Chapter 4
At dawn the following morning, with a thin fog hanging in the still, chilly air, Richard made his way across the formal gardens toward the Jaharri camp, walking with a steady, martial gait. Two of his soldiers acted as his escort, marching a few paces behind him. Beneath his rich, formal attire he wore a vest of light leather armor—a precaution Simone had insisted upon. A longsword was belted at his right hip, a flintlock pistol at his left, though he had come armed only so he might present the weapons upon his surrender; he was unfamiliar with the protocols of Jaharri hostage-taking, but it seemed the proper thing to do. He hoped this easy capitulation might lull the Jaharri into complacency and they would overlook the dagger tucked into his boot.
He did not like the thought of going unarmed into a camp of enemies.
He’d spent most of last night with Simone, comforting her and trying to reassure her that he was making the right decision. She’d begged him not to leave her, to send one of his men instead, but Richard refused her pleas. He explained to her gently that if he did as she wanted, the strength of his word, of his honor as a nobleman, would be tarnished…but that wasn’t the whole truth of it. No…the truth was something less tangible, less easily defined. He couldn’t have explained it to Simone, because he couldn’t really explain it to himself. But two facts had become clearer in his mind—firstly, unless he wanted to defy his King and initiate a war against a powerful adversary, he couldn’t deny the Scion’s claim on Dae indefinitely…and secondly, that if he was ever going to come to terms with handing his only daughter back to this strange desert creature, he needed to see for himself what manner of woman she truly was.
Approaching the line of shield-walls which surrounded the camp, Richard saw a small cluster of figures waiting between the twin banners which marked the entrance. The banners each sported a sigil of a white lotus flower on an azure field—the Scion’s crest, he believed. Zafirah was not among the group, but Richard recognized the tall, ebon-skinned woman standing at their fore as her lead archer.
“Welcome, your Lordship,” she greeted, offering a small bow. “My Scion sends apology that she could not be present to accept your surrender personally, but other matters demanded her attention. She bid me attend you in her stead. I am Falak, the Scion’s scout-master and military second-in-command.”
Richard unbuckled his belt, relinquishing the longsword and pistol from his side, and presented them to the tall woman. “As agreed, I submit myself to act as hostage to preserve our peace and demonstrate the honor of my word. I relinquish my weapons to your custody.”
Falak considered the offered weapons, her eyes cool. Taking the pistol from him, plucking it from its holster with just her thumb and forefinger as though loath to touch it, she passed it to one of the spahi standing at her side. The man likewise handled the weapon as though it were an object of deepest revulsion. But rather than accepting the sword, Falak instead laid her slender fingers upon the scabbard and pressed it back to his chest. “That you may keep,” she said.
Richard eyed her skeptically, suspecting some trick. “You would allow a hostage—an enemy—to come armed into your camp?”
“You are a warrior, are you not?”
He stiffened slightly, wondering for a moment if he was being mocked. Though he’d trained in swordplay since his youth, as most men born to nobility did, Richard had never put those skills to the test in open combat. His grandfather had fought in the War of Red Mud some eighty years ago, when marauders from the southlands had swept north through the forested hills, and his great-grandfather had joined the rebellion known as the War of the Heart, which won King Gerald’s ancestor his throne; those wars were a distant memory for most in the peaceful Heartland. A few times Richard had ridden out with his soldiers to hunt down smaller, less organized groups of raiders, but he had never come close to the fighting. When he saw that the woman was sincere, he nodded. “I am.”
“Then it is your sacred right to wield steel in defense of your life. You come to us as hostage, not prisoner; the trust you place in us by surrendering your freedom, we return by not divesting you of weapons. Come…a tent has already been prepared for your accommodation.”
Buckling the sword back at his hip, already curious in spite of himself, Richard nodded to his own men for them to leave. They snapped a salute, turned, and departed.
As they made their way through the labyrinth of tents, Richard had time to study his stoic guide. Falak stood an inch or two taller than himself, and though slender she was well muscled. Certainly she appeared strong enough to handle the great recurve bow she carried slung over her shoulder. Her dark hair was tied into an elaborate pattern of thin braids, several of which appeared to have been threaded with black feathers and glittering brass beads. A necklace of simple cord encircled her neck in several loops, adorned with what he first thought to be ornamental arrowheads. It took him a moment to realize that the cord was actually a bowstring, and the arrowheads were steel broadheads, polished to near-mirror finish.
