The Parched Sea

Four

By dawn the god of tempests, Kozah, had vented his wrath. The storm died, leaving a hot, dreary calm in its place. The heavy, windborne sand dropped back to the ground, but a pall of silt lingered high in the heavens, diffusing At’ar’s morning radiance and setting the eastern horizon ablaze with crimson light. Ruha knew it would be many more days before the dust returned to the ground and Kozah’s mark disappeared from the morning sky.

The widow went to the oasis pond and knelt at its edge, then rinsed the night’s grit from her mouth. She and Kadumi had spent the night huddled under the remnants of her khreima, but the wind had worked its way under the heavy camel-hair tarp, covering her aba with sand and coating her nose and mouth with dust. More than once during the night, she had awakened with the feeling of being suffocated and found herself spitting out a mouthful of powdery silt.

Kadumi came and stood behind Ruha until she put her veil back in place, then kneeled beside her and splashed water over his grimy face. “Kozah must be angry with At’ar again,” the boy said. “Maybe he saw the faithless harlot entering N’asr’s tent. I have not seen such a storm in a year.” He looked toward the camp.

The boy’s camels were couched near where he and Ruha had slept, though so much sand had gathered against their windward sides that they looked more like a string of miniature dunes than a line of dromedaries. Beyond the half-buried beasts, the fallen tents of the Qahtani were covered by small knolls of sand. The only clue to what lay beneath the drifts were protruding bits of dyed cloth. Mounds of yellow sand buried even the stone-covered graves Ruha and Kadumi had dug for Ajaman and his father’s family.

“I don’t think Kozah is angry with At’ar,” Ruha said, astounded by how tranquil the oasis looked compared to the gruesome scene she and Kadumi had found yesterday. “I think he is offended by the sight of the massacre.”

Kadumi’s mouth tightened, and he surveyed the oasis with narrowed eyes. “Then let us hope we can reach your father’s tribe before this caravan of fork-tongued monsters,” he said. “It would not be good if they made Kozah angry again.”

The boy glanced at the sky for several moments, then looked back to Ruha and said, “With the dust from yesterday’s storm still hanging in the sky, at least it will be a cool day. We’ll trot our mounts. With luck, we won’t lose them.”

Ruha caught his arm, concerned. Pushing camels hard over long distances dehydrated them, which could be fatal for both animal and rider if they happened to collapse too far from water.

“Do you think it’s wise to take such a risk?” she asked. “Even with favorable weather and extra mounts, we’re a day and a half behind the caravan. If the drivers know where they’re going and want to get there fast, we can ride all your camels to death only to find more corpses at Rahalat.”

“The Mtair Dhafir are allies of the Qahtan. It would be dishonorable not to alert them to the danger,” Kadumi said, freeing his arm. “Besides, I thought you’d want to warn your father’s tribe.”

“I do, but I don’t want to die trying—especially since the strangers could already be there.”.

“The caravan might have reached Rahalat already,” Kadumi conceded, “but I don’t think so. Whoever they are, they’re not from Anauroch, so I don’t think it’ll be easy for them to find the shunned mountain.”

“They found El Ma’ra easily enough,” Ruha pointed out.

Kadumi scowled. “Is there some reason you don’t want to go to the Mtair Dhafir?”

Behind her veil, Ruha bit her lip. Her brother-in-law was right, she realized. She was not anxious to return to the Mtair Dhafir because of the reception she would receive. Forcing herself to put aside her anxiety, the widow shook her head. “No, we must warn my father’s tribe. I just don’t want to risk our lives for no reason.”

“The caravan might be slower than you think,” he said, “or it might not know about Rahalat. We can’t tell about these things. The only thing we can do is get there as fast as we can.”

Kadumi turned toward his camels again. This time Ruha followed, feeling a little foolish at being lectured by a thirteen-year-old boy.

They wasted little time preparing to leave. While Kadumi watered his animals and filled half-a-dozen waterskins, Ruha packed some food and their belongings into a pair of kuerabiches. After tying the sacks onto a saddle, the pair mounted and, ignoring the bellowed protests of the camels, started westward at a trot.

