Sounds of activity from outside were penetrating the warm, cozy darkness—muffled conversations and laughter, the clatter of cookware being gathered and washed—but Zafirah resisted the rise of consciousness. It was nice here, drifting between wakefulness and sleep. Soft curves and warm skin pressed against her nakedness, complimenting the remnants of a pleasurable dream that lingered in her mind. She could almost still feel Inaya’s mouth on her as it had been last night, mimicking her lost Consort’s ravenous devotions. Every breath she took was spiced with the perfume of passion that permeated the air.
A sharp, booming whip-crack brought Zafirah rudely awake; she sat bolt upright on the sleeping pallet, the familiar sound seeming to pierce through her collarbone like a phantom lance. Clutching her shoulder, adrenaline surging in her blood, she found it suddenly impossible to catch her breath.
Nasheta, curled against her left side under the blanket, blinked sleepily up at her and stretched like a lazy cat basking in the sunlight. “Was that thunder? Falak will be so disappointed if a storm spoils her plan to go out hunting this morn.”
Inaya, however, had read her reaction clearer. She sat up beside Zafirah, reaching out to caress her delicate hand up and down Zafirah’s back, dark eyes regarding her with concern. “What is it?”
“Gunfire,” she replied, hearing the crack in her voice and resenting it.
Guns—Gods, how she hated the things! They offended her to the core of her being. More than a century ago one of Zafirah’s predecessors had banned the use and trafficking of crossbows across the Jaharri. The weapons had gained some popularity among merchants sailing through the port of El’Kasari. Hiring skilled guards to help escort their wares between realms could be expensive, and the crossbows offered a cheaper alternative. With such a weapon in hand, even a man with limited training could be deadly against seasoned warriors who had dedicated years to mastering the ways of sword and spear. As far as Zafirah was concerned, firearms were just a worse, even more dishonorable, version of a crossbow.
Leaving the two pleasure-servants on the pallet, Zafirah went and collected her crumpled trousers, shirt, and vest from where they’d been tossed the night before. She was half-dressed and struggling to get her arms through the tangled sleeves of her shirt when Falak’s voice called from outside. “Scion! Scion, are you awake?” Before she got a response the tall woman had ducked inside. She was breathing hard, her expression tense and anxious. “You need to see this.”
“Are they attacking?”
Catching her breath, Falak shook her head. “Training, it would appear. Out on the field to the north.”
“How many?”
“Less than a hundred. The horses are in a lather, but only a few have bolted far. I have already dispatched some scouts to retrieve them.”
Pulling on her boots, not bothering to lace them tightly, Zafirah left the tent and followed Falak to the perimeter of the muddy camp.
Standing behind one of the wooden shield walls at the outer edge of the camp, Zafirah surveyed the scene. Dae had described the basic tactics used by riflemen in her homeland, and she saw immediately that the outlanders were more disciplined and effective with the weapons than the renegades who had marched under the banner of Shakir Al’Jadin. With their triple-row deployment, Richard’s troops were able to advance or retreat steadily—albeit slowly—while maintaining a steady, consistent rate of fire. The forward row would shoot in unison upon command, then, as they reloaded their weapons with the devil powder which fueled them, the men to the rear would move up to replace them.
“They are disciplined,” she observed, her nose crinkling in disgust; even from this distance she could smell the faint stench of the white smoke the weapons produced. “And see how each man carries his own individual pouch of the black powder? Who knows where they store their main supply of the stuff. If it comes to battle, I cannot imagine them being defeated with the same tactics we employed against Shakir and his army.” Zafirah had ambushed the Calif of the Deharn in a canyon pass, obliterating nearly a third of his forces and splitting the remainder in half by detonating the barrels of explosive powder as their wagons transported them through the Ah’Raf Pass.
Falak seemed to share her disdain, but not her concern. “One volley from my archers, a few javelins tossed their way, and by the time our riders reached them it would only be to pick off the few who fled.”
“Their armor is well-forged steel, Falak, strong enough to turn any arrow or javelin that does not find a seam. It would not be so easy a battle.” Zafirah caught herself rubbing the scar above her collarbone; just the sound of the gunfire was enough to revivify the memory of how it had felt when she’d been shot. “Many would die.”
