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” the Harper said, craning his neck to look at her, “but wouldn’t the sheikh take a dim view of assassinating his guests?”

“We’re not going to kill the Zhentarim,” Ruha laughed, pointing at Lander. “He’s going to try to kill you.”

The Harper frowned, then leaned close to Ruha so Kadumi could not hear what he whispered, “I’m beginning to understand why your visions always come true.”

“Don’t worry,” Ruha replied, speaking aloud to prevent Kadumi from thinking any secrets were being kept from him. “You’ll just make the Zhentarim so mad that he’ll try to kill you.”

Kadumi smiled. “Honor will dictate that the sheikh save you and banish or execute the man who assaulted his guest. You’ll have the sheikh’s ear to yourself.”

“Just in time to warn him about the Zhentarim’s impending attack,” Ruha finished. She leaned close to Lander and added, “Do not worry about the attack I saw on Rahalat’s shoulder, for in the vision you had clearly been surprised by the assault from behind.”

When Kadumi scowled at the widow, she straightened and said, “If the plan works, Lander, you will be expecting the Zhentarim to attack. Kadumi will be there to protect your back, so you will have nothing to fear.” Her brother-in-law stiffened at the compliment.

After a moment’s consideration, Lander nodded. “I can do it.”

They rode the rest of the way to the camp in silence. When they reached the golden grass surrounding the emerald lake, urging the camels onward became more effort than it was worth. They tethered the beasts and walked the rest of the way on foot.

Sa’ar’s camp was typical. Each family had pitched its khreima with the entrance facing the center of the circle. The women were spinning camel’s wool, repairing carpets, and tending to the dozens of other tasks required to maintain a household. The older girls were helping their mothers or watching the youngest children, who were running about between the tents or wrestling in the circle.

As the trio passed through the tent circle, the women welcomed them by whistling from beneath their veils, and the young children paused long enough to stare in openmouthed amazement at Lander’s fair, sunburned skin. Ruha suddenly felt lonely and sad, for the scene reminded her of the life she had enjoyed for only three days, a life she knew she would never have again.

Her sudden melancholy was a stark contrast to the last few days. Since leaving the desolated camps of the Mtair Dhafir, she had been too busy trying to reach Colored Waters, daydreaming about Lander’s homeland, and worrying about the Zhentarim to dwell on her own status. Even Kadumi’s reaction when he discovered her to be a witch had not been very painful. Part of the reason, she knew, was that Lander’s attitude gave her hope of finding someplace she would not be an outcast.

When the trio reached the sheikh’s audience tent, they found a large pavilion made from blond camel’s wool. It was open on all sides, and Ruha could see Sa’ar sitting beneath it next to two guests. The sheikh was a powerfully built man of forty or fifty, his face lined with furrows, his eyes hard with confidence and cunning.

Ruha recognized both of the sheikh’s guests immediately. One of them had flashing blue eyes with skin and hair as pale as white sand. He wore a purple robe and silver bracers, and had been posing as Zarud’s servant in the camp of the Mtair Dhafir. The widow was dismayed to see the pale stranger, for he did not strike her as the type of man who would be easy to provoke into an attack on Lander.

The other guest’s presence surprised Ruha as much as the first one’s presence dismayed her. He stood no more than four-feet tall, was swaddled head to toe in a white burnoose and turban, and looked like one of Lander’s companions at El Ma’ra. If it was the same individual, she could not imagine what he was doing with the Zhentarim.

The trio paused outside the pavilion and waited several seconds. When no one inside seemed to notice their presence, Lander impatiently cleared his throat, bringing the quiet conversation inside to an abrupt halt.

“Has somebody come to my khreima in need of help?” called the sheikh. His voice was deep, confident, and held mild irritation.

“Not in need of help, but bringing it,” the Harper said. “I have come to warn you of treachery.”

Before the sheikh could respond, the short guest called, “And why should the sheikh believe a liar who works fraud upon those he contracts?” He spoke in stilted, accented Bedine.

To Ruha’s surprise, the question drew a smile from Lander. “Bhadla, you’re alive!”

“Musalim did not fare so well,” Bhadla responded, his tone accusatory.

“That is the Zhentarim’s fault, not mine.”

“This business has no place in the tents of the Mahwa,” the sheikh interrupted. “Berrani, won’t you come into my khreima and drink some hot tea?”

“Your hospitality is legendary, Sheikh Sa’ar,” Lander replied, leading the way into the tent and motioning at his two companions. “I am Lander. My friends are Kadumi and Ruha of the Qahtan.”

“Apparently you know Bhadla,” Sa’ar replied, indicating that the trio should sit opposite Bhadla and the Zhentarim. “The D’tarig’s master is Yhekal, sheikh of the Zhentarim.”

Sa’ar’s servant brought a pair of tiny cups and a pot filled with hot salted tea. Sa’ar filled each tiny cup with black, rich-smelling liquid, then handed one to both Lander and Kadumi.

When he saw that the sheikh had ignored Ruha, Lander held his cup out to the young widow. Though the tea smelled delicious, she quickly shook her head to indicate that she did not want the drink. The Mahwa did not permit men and women to eat together, or the sheikh would have offered her a cup himself. Ruha suspected that allowing her to sit in his tent was the extent of the courtesy the sheikh would normally show a strange woman.

Realizing his mistake, Lander withdrew the cup and sipped from it himself.