The storm had spread a deep layer of shifting sand over the ground, but the unsteady footing did not bother their mounts. With the broad, fleshy pads of their feet, the camels sank less than two inches with each step and barely slowed their pace. Ruha and Kadumi rode all day, changing mounts every hour to avoid exhausting them. Other than these brief pauses, they did not stop. By midday, they had reached the region of the great white dunes, and by dusk Rahalat was poking its gray crown above the horizon.

They stopped long enough to eat a meal of camel’s milk and sun-dried fruits in weary silence, then continued their bone-jarring ride in the dark. They circled a few miles north, just to be sure that they did not overtake either the caravan or the one-eyed stranger. The pair did not stop or allow themselves any rest until the moon’s milky light began to fade and their sore backs felt like they would crack with the next step. When they did lie down, covering themselves only with their night cloaks, they did not even notice the bone-chilling cold.

They rose with At’ar and continued westward in the dawn’s ruddy light. Rahalat now loomed directly ahead, its gray crags obscuring the largest part of the western horizon. Ruha could even see the shunned mountain’s familiar slopes of loose rock and the boulders strewn about its base. Remembering that they had been nearly seventy miles away at this time the previous morning, the widow found it difficult to believe they had come so far so quickly.

Ruha and Kadumi rode for several more hours, and the sand gave way to stony ridges. As they started up the first rise at the base of the mountain, an amarat sounded. The pair stopped their camels side-by-side and waited for someone to challenge them.

“We made it,” Kadumi announced. “If guards are posted, there’s still a tribe.”

As he spoke, a short, gaunt sentry appeared from the other side of the ridge. He waved Ruha and Kadumi the last hundred yards up the hill, then awaited them with his hands on his hips.

As the widow and her brother-in-law reached the summit, Ruha recognized the sentry as Al’Aif, a ferocious warrior who had killed more men than anyone else in the tribe. The left side of his face was marred by four red scars where a lion had mauled him, and a sentry’s dagger had left his right eyelid folded over at the corner. Al’Aif was also one of the men who had insisted that Ruha be banished from the tribe.

For the moment, Al’Aif seemed content to ignore Ruha. He eyed Kadumi’s string of white camels appreciatively. “A fine string of goouds,” he commented to the boy, using the special term that applied to mature camels. “I have heard that the sheikh of the Bordjias lost ten white camels.”

Kadumi smiled proudly. “He did not lose them. Kadumi of the Qahtan took them,” the boy bragged.

The frank admission elicited an appreciative smile. “The Bordjias are our allies,” Al’Aif said. “I hope you did not kill many men when you stole them.”

Kadumi shrugged. “No, not many.”

Al’Aif chuckled at the boy’s swagger, then eyed Ruha. “I thought the Mtair Dhafir rid of you.”

“And I of them,” she answered, lifting her chin. “But I return out of duty, not desire, Al’Aif.”

Kadumi frowned at the apparent enmity between the two. “We are all that remains of the Qahtan. We have come to warn your sheikh of the danger that destroyed our tribe.”

Al’Aif raised an eyebrow. “Does this danger have to do with black-robed men and a caravan larger than ten tribes?”

“How did you know?” Ruha and Kadumi asked together.

Al’Aif pointed to the south. “They are camped at the Bitter Well. They have sent two jackals with tongues of sugared water to speak of alliances.” The Mtair gestured at one of Kadumi’s camels, then said, “If you’ll lend me a ride, I’ll take you to camp. I want the sheikh to speak with you as soon as possible.”

Al’Aif led the party to a gulch filled with the drooping, twiggy branches of ghaf trees and lined with tasseled sedges of qassis bushes. The tinkle of a tiny stream rang from the bottom of the draw, and the camels, thirsty from yesterday’s hard ride, bellowed angrily at not being allowed to stop and drink.

As the trio rode into camp, the old women and the children gathered outside their tents. When Ruha passed, many of them hissed and trilled disapprovingly. One little boy even yelled at her to go away.

Kadumi’s outrage showed on his scowling face. “This is a disgrace,” he uttered, addressing Al’Aif. “Do the Mtair Dhafir treat all their guests so wretchedly?”