“This is theatre, Scion. Lord Everdeen’s men come often to watch our warriors train, and there is naught but admiration in their eyes. He probably hopes to impress us with this demonstration…showing off the weapons and his soldier’s skill.”
Zafirah looked at the men and women gathered on either side of her, observing the outlander troops. This was the first time most of them had witnessed the guns in action, and their expressions were grim. “Impressive it may be, but it hardly bodes well for our negotiations. Everdeen grants my request to allow an emissary to visit my Consort one day, the next he bares his teeth. We gain no progress toward a peaceful resolution.”
Falak gave a derisive snort. “The only thing he really achieves with this teeth-gnashing is to spoil my hunt! With all this noise, any game in the forests will have scattered to more peaceful valleys.”
“We have plenty of food, Falak. You can bring in fresh venison tomorrow.”
“Perhaps you might join us on the hunt,” Falak suggested. “It would be a better outlet for your frustration than sparring for hours at a time.”
“The sparring is good for me,” Zafirah argued. “If there is one blessing to this infernal cold and damp, it is that I can train longer and harder without risking exhaustion from heatstroke. But you may be right…a hunt would at least provide some variety of distraction. I have not handled a bow in some time; the challenge would be welcome. For now, however, we should enhance our fortifications as best we can. That last camel train to arrive had several barrels of oil among its inventory, did it not?”
“I believe so, yes.”
“Excellent. Detail some troops to set a few of them around the perimeter of the camp. Not too close to the shield walls, mind you…I would estimate thirty or forty paces out from the trenches should work fine. If Everdeen is foolish enough to attack, I want us prepared to counter…and a barrel of lamp oil set ablaze will explode nearly as well as the outlander powder. Smoke and chaos will provide useful cover against their weapons.”
“I shall see it done, Scion.” Falak gave a curt nod and left her to attend to the matter.
Zafirah turned away from her surveillance of the outlander troops to the hill which rose above the Everdeen estate at the opposite end of the valley. From this distance she could barely make out the shape of the building which lay there, nestled amid the forested ridge line and the greater hills behind it. Falak’s scouts described it as a monastery of Tarsis, the God of Balance and Order who was favored by the Heartlanders. From what Inaya had learned yesterday, it also appeared to serve as some kind of detention facility for women who pursued carnal interests deemed inappropriate by the outlander faith. A ‘reformatory’ she called it…a term Zafirah found particularly offensive.
Anything these easterners cannot understand or agree with, they immediately seek to reform, she thought. Every carnal impulse is a sin to their eyes…every thought of desire an error to be corrected. What pitiful, passionless lives they must endure.
Hazim, her finest wazir, was meeting every other day with his counterpart, Edmund, attempting to negotiate terms for a formal alliance between the Jaharri and the House of Everdeen which would allow for Dae’s release. He had assured her that Edmund was extremely receptive to ending their dispute amicably, but Lord Everdeen seemed determined to make the process as difficult as he possibly could. As frustrating as his obstinance was, and as furious as Zafirah remained over his incursion into her lands to steal Dae from the Herak camp, she was willing to be patient for the sake of her Consort. Richard couldn’t drag this out indefinitely; sooner or later he would have to accept their relationship and release Dae back to her. As much as Zafirah longed to return to her beloved El’Kasari, she was prepared to wait as long as needed if it meant preserving her wife’s relationship with her family.
Recalling the ‘message’ Inaya had delivered at Dae’s behest, Zafirah couldn’t help but smile to herself. It appeared that returning to her family and their prejudices had not dampened Dae’s passions in the slightest; by Inaya’s accounting, if anything their efforts to restore her to her former ignorance and naivete had only emboldened Dae. Recalling the sensation of Inaya’s mouth against her core, how her nimble tongue had darted out to explore her most intimate areas with diligence and fervor, a shiver of excitement made Zafirah’s skin tingle.
