“Go!” Ruha ordered. “Or must I use magic to ensure my privacy?”
The warriors withdrew, and Ruha finally felt free to cry. Her tears fell on Lander’s brow, for she was kneeling on the bloody carpet where he had fallen. His lifeless head was cradled in her lap.
The fatal attack had come so suddenly that Lander was cut and Bhadla lying on the ground before the widow realized she had seen it happen once before. She had reached for her jambiya with a disjointed feeling of being a helpless spectator, and when she had cut the D’tarig open it had seemed as if she were watching someone else kill him. There had been an eerie quality to the whole fight that made it seem like a recurring dream, but, just as in a bad dream, she had not been able to change the outcome.
Looking toward the roof of the tent, Ruha let out an agonized sob. “If I can do nothing to change them, why do you torture me with mirages from tomorrow?” she cried. “If I knew where this loathsome sight came from, I would tear out the organ and fling it to the vultures!”
The gods did not answer, though Ruha had no doubt that they were watching her with cruel amusement. She sat staring at the khreima’s roof for a thousand pained heartbeats, looking past it in her mind’s eye to the starry sky above. “How much longer must I endure your curse?”
Again the gods remained silent, and the young widow dropped her eyes from the impassive roof. Her gaze fell on Bhadla’s jambiya and then rested on the glistening blade. She remembered that Lander’s death had been quick. No matter how painful the poison, it could not hurt any more than the grief she now felt. The widow reached for the dagger, still talking to the gods, “You always destroy those beloved to me and leave me with nothing. Why?”
As Ruha’s fingers closed around the hilt of the venomous jambiya, she thought of the man who had sent the treacherous weapon here with Bhadla. She was wrong, she realized, for at least one very important thing remained to her. Yhekal was still alive, the Zhentarim were still in Anauroch, and the Bedine needed her magic to win the victory.
Ruha removed Ajaman’s jambiya from the sheath on her belt and replaced it with the poisoned blade Bhadla had carried into her tent. “I know what you would want, my love,” she whispered. “I will not fail you.”
Sa’ar’s concerned voice sounded at her tent entrance. “Ruha, Lander!” he cried, bustling into the tent. “The warriors say there was a stream of fire and—”
The burly sheikh stopped next to Ruha and stared at Lander’s lifeless face. Utaiba entered a few steps behind him, but Sa’ar quickly turned to him. “Something terrible has happened.”
Utaiba reactions were quick. He turned to the men following him. “Post a guard. Nobody is to enter this khreima,” he said. “Not even another sheikh. If anybody asks why—”
“Tell them I am preparing my magic and it is very dangerous,” Ruha called.
The warriors turned to obey, then Utaiba stepped to Sa’ar’s side. The two sheikhs stood next to each other, staring at Lander’s body with rueful expressions on their faces. Ruha could not tell whether they were angry or despondent, but she had no doubt that they were shocked. Neither of them said a word or looked at Ruha, nor did they show any sign of grief.
Finally Sa’ar reached down and pulled Ruha’s veil across her face, tucking it into her headwrap. “I suspect that the Zhentarim did not uncover your face, any more than they removed Lander’s sword belt from his waist,” the sheikh said.
Ruha did not bother to deny his charge. Though she held it in her hands, she had not yet wrapped her own belt around her aba, and it was obvious that neither she nor Lander had been fully dressed when the assassins entered her khreima.
Utaiba said, “You have cursed us all!”
“It was not my love that poisoned Lander,” Ruha snapped, wrapping her belt around her waist. “It was the laziness of your sentries!” She pointed at the assassins she had killed with her fire stream. “How did so many Zhentarim escape Orofin?”
“When you and Lander broke the widow’s taboo, your husband’s spirit made them invisible,” Sa’ar answered confidently.
“As you can see, they were not invisible when they reached us,” Ruha countered. “Do not ascribe your men’s ineptitude to spirits!”
Sa’ar’s face clouded over with anger, and his jaw slackened in astonishment. “How dare you blame us!” he snapped. “The Bedine will pay the price for your lust! You and Lander caused this tragedy, no one else.”
“We caused nothing,” Ruha cried, still kneeling next to Lander’s body. “We loved each other, and not even Ajaman’s spirit would begrudge us that. But you are ready to forsake the man who risked his life to warn you of the Zhentarim in the first place! I wish I were a djinn! I would lay a curse on all of you!”
“Perhaps you are a djinn,” Sa’ar retorted, reaching for his jambiya.
In an instant, Ruha pointed a hand at the sheikh and summoned an incantation. “If you draw your weapon against me before Lander is washed and buried, I will burn even your bones to ashes.”
Sa’ar stopped, then glanced at the Zhentarim whom Ruha had charred earlier. At the same time, he did not push his dagger back into its scabbard, for he was not the kind of man to back down from any confrontation.
“What shall it be?” Ruha asked, her fingers already rehearsing the spell gestures.
“It makes no difference,” Sa’ar replied, growling. “I can die of fire tonight or thirst tomorrow.”
Utaiba stepped between the angry pair. “Do not violate your host duty by threatening the beloved of your guest,” the sheikh said, gently laying a hand on Sa’ar’s and pushing the jambiya back into its scabbard. Next he turned to Ruha. “And you should not make the mistake of thinking that because we are not overcome with anguish, we do not grieve the loss of the Harper. As a warrior, he would recognize the need for clear thinking and decisive action at a time like this.”
“What is there to think about?” Ruha asked.
“What is there to do?” added Sa’ar. “We are doomed.”
“That may be,” agreed Utaiba. “Certainly the violation of the widow’s taboo is a bad omen. If the warriors hear of it, they will lose their spirit.” He cast a melancholy look on Lander’s lifeless face, then continued. “Still, we must attack. We have nothing to lose. As you have pointed out, Sa’ar, if we do not die in the morning, thirst will kill us by evening.”
Sa’ar looked thoughtful, then took his hand away from his scabbard and met Ruha’s gaze. “Utaiba speaks wisely, as always,” he said. “If your husband’s spirit has cursed us, there is nothing we can do about it now. We have no choice except to fight. Let us do it together.”
Realizing that the gesture was as close to an apology as she would get from the proud sheikh, Ruha dismissed the spell from her mind. “Ajaman was only my husband for three days,” the widow said, “But I knew him well enough to say that, even if his spirit were angry with me, he would do nothing to prevent us from destroying the Zhentarim and avenging the death of his tribe.”
“Then you will help us tomorrow?” Utaiba asked.
“I have more deaths than any Bedine to avenge,” Ruha replied, running her hands over Lander’s brow and closing his eyes. As she slipped his head off her lap and stood, she said, “I am hurt that you must ask.”
“Good, that is something,” Utaiba said. “We must think of something to tell the warriors so that they will not take Lander’s death as a bad omen.”
Ruha took a sleeping carpet from one of her kuerabiches and spread it over the Harper’s body. “They will not hear of Lander’s death.”