“They do not mean to offend you,” Ruha said. “Their disdain is for me alone. There is something you should—”

Al’Aif lifted a hand to silence her. “They believe Ruha has shamed the tribe by violating her purdah,” said the gaunt Mtair. “To them, it looks as if she is returning to her father.”

The older warrior’s words satisfied Kadumi. “Of course,” the boy said, smiling and nodding to the angry women. “I should have realized how her return would look to such an honorable tribe.”

Behind the boy’s back, Ruha raised an eyebrow to Al’Aif. The last thing she had expected him to do was lie on her behalf. The Mtair responded with a quick shrug, then nodded toward her father’s tent and continued forward. Ruha could not guess the meaning of the gaunt warrior’s gesture.

Outside the sheikh’s khreima, they left their camels with a herdboy. Al’Aif entered the tent without announcement, as was the right of any warrior in the Mtair Dhafir. He motioned for Ruha and Kadumi to follow.

Inside, Ruha’s father sat upon a gaily colored ground carpet at the far end of the tent. He was a bony old man with cloudy eyes and a wispy gray beard. Across from him sat a man wearing a black burnoose. Though his face was swaddled in a turban, the cloth had been pulled down to reveal a silky mustache and sharp features. In front of each man sat a small silver cup filled with hot salted coffee.

Behind the stranger stood a second man, this one with skin and hair as pale as white sand. A hooded robe of deep purple hung off his shoulders, and a pair of silver bracers encircled his wrists. He held himself in the humble posture of a servant, but when his flashing blue eyes inspected Ruha and her companions, the widow immediately suspected that this man was more than he wished to seem.

The sheikh and the seated stranger continued speaking in low, muted tones, neither appearing to notice the trio’s presence.

Al’Aif stepped forward. “Sheikh Sabkhat,” he called.

Ruha’s father scowled. Addressing the seated man, he said, “Excuse me, El Zarud.” As the sheikh looked in the trio’s direction, his eyes seemed glazed and vacant. “What?”

Al’Aif pointed at Kadumi and Ruha. “I bring visitors from the Qahtan,” he said. “They have come to warn you about the strangers.”

“Warn me?” the sheikh frowned. “Of what? The Zhentarim are our friends.” He waved a hand to dismiss the trio, then looked back to Zarud with a smile.

Kadumi’s jaw dropped, and he seemed too surprised at the sheikh’s rudeness to speak.

The gaunt Mtair turned to Ruha. “I have never seen him like this.” Al’Aif put his mouth close to the widow’s ear so that Kadumi would not hear his question, then whispered, “Is it magic?”

Ruha now understood why the gaunt warrior had lied to Kadumi. He believed the strangers were using magic to influence the sheikh and wanted her to confirm his suspicions. The widow placed her veiled lips next to the scarred man’s ear, then whispered, “I had never thought to see the day when the mighty Al’Aif asked a witch for help.”

The Mtair shrugged sheepishly. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” he said, repeating an old Bedine saying. “Now, tell me what you can about what is happening here.”

Kadumi frowned at their secretive exchange, but the boy still seemed too confused by the sheikh’s behavior to question his companions.

Ruha looked toward the other end of the tent and noticed the pale stranger watching her with his stony eyes. When she met his gaze, the man did not look away.

“Well?” Al’Aif prodded.

The widow studied her glassy-eyed father for a few moments. The sheikh was listening intently to the muted words of the seated stranger and was repeatedly nodding his head in agreement. Her father had always been a careful listener, but there was something in the steady rhythm of his bobbing head that made her think he was not so much listening as being mesmerized. She had no way of telling for sure, but it seemed to her that something had separated her father from his wits.

Ruha looked to the Mtair and nodded.

“As I thought!” Before the widow realized what was happening, Al’Aif drew his jambiya and started toward other side of the tent. “Out, dogs and sons of dogs!” he yelled. “Release the sheikh, or your brothers will lap your blood from the carpet!”

“Al’Aif!” roared Ruha’s father. “You dare defile the hospitality of my khreima?”