Giving the outlander troops a final disgusted look, Zafirah turned away and began making her way back to her tent. Though there would be no hunt today, another source of distraction suddenly occurred to her. Perhaps Everdeen might be encouraged to allow Inaya to visit with her Consort again in the future. If so, she wanted to be certain Dae understood exactly how much she’d enjoyed the creativity of her last communication.
No doubt the two pleasure-servants would be delighted to assist her in composing an appropriate reply.
Chapter 2
Drawing the bowstring back to ear and sighting down the shaft of the arrow, Zafirah felt a slight, sharp ache running from her neck down through her shoulder. Though she had mostly recovered from the injury sustained in battle against Shakir, some activities still pained her. The half-bow she was using required far less strength to pull than the great recurve Falak carried, but Zafirah was pleased to find she could maintain her aim without her arms trembling. When she released the arrow it flew straight and true, sinking into the target tree right where she intended.
“Not bad,” Falak complimented.
“Good enough to bring down a deer,” Zafirah agreed, flexing her arm. “Still hurts, though. I fear I may never recover the ability to wield a more powerful bow.”
“Then let us be grateful nothing of true value was lost to you.”
Zafirah laughed and cuffed her chief scout of the shoulder. “Mind your tongue, cur, or we shall put a blade in your hand and give everyone a little demonstration of what ‘true value’ you have to offer!”
Falak just shot her a playful smirk and made no further comment.
Zafirah and Falak had shared a competitive rivalry since they began their formal training in El’Kasari, though they had pursued very differing paths. While Falak had no peer when it came to her use of a bow, she was little better than mediocre with a blade. Conversely, archery had never been Zafirah’s strongest gift, but with a scimitar in hand she was considered among the finest warriors in all the desert. She could also throw a spear or javelin with deadly precision and was more than capable of holding her own in a hunt.
Shortly before midday, just as a light shower of rain began falling from the sullen gray clouds overhead, Zafirah joined Falak, her bedmate Bahira, and a dozen of her scouts as they headed up into the forested hills to the east of the camp. The hunt provided an excellent distraction, and she was grateful to Falak for inviting her along. Setting thoughts of Dae and her mule-headed father aside, Zafirah sharpened her focus on the surrounding woodlands.
As the group moved slowly and carefully up the slope of the hill, their line spread to cover the terrain more effectively. It wasn’t long before Zafirah found herself alone as she picked her way through the trees. Her ears strained to detect the sound of any game animals moving about in the undergrowth. Hunting in the watered lands was very different from hunting in the desert, and the spahi were still learning from their mistakes and refining their methods. The only reason they had enjoyed such success on their hunts was the fact that their prey were so abundant and accustomed to the louder and more aggressive hunting style favored by the outlanders.
Tense and alert, her eyes bright with the thrill of the hunt, Zafirah moved from tree to tree, taking care to tread as quietly as she could over the thick blanket of pine-needles and bark covering the forest floor. More accustomed to the sand and stone of the desert, her footsteps sounded extremely loud in her ears…but there were just so many tiny twigs and leaves everywhere, moving in total silence seemed impossible. She was glad the sound of falling rain dampened much of the noises she made as she moved up the hillside, scanning the tangled underbrush for any sign of movement.
Wading out of a thick patch of coarse-leafed bracken and scrub brush, Zafirah felt the tiny hairs on her arms and neck suddenly bristle. She froze, listening intently to the unfamiliar sounds of the forest around her; something was amiss. Every instinct that made her such an admired warrior among her people screamed at her that she was being stalked, and Zafirah didn’t pause to question them. She was dropping her bow and reaching for her scimitar even before the rustle of sneaky footfalls approaching from behind had properly registered.
Turning on her heels, she barely had a second to fully assess the large figure rushing toward her in the mottled light. The blade in his hand, already raised to strike, was enough to identify him as an enemy. One of her assailant’s arms—the one not grasping the short, straight sword—moved in a sweeping, horizontal arc, and Zafirah raised her blade the moment she caught the flicker of light off spinning metal. She felt and heard the satisfying clang! as the thrown dagger struck the broad side of her scimitar, deflecting it aside. But the move gave her attacker time to close the distance between them while forcing her into an unfavorable defensive posture.