“Tell me about your journey,” Sa’ar said, inviting Lander into conversation. “Where did you come from? What brings you into the Mother Desert?”

The Harper did not waste any time with pleasantries. Staring at Yhekal with a sneer so offensive that it could only be intentional, he said, “The treachery of the Zhentarim. I have come to warn the Bedine of their plans.”

Sa’ar lifted a brow. “Is that so?”

As Bhadla translated Lander’s statement, Ruha realized that the Zhentarim had learned from his failure with the Mtair Dhafir and was apparently foregoing the use of magic with Sa’ar.

After listening to the translation of Lander’s charge, Yhekal replied to Bhadla calmly, and the D’tarig gave the reply to the Bedine. “My master says he has presented the Zhentarim’s offer to Sheikh Sa’ar. He suggests the Harper do the same for his people.”

“That seems fair,” Sa’ar agreed. “The Zhentarim have offered me steel and gems. What will the Harpers offer?”

“Freedom,” Lander replied with quiet nonchalance. He sipped his tea and watched the Zhentarim as the D’tarig translated the response for his master.

The sheikh snorted. “That is all? We have our freedom.”

“Not after you sell it to the Zhentarim,” Lander replied. “Did Yhekal also tell you how his people treated the Qahtan and the Mtair Dhafir?”

The sheikh nodded, his face showing no other response. “What is that to me? They were not my allies.”

As Sa’ar responded, Ruha noticed a certain satisfaction creeping into Yhekal’s eyes, and she realized that he was secretly using magic to understand Bedine. Thinking of the spell that had influenced her father, Ruha wondered if the purple-robed Zhentarim had also tried it on Sa’ar and failed, or if he was saving it for later.

“Sheikh Sa’ar, the Qahtan and the Mtair Dhafir were your allies, as are all the other khowwans of the desert,” Lander said. He glared at Yhekal, then turned back to Sa’ar and said, “Whether you realize it or not, you have a common enemy. The Zhentarim wish to seize the desert from the Bedine.”

Yhekal started to respond, but caught himself and waited. After Bhadla had translated Lander’s charge and the Zhentarim made a reply in his own language, the D’tarig at last rasped, “My master says that the Harper is not speaking the truth. The Zhentarim do not want anything from the desert. They merely wish to open a trade route across it—with the cooperation of the Bedine tribes, of course.”

“The Zhentarim is a liar!” Kadumi snapped, pointing an accusing finger at Yhekal. “If the Zhentarim wish to make allies, why have they brought so many warriors?”

After patiently waiting for the translation he did not need, Yhekal gave his reply to Bhadla and the D’tarig passed it on. “The desert is a dangerous place,” he said. “One must be prepared.”

“For what?” Kadumi demanded hotly, turning to the sheikh. “They have at least three thousand warriors in their army!”

The sheikh turned to Lander. “Is the boy speaking truly?”

“We can’t be sure of the exact number, Sheikh Sa’ar,” the Harper replied. “It is only an approximate count.”

As her companions spoke, Ruha watched the Zhentarim’s concern. She decided to give him something else to think about. “If I may speak, Sheikh Sa’ar?”

Sa’ar nodded to Ruha. “All who sit in my khreima may speak.”

Ruha inclined her head. “How do you think Yhekal feeds so many in the desert?”

The sheikh frowned thoughtfully. “Now that you ask, I can’t imagine. How?”

Both Lander and Kadumi smiled, anticipating what she would say. She settled her gaze on the Zhentarim, then said, “After the Zhentarim finished with the Mtair Dhafir, they cooked a hundred camels and gave the bodies of the Mtair Dhafir to their reptile soldiers.”

Upon hearing the last part of the report, the sheikh’s mouth turned downward in disgust. “Cannibals,” he hissed. When Bhadla started to translate what had just passed, the sheikh cut him off. “Yhekal obviously understands our words,” Sa’ar said, “and I am tired of playing his game.”

The Zhentarim’s brow furrowed, but he did not lose his temper. “They’re lying, Sheikh,” he said, now speaking Bedine.

The sheikh looked the Zhentarim over thoughtfully. “I don’t think so, Yhekal. You are the one who has presented himself as something he is not.”

“Am I to take that as your reply, then?” the purple-robed invader asked.

The sheikh looked toward the camp outside his tent. “I have not yet decided. Now that I have heard the words of both the Zhentarim and these Harpers,” he said, mistakenly waving his hand at Ruha and Kadumi as well as Lander, “we will discuss the matter. I will send for you when we are ready.”

“As a friend,” Yhekal said, his voice as even and cold as ever, “I warn you not to choose the Harpers over the Zhentarim—”

“Listen to this warning carefully, Sheikh,” Lander interrupted. “Threats are the only truthful words you will ever hear a Zhentarim speak.”

Yhekal closed his mouth, and Ruha saw his hand drop toward his jambiya. For a moment, she thought that the invader might actually lose control of himself and draw his weapon, but Bhadla gently laid a hand on the man’s arm.

“Perhaps we should go, Lord,” the D’tarig said. “Sheikh Sa’ar needs time to consider your proposal.”

The Zhentarim relaxed instantly. Without looking at his translator, Yhekal said, “Of course, Bhadla.” He glared at Lander with a menacing look, then turned to Sheikh Sa’ar. “I hope to hear from you soon—shall we say … tonight?”