Even her ornaments are functional, he thought to himself.
Lacking any real knowledge of the Jaharri or their customs, Richard had recently delved into some of the journals kept by his great-granduncle, Lord Klifton. Following the War of the Heart, Klifton had spent many years travelling the wider world for the new King, establishing fresh alliances and garnering favor with other leaders. Richard had always envied Klifton his adventurous life, but looking at Falak’s dark skin and braided hair recalled details of some of his dealings with the Jaharri to mind. “Are you from one of the northern tribes?”
Falak glanced at him, one eyebrow raised in mild surprise. “Indeed. I am the third daughter of sheikh Jabari Al’Hamza, leader of the Iskindar tribe. How did you know?”
“I read of the sailor-nomads in some old family journals; one of my ancestors had dealings with your people a long time ago. ‘Dark of skin and eye,’ he wrote, ‘the men and women alike wear their hair long, braided and adorned with shells and pearls and other baubles from the sea.’ Based on his writings I’d think one of your lineage might be more suited commanding the Scion’s navy, not her archers.”
Falak chuckled at his words, the expression softening her stern features. “My father would agree with you. It was his wish that one day I might assume such a mantle, or perhaps lead a merchant fleet trading with distant lands. ‘We are people of stone and salt and foam,’ he used to tell me, ‘and it is on the seas that your glory will shine brightest for all to see.’ But when he sent me to El’Kasari to train in the warrior arts, it quickly became clear to my instructors that my skills lay elsewhere. The Scion and I were of an age with one another, and we came to be very close during our training. As her brilliance with blade and spear grew, so too did my talent with bow and javelin. After she assumed her father’s title, Zafirah named me as her second and gave me command of her archers and scouts.”
“And your father?”
“It took him some time, but he came to accept that my place was not aboard ship. Of course, he had the comfort of two other daughters and a son who pursued a life on the waves.” Falak’s pace had slowed during their conversation, and she eyed him curiously. “You learned of my people from the writings of your forebears?”
“My great-grandfather’s brother travelled extensively in the years after the last uprising. He was charged with delivering the new King’s crown, scepter, and the royal jewels from where they had been secreted in the Tasurik Empire back to the capital of Farlon. In his writings I learned he hired ships crewed by the northern tribes to escort his party between the two regions, fearing the intervention of those few still loyal to the tyrant King Firworth. He was wise to be cautious; pirates from the Exile Isles sent raiders to intercept them and steal their precious cargo. They fought near a dozen battles over three days and four nights on the crossing, lost two ships to fire and another to the shallow rocks off the Swordsheer coast, but their mission was successful. In his journal he praised the courage and fortitude of their Jaharri escort, who honored their pledge to protect their crossing even when the fighting was at its bloodiest…when flight would have seemed the smarter course.”
Falak stopped in her tracks and regarded him with deeper interest. “My grandmother’s mother captained one of those ships,” she said, her voice tinged with surprised wonder. “When I was young my grandmother would tell me tales of her mother’s adventures at sea, and I remember well the story of that journey. It was always a favorite of mine. The pirates were said to be especially fearsome and tenacious in their pursuit, knowing they could name any price as ransom for the jewels and the new King of the eastern lands would pay it. A curious thing, is it not, that their descendants would cross paths again?”
“Most curious…and a shame that we must meet under these circumstances. As enemies.”
“Hmm. Perhaps.”
They continued on through the camp until they neared the center, where Falak directed them to a canvas tent, distinctive among all the others for its larger size and more elaborate markings. “Here we are, your Lordship. I know the camp may be sparse in terms of luxury, but you should be dry and comfortable enough. These men are Rafir and Sadiq.” The two spahi nodded at their names to identify themselves. “They will remain with you while you are in our custody; should you have any needs, simply ask and they will do their best to accommodate you. Now, if you will pardon me, I have duties of my own which require my attention.”