Zafirah back-peddled quickly as he swung his sword toward her in a feint, managing to bring her own blade across her body just in time to turn aside his true attack—a cunning reverse-handed thrust aimed squarely at her heart. Steel rang against steel as he pressed her back, circling to the side in an attempt to gain the higher ground while keeping her sword engaged with a series of brutal but basic attacks. Zafirah moved to counter him, her footwork far more agile and practiced than his.
“I have no quarrel with you, sir!” she declared, continuing to back warily away. “There need be no cause for bloodshed if you choose to walk away. You have my word you will not be harmed.”
The young man’s grimy face was set in a determined scowl, swinging at her with a mighty but poorly timed blow that cleaved straight through the trunk of a small sapling when she dodged aside. “Only blood that’ll be shed here is your own, sand-scum,” he snarled, revealing yellowed and crooked teeth. “Ye never should’ve come to these lands! Filth like you don’t belong with civilized folk.”
A little more relaxed now that her initial surprise was wearing off, Zafirah twirled her scimitar through the air and grinned. “No mercy, then…as you wish.”
He came on in a fury then, hacking at her as though he hoped to overwhelm her defenses with speed and strength alone. She let him come, dodging or deflecting most of his strikes rather than trying to block his powerful attacks, letting him spend his energy swinging at the air. When he broke off, blade still leveled menacingly at her, she noticed he was breathing hard. The tip of his blade trembled as the hand wielding it grew weary. She threw out a few testing jabs to better gauge her assailant’s skill, and when she managed to work his defensive parries out wide from his body, she saw her opening and took it.
He tried to recover, but it was too late. Though Zafirah’s scimitar was better suited to slashing cuts rather than straight thrusts, its sharp tip slipped easily enough through the man’s cloak, his armor, and under his ribcage to pierce his lung. At precisely the same moment as his eyes shot wide with agony and disbelief, Zafirah felt the man’s body twitch violently. Three raven-fletched arrows had thudded into him from three separate angles. His mouth gaped open silently, eyes bulging. He tried to speak, but any words he might have formed turned to gurgles in his throat, and when he coughed his lips were bloodied. With a grimace of disgust, Zafirah tugged her sword free and let him fall.
The man was four times dead before he landed face down on the forest floor.
“Zafirah!” Falak’s voice, tense and afraid, called out to her, and Zafirah saw her scout master rushing toward her, another arrow already nocked and her wide eyes scanning the woods. “Scion? Are you hurt?”
“No,” Zafirah assured her, seeing Bahira and another of her scouts also moving closer, backs facing her as they searched for any indication the man had not been alone. “No…I am uninjured. He moved quietly, but his attack was clumsy at best.” Zafirah looked at the would-be assassin, digging the toe of her boot under him and flipping him onto his back to see his face. She gave a derisive snort. “As clumsy as it was poorly timed,” she added mildly, looking at the three arrows protruding from the body. Impressively, each of the scout’s arrows had pin-pointed a vital organ.
Falak picked up the straight-bladed short sword the man had carried and studied it curiously. “A peculiar choice for such a direct attack. Why would he not use a more effective weapon in his attempt on your life? These outlanders have guns.”
“Perhaps he feared the sound of such a weapon would raise an alarm too quickly so close to our camp.” Zafirah shrugged, more interested in the man’s armor than his choice of weapon. “He wears the same style and design of clothing and armor as we have seen worn by Lord Everdeen’s soldiers,” she observed, tracing the tip of her blade over the familiar tree-and-crossed-ax sigil etched into the leather.
Falak looked at her, eyes narrowed. “You think Dae’s father sought to kill you?”
“It is possible,” Zafirah allowed…yet her expression and tone suggested doubt.
“But why? He bares his teeth one morning, the next he goes for your throat? I would call that a drastic escalation. Why would he act with such reckless folly? Surely he must realize that killing you would only guarantee a violent reprisal.”