The sheikh’s protest did not slow the warrior. In four steps, he was at the back of the seated stranger, the blade of his weapon pressed against the man’s throat. “Forgive me, Sheikh,” he said, “but they have used magic. You’re under their power.”

“Don’t be foolish,” snapped the sheikh.

The pale stranger frowned in concentration, then began to fumble about in the pockets of his robe. Guessing that he was preparing to cast a spell, Ruha reached for her own dagger and started across the room. Before the widow had gone two steps, Kadumi dashed past her and pressed the tip of his jambiya against the belly of the purple-robed man.

“If your hand is not empty when it comes out,” the youth said, “my knife will search for your heart.”

The sheikh rose and started toward Al’Aif. “I will not allow this!”

Ruha intercepted the old man. “Listen to Al’Aif, Father.”

The sheikh’s eyes seemed to clear. “Ruha?”

“Yes.”

Her father closed his eyes for a long moment. When he opened them, they seemed vacant once again. “What are you doing here, Daughter?” His voice was a bit too calm. “Why aren’t you with your husband?”

“I am a widow,” she replied, glaring at the purple-robed man Kadumi still held at bay.

The sheikh sighed deeply. “I am sorry to hear that, Daughter,” he said. “But your place is still with the Qahtan. They are your tribe now.”

“I am with the Qahtan,” Ruha replied, motioning to Kadumi. “This is my husband’s brother. He and I are all that remain.”

Zarud scowled, but when he tried to speak Al’Aif pressed the knife more tightly against his throat.

“How can this be?” asked Ruha’s father, his brow knotted in confusion.

“The Zhentarim massacred them,” Al’Aif said. “Isn’t that so, Zarud?”

The dark-robed man did not respond, but the question drew the sheikh’s attention back to his guests. “How many times must I command you to release my guests, Al’Aif?” He acted as if he had not even heard the accusation made against the Zhentarim agents.

“A hundred times will not be enough, my sheikh,” the warrior responded. “Not while they are using magic.” He drew Zarud’s head back, then scraped the blade along the captive’s throat as if shaving him. “Tell Sheikh Sabkhat you’ve been using magic,” he said. “Tell him or die.”

It was the pale stranger who Kadumi guarded that answered. “Your man speaks the truth, Sheikh. We meant no harm. I cast a spell so we could speak your language. That was all.” The stranger glanced at Ruha and frowned, then turned his attention back to her father. “Please accept my apologies if we offended you.”

The old sheikh looked from his daughter to Al’Aif to the pale stranger, then dropped his gaze to the ground and shook his head in confusion. He remained that way for several moments, and they all waited for his response in silence.

Finally he turned toward Zarud. “No tribe has abided magic in all the generations since the Scattering,” he said.

“The Scattering?” asked the pale man.

“My father told me that once there were three great tribes of Bedine,” the sheikh said, beginning the explanation with the words traditionally used to denote a myth. “The sheikhs of these Three Ancient Tribes dreamed of ruling all the people, and so they had their sorcerers summon N’asr’s denizens to make war upon each other. The war destroyed the land and gave birth to Anauroch. It took the gods themselves to set the world right again, and some of them died before the carnage could be stopped.”

Al’Aif interrupted and bruskly finished the account. “The surviving gods scattered the Three Tribes to the corners of the world and forbade them to ever use magic again,” he said, glaring at the purple-robed stranger. “That is why you must leave, Zhentarim.”

The pale man ignored Al’Aif and looked to Ruha’s father. “We are outsiders and did not know your customs, Sheikh Sabkhat. Surely we can be forgiven for this small mistake.”

The sheikh nodded at the stranger’s words, then began, “What you say is true. Perhaps we can overlook—”

“Father!” Ruha interrupted, locking gazes with him. “How can you make an exception for them?”

As the widow had hoped, her father found it difficult to reconcile making an exception for his guests when he had not made one for his daughter. He looked away, halfheartedly mumbling, “They don’t know our customs.”

“Were they unaware that it is not customary to attack a tribe with no cause?” Ruha pressed. “Will you ignore the oaths you swore with the Qahtan and make peace with those who slaughtered them?”