“Of course.” The tent didn’t look so terribly dissimilar to those he’d slept in whenever he rode with his men to hunt down bandits from the south. As Richard turned to inspect his new quarters, Falak turned back.
“Oh, and to clarify—you are the Lord father of my Scion’s Consort; let us not say we are enemies, but rather…allies who are yet to find common ground. Perhaps while you are among us, you will come to see that our people are more alike to you and yours than you believe.”
Richard held the woman’s intense gaze for a long moment, allowing himself a half-smile, before replying with a simple, “Perhaps.” Watching her depart, he found himself admiring her long, graceful stride and the air of command she exhibited. For the first time, Richard admitted to himself that it was possible these Jaharri might indeed possess some qualities of merit.
* * *
“She did what?”
Confused and skeptical, Dae struggled to process the news her mother had relayed. The two were standing in front of the stained-glass window of the monastery—it seemed neither of her parents felt comfortable coming into the reformatory itself—and she could hear the bewilderment in her own voice as it echoed about the otherwise empty hall.
She and her roommates had been tending to laundry duty all morning, so her skirt had a large damp spot marking it from the hem to her knees, and her hands looked as though they’d been pickled in brine. When she’d been called away, she hoped it would be to receive word that her father had finally come to his senses; certainly she hadn’t expected to hear what her mother was telling her. Some part of Dae couldn’t help but wonder if this was just another deception her parents had concocted to turn her against Zafirah.
But the fear in her mother’s eyes and the anxious air surrounding her seemed sincere enough. “I swear it’s the truth, Dae, she’s taken your father prisoner! He’s being held as a hostage in their camp right now, and your ‘honorable’ Scion has made it clear he won’t be released until he submits to her demands! Please, darling, this situation is growing more precarious by the day. You must tell her to leave, to accept that this is where you belong, or I fear for what may happen to your father.”
It made no sense; Dae could tell her mother was leaving something out…omitting some critical detail to frame Zafirah as the villain of her story. “Why?”
“‘Why?’ What do you mean ‘why’?”
“Why any of it. I can’t imagine Zafirah taking such action without cause or careful thought. She’d never just command father to be her prisoner out of nowhere, nor would he ever agree to such a thing. It makes no sense whatsoever. I can’t help unless you tell me everything that happened.”
Simone’s eyes darted away and she gave a slight shrug. “Well…she didn’t specifically request your father, he volunteered…but only to spare any of the soldiers from risking their lives. He was defending the honor of his word! She concocted some lunatic story…something about an assassin attacking her out in the woods, but—”
Dae’s eyes widened in alarm. “An assassin!? W-was Zafirah injured? Is she alright?”
Her mother stared at her in mute shock for a long moment “This is how you react? Your father’s life may be in peril and you care more for the one who holds the sword to his neck? How can you be so callous?” Dae continued staring at her, unblinking, until she finally said, “She’s fine, from what I could tell…which is more than can be said for the poor wretch she claims attacked her.”
Relieved, Dae released the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “That’s good…good.” This was starting to make sense now. In the harem she’d heard several tales which featured an exchange of hostages, typically to prevent one tribe from raiding a rival. These stories were quite popular among the pleasure-servants, who had a habit of embellishing them with a little creative license which typically resulted in the hostage succumbing to the amorous advances of one (and frequently more than one) of their captors. To the Jaharri, who had few taboos regarding sex, such liaisons between opposing tribes were viewed as deliciously forbidden. Despite their recent conflict, Dae could tell her mother was genuinely distraught over Richard being taken hostage…and she took a moment to remind herself how the situation must appear to someone unfamiliar with the custom.
“I know it may seem like a hostile act to you, Mother, but taking a hostage like this is typically an indication of peaceful intent. You needn’t worry for Father’s safety in the camp; he’ll be treated well, I promise. The only risk to him will be if the attack is repeated.” A note of suspicion crept into her voice, and she eyed her mother bluntly. “Zafirah wouldn’t have laid such an accusation at Father’s feet without good reason. Did he threaten her? Give her any cause to suggest he had a hand in the attack? I warned you she would not respond lightly to insults or threats, but did you listen? Of course not! You haven’t listened to a damned word I’ve said since I returned. And now I’m forced to wonder how far my own father might go to rid himself of the woman I love.”
