Chapter One The Al Kheméri

  There is nothing more to do here.

  All that the world knows of her now is a small, worn axe handle wrapped in weathered leather straps sticking from the golden ground. My eyes can’t pull away from it so easily as I dust the sand from my scarred hands. She died screaming terrible curses upon my soul, tearing every piece of what remains of my heart into desperate scraps of doomed hope. For what I have done, I deserve those curses.

  “Inari,” I whisper, giving her name to the silent desert wind that refuses to carry it home. My horse Zero snorts and stomps his foot impatiently underneath me. I must choose a direction. Behind me lie miles of sand and sorrow and memories of intertwined lives and lovers’ dreams. I will not look back. I will not allow myself the luxury of the pain of remembrance.

  I will not look back.

  Zero tosses his head and snorts again. I relent and he leads us vigilantly across this sacred space. My face grows drawn and stern as I pull my sweat-stained scarf over my nose and swiftly kick Zero into a run. Ahead, the shimmering horizon floats like a thousand broken mirrors. I sense the distance growing larger as we race toward the dark, glistening line passing endless waves of shifting dunes. While the sun hammers mercilessly upon us, my mantra echoes clear, over and over inside my mind: carry me away.

  An hour passes, maybe two, and Zero slows down, harried from the heat and exertion. I pour a small bit of water into my gritty, salt-filled eyes and wipe them, sucking a bit of dampness from my fingers. The arid expanse stretches