“Perhaps he no longer cares,” Zafirah considered. “A desperate man lost in the sands will often chase mirages promising shade and water, even when his rational mind warns him of the danger. Or perhaps this man was acting without his knowledge. It is possible he may not even be one of Richard’s men, but an impostor.” She gave the ebon-skinned woman a leading look. “Perhaps there are others who might benefit from my death…and from the inevitable and bloody results that would ensue.”
Falak followed the Scion’s line of thought; she was as well-versed in such tactical thinking as Zafirah, and she nodded her head in agreement. “When facing an opponent of equal or greater strength, it is often far easier to first incite that adversary to attack another of his enemies…weaken his forces…before you deliver the killing blow.” She looked at the dead man curiously. “A shame he is unable to confirm that suspicion.”
“True…but whatever the case he may still be useful to us.” Zafirah did not truly believe Dae’s father would be so foolish as to send this assassin—though it was a possibility she could not afford to discount out of hand—but she saw a potential advantage in letting him think she did. “If this poor fool was sent by one of Lord Everdeen’s enemies—and a man in his position must have many—then we may be able to use that fact to further our aim of reconciling peacefully with him.”
“A common threat could indeed make him more amenable…but how do you intend to broach the subject? Richard is not likely to take you at your word.”
“Which is why I have not intention of wasting my breath trying to convince him. My plan is quite the opposite.”
Falak’s brow furrowed in confusion. “You would accuse him of ordering the attack? To what purpose?”
“You will see.” Zafirah gestured to the other two scouts still keeping a watchful eye on their surroundings. “You two…lift him up. We take him with us back to camp. He should prove useful adding weight to my next meeting with Dae’s father.”
As the scouts wrestled the corpse up and shouldered their gristly burden, Zafirah retrieved her bow and slung it over her neck. She was a little disappointed to be abandoning the hunt so early. Still, she thought, the ultimate prize of this expedition was Dae’s safe return…and she needed time to consider, revise, and solidify the still-hazy plan this attempt on her life had inspired. She and her army had been absent from the desert a long time now, and though Zafirah knew she would never leave these lands without her Consort, a speedy resolution was still her highest priority.
If Dae’s father would not be swayed by the lure of compensation for his daughter’s return, perhaps it would be helpful for him to see that his continued stubbornness had tempted a rival to take action against him…and might actually endanger his rule.
As they approached the camp, several of the scouts perched on their treetop platforms saw them coming and realized something was amiss. Their alarm-calls brought more spahi to meet their arrival, and Bahira and her friend looked rather relieved when they handed over the dead weight of the assassin’s body.
“What is this?” one of the spahi asked, reaching the obvious conclusion before Zafirah could reply. “Scion…you were attacked? Are you injured?”
“Hardly,” she scoffed dismissively, knowing it would be better not to exaggerate the threat in front of her warriors. The spahi were fiercely loyal to—and protective of—her, and if one of Lord Everdeen’s rivals was indeed behind the attack, Zafirah had no intention of playing into his hands by stirring up animosity toward Dae’s father. “These outlanders have clearly spent too much time relying on their guns, for their skill with more honorable weapons leaves much room for improvement.”
The spahi seemed reassured, but they regarded the dead man with dark looks. “Who sent him? Did he say anything before he died?”
“Little worth hearing…just the bravado of one more accustomed to bullying than battle.” She shrugged, as though the issue were beneath her concern. “I have heard that bandits and thieves from the southern lands sometimes range north through the forests. Perhaps he was such a man, tempted by the sight of a lone wanderer and thinking he had found easy sport.”
The spahi laughed at that. “Justice, then, that his folly led him to you rather than one less capable with a blade.”
Zafirah gave Falak a leading look and said, “Have our unfortunate antagonist covered up and secured some place out of the way. And all of you—” Her eyes pinned each of the warriors sternly. “—spread no word of this incident further until I have had time to consider the matter in more detail. When you have seen to your task, send word for Hazim to attend me. I wish to arrange another audience with the Lord of Everdeen.”
The warriors all nodded their understanding. After wrapping the corpse in several cloaks, they lifted it up and began making their way back down to the camp. Zafirah followed, already strategizing how best to approach her Consort’s stubborn father at their next meeting.