“That’s not fair, Dae. We may not agree with or approve of this ‘union’ between you and the Scion, and I realize that in his frustration your father may have made certain regrettable comments, but he’d never stoop to such dishonorable tactics as hiring an assassin. Surely you can’t believe he’d be capable of—”
“Of what? Ordering the murder of the beast who sullies his daughter’s virtue and the honor of his good name? I don’t know, Mother. Is the notion really so implausible?”
“Never,” Simone said, resolute and unwavering. “He may have idly considered such an option—even I can’t say I never conjured the thought of how much simpler things would be if the Scion were to meet such an end—but he’d never act upon it. The assassin was clad in armor bearing the crest of an Everdeen soldier; that’s why the Scion claimed him to be your father’s agent. But any smith could have made that armor, Dae. Your father is innocent.”
“Then he should have nothing to fear among the Jaharri.”
Simone turned away from her, but Dae saw the unshed tears she was trying to hide…noted the way she kept fiddling anxiously with the sleeves of her dress. “This stalemate achieves nothing…nothing but more pain inflicted upon your family. It’s all so pointless! Your father unwilling to give up his only daughter, your ‘wife’ unwilling to release your father, while their two advisors quibble and bicker over pointless details for a peace they can’t hope to broker. How much longer can this go on?”
“It can end any time you’d like, Mother. I’ve no doubt Zafirah will be overjoyed to release Father as soon as he accepts the fact that we’re married, we belong together, and returns me to her embrace.” Simone stiffened, her expression changing from grief-stricken to stubborn. She folded her arms over her chest and took a step back. Dae shook her head in frustration. “Maybe it’ll serve Father well to spend time around the Jaharri…to judge their true character for himself, instead of relying on the lies and misrepresentations he’s been taught to believe.”
“You have to fix this, Dae.”
“And what exactly would you like me to do about it, Mother, locked away in here? Am I any less your hostage than Father is Zafirah’s?”
“You’re my daughter, Dae…my heart. We sent you here to help you, not keep you prisoner. But if this woman truly cares for you as much as you say, she wouldn’t hold your father accountable for the crimes of some random stranger.”
Considering the matter, Dae suddenly recognized an opportunity. “Perhaps if I could speak with Zafirah in person, I could clarify the situation…make certain there isn’t something more nefarious at play.”
Simone’s eyes narrowed. “I-I don’t think I could give approval for such a meeting. Your father has made his feelings on the matter crystal clear, and I don’t disagree. Allowing that woman into the monastery would be an affront to Tarsis…and Father Douglas has already suffered enough disgrace with everything you’ve been putting him through lately.”
Dae fought back a smirk; clearly word of her antics had reached her mother’s ear. She hadn’t really expected Simone to grant her request, but nevertheless, this turn of events played perfectly into the plan she’d already formulated. For the sake of appearances, she pretended to consider the matter a moment while letting the awkward tension linger. “Well…maybe you could ask her to send Inaya to speak on her behalf. Father already allowed her to visit once, and if anyone would know Zafirah’s mind it would be her.”
“Inaya? Isn’t she the one you told me about? The harem girl you ‘befriended’?”
The way her mother said that last word—that slight edge of derision and condescension—rankled, and Dae struggled to keep her cool. “Yes, she’s my friend. Inaya has shown me nothing but love and compassion since the day we met.” She paused, then added in a slightly bitter tone, “But then of course, you never much liked me having friends, did you?”
“What are you talking about? You had many friends; I remember you and your cousins used to play for hours out in the gardens, then you’d come stampeding through the house with your feet all muddy.”
“Sure…I had my cousins when they came to visit us. Which was once a season if I was lucky.”
“Well, when you got older there was always Allana, Beka…and that other girl, what was her name? Karis?”
Dae’s frustration boiled over. “They were my handmaidens, mother! Servants, not friends! And if I ever actually got close to any of them, oh, how the heavens would weep with shame! That wouldn’t be ‘proper’ for a lady of noble birth, would it? To befriend a commoner?”
Her mother just stared at her in wounded confusion, startled yet puzzled by her outburst.
Dae sighed. What was the point in holding on to that old anger? She stepped closer to Simone and took her hands in her own. “I’m sorry, Mother. I didn’t mean to shout. It’s just…sometimes I don’t think you realize how lonely I felt growing up. You and Father meant the world to me; you blessed me with a childhood I remember fondly, kept me safe and protected from the world outside…but in doing so you also denied me so much. Like the chance to form real friendships.” Dae squeezed her mother’s hands, softening her tone. “Inaya is a perceptive and honest young woman. If Father is in any real danger, I trust her to tell me the truth.”
Once again, her mother regarded her somewhat suspiciously. “Very well. I’ll consider it.”
With their hands clasped together, Dae felt her mother’s soft fingers trembling in the grip of her work-roughened palms. Simone turned her hands over, looking down. Her eyes filled with such dismay at the callouses that had formed at the top of her palm, her skin still fish-bone pale and wrinkled from hours of scrubbing laundry. “Gods, look what you’re doing to yourself. And for what? Some silly notion that you’ve found true love?” She made a tut-tuting sound with her tongue, shaking her head. “Perhaps I should speak with Father Douglas…see if you might be exempted from these labors. You shouldn’t have to suffer this indignity over a youthful indiscretion.”
Dae pulled her hands away from her mother’s grasp. “The work doesn’t shame me half as much as that look on your face, Mother…that you would think my bloodline sets me so far above the common folk. I’m not some delicate flower that will crumple and tear at the first hard rain. Not anymore. Since I came here I’ve learned so much: how to bake bread, tend a field, milk a goat and scrub laundry. Why would I be ashamed to acquire new skills?”
“Because there is a proper order to things, Dae,” her mother insisted, trying to inject some sternness into her tone. “We are high-born; it is our place to govern and rule, as it is the place of merchants to trade, priests to teach, and peasants to toil. That is the way it’s always been. That’s how this kingdom rose from barbarity to achieve true strength and honor. It’s undignified for one of your status to be treated like a commoner; those charged with the responsibility of rulership must maintain the standards of their position.”
“There are other ways, Mother. Zafirah may be the leader of her people, but when she walks among them, she is their equal. She doesn’t put up some pretense of infallibility, and they don’t respect her any less for it.”
“Those aren’t our ways, Dae. In civilized lands, we don’t lower ourselves in such a manner…and we don’t make hostages of those we’re trying to make peace with.”
“And if you let me speak with Inaya, I’ll do what I can to confirm Father isn’t in any danger. Is that so unreasonable a compromise?”
Her mother left her in the monastery not long after, giving her a lengthy embrace which she returned. Dae could feel by the way Simone clung to her so desperately and her reluctance to end the hug how much all this pained her. She held back her own tears until after she was gone, knowing that if her mother saw them she would start crying too. That would only have made her feel worse about all this, and weaken her resolve. Dae had more sympathy for her mother’s confusion and denial than she did her father’s: Richard was letting his frustration turn to anger, while Simone seemed more grief-stricken and bereft.
She didn’t return immediately to her chores. It was peaceful in the monastery, and Dae took a moment to compose herself and consider what this latest development might mean for her. She doubted Zafirah would fabricate an allegation such as her mother described, and certainly wouldn’t kill anyone just to grant her claim legitimacy. That sort of devious tactic would offend her warrior’s sense of honor. But if she’d been attacked by some random bandit, Zafirah would certainly seek to turn it to her advantage. And with her father now in the Jaharri camp, Dae intended to turn it to her advantage, also.
She was still spying on the guards who patrolled the monastery grounds every night, and growing ever more confident that the delay she’d observed in their routine was typical. Just because her parents remained determined to keep her separated from her wife didn’t mean Dae had to cooperate. If Inaya was allowed to visit her again, she could share her plan with Zafirah…and imagining what reply she might receive from her wife after their last ‘communication’ warmed her blood with longing arousal.
Dae caressed her fingers down her abdomen, fanning her fingers over the damp cloth of her shirt and letting them flirt with line of her pelvic bone. “Soon,” she whispered, as much to herself as to her absent mate. “Soon.”