The sheikh looked to his daughter in horrified disbelief, then turned to Zarud. “Is this true?”

Zarud looked to the pale man.

“If you lie, my knife will open your stomach,” Kadumi threatened, moving the blade toward the stranger’s solar plexus.

Still speaking in an amiable, melodious voice, the pale Zhentarim said, “Lord Zarud made the same offer to the Qahtan that he presented to you. They refused.”

“And you massacred them,” Ruha finished spitefully.

The man shrugged, and an artificial smile crept across his lips. “You and the boy are alive. That is what’s important, is it not?” He turned to Ruha’s father and inclined his head respectfully. “Lord Zarud has extended the hand of the Zhentarim in friendship. You may ask the Qahtani about the consequences of refusing it.” Even as he uttered the warning, his words remained as sweet as nectar.

The threat seemed to kindle a light in the old sheikh’s eyes, but they grew confused and vacant again almost immediately. He turned toward Zarud, then said, “This is not a decision I can make alone. I will consult with the elders tomorrow, and then we will give you our decision. Until then, you may stay as a guest in my camp.”

Zarud nodded. “I am confident you will make a wise decision.”

Without looking away from Zarud, Ruha’s father pointed at the pale man. “Your servant—if that is what he truly is—must go. He has used magic in my tent, and that I cannot abide.”

Zarud looked panicked. “How will we talk?”

The pale man raised a hand to comfort his fellow. “Whatever the answer may be, I am sure Sheikh Sabkhat will make it known to you.” He gave Ruha a long, thoughtful glance, then continued, “If my presence makes our host uneasy, then it would be better if I left. Perhaps you will walk me to my camel and tell me what I should relay to our masters—provided, of course, that the sheikh can secure our release.”

Ruha’s father scowled at Al’Aif. “The time has come to release our guests, unless you intend to kill them against my wishes.”

The gaunt warrior reluctantly nodded to Kadumi, then they both stepped away from their captives. Neither one of them sheathed their weapons until the two Zhentarim had left the khreima.

Ruha’s father returned to his seat, then held his head in his hands for several minutes. When the sheikh finally looked up, his face was ashen and his brow drooping with fatigue. The light had returned to his eyes, though, and the widow could tell that her father had regained control of his own will.

“Are you well, Sheikh?” asked Al’Aif.

“Who can say? I thought I was well before, but my judgment was apparently clouded,” the old man answered. He turned to his daughter with genuine hurt in his eyes, then said, “Ruha, I cannot tell you how sad it makes me to see you here.”

Ruha understood exactly what her father meant. As a man, he loved his daughter. At the same time, he was the tribe’s sheikh and her presence would open a wide schism in the gathered families. Her return could only force him to make a decision as painful for him as it would be for her.

“Don’t be sad for me, Father,” the widow said. “I only returned to warn you of the danger that destroyed the Qahtan. I have no wish to burden the Mtair Dhafir.”

Kadumi betrayed his bewilderment at this comment by furrowing his brow, but he politely waited for the sheikh to address him and did not say anything.

The sheikh pondered Ruha’s answer for a moment, then wearily nodded his head. “You have always performed your duty well.” He turned to Kadumi and raised an eyebrow.

“This is Kadumi,” Ruha said, reacting to her father’s signal of interest. “He is a son of the same mother as Ajaman.”

The sheikh nodded grimly. “The Mtair Dhafir always have need of another blade. Al’Aif will make you welcome in his tent, I am sure.”

Kadumi’s eyes lit, and he could not restrain a proud smile, for the sheikh was treating him as a full warrior. Nevertheless, the youth glanced toward Ruha. “You are kind, but in my brother’s absence, I must watch over his wife.”

The young widow and Al’Aif grimaced simultaneously. Reaching for her brother-in-law’s arm, the widow said, “Kadumi, perhaps there is something I should say to you—”

The sheikh waved a weary hand to cut her off. “Say it later,” he ordered. Turning to the boy, he said, “Ruha will be welcome in the khreimas of her father for as long as she cares to stay. Now, you will excuse us. I must hear exactly what happened to the Qahtan.”