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.”
Five
Ruha spent the next two hours describing to her father what had happened to the Qahtan. Listening with growing concern, the old sheikh repeatedly interrupted her with questions, especially when she described the white bolt that had killed Ajaman and the lizardlike humanoids that had led the attack. When the widow at last finished the story, her father made her repeat the entire thing to be sure she hadn’t missed anything.
Finally he shook his weary head. “The strangers speak with the honeyed tongues of bees, but it seems their bite carries the venom of a scorpion. I doubt we can trust them to keep their treaty, but I fear what they will do if we do not agree to it. This will be a difficult decision.”
With that, he sent a messenger to summon the elders to council, then instructed his servant to take Ruha to her khreima. The boy led her to a small tent that had been erected a hundred yards outside the camp circle. Had she been a normal guest, one of her father’s wives would have invited the young widow to stay in her tent. Instead, Ruha knew, this khreima had been erected especially for her.
The tent was large enough to hold ten or twelve people. It had been stocked with several carpets, a kuerabiche to use as a pillow, and an empty waterskin. Though exhausted from last night’s long ride and the interrogation her father had given her, Ruha took the waterskin and went toward the spring. If she did not fill it before she went to sleep, she would have nothing to drink when she woke, hot and thirsty, in the afternoon heat.
As the widow approached the gully, she realized that something was wrong. Instead of the lyrical babble of the spring, she heard the raucous cries of alarmed birds. Ruha’s first thought was that the Zhentarim were coming to attack, but she quickly realized that was impossible. She had heard no warning amarat horns, and it was inconceivable that an entire army had sneaked past the Mtair sentries in broad daylight.
Ruha crept along the edge of the ravine toward the alarmed birds. She moved slowly and cautiously, for she had long ago learned the value of prudence in the desert. It took fifteen minutes of crawling on hands and knees, carefully staying hidden behind the thin cover of qassis bushes, to reach the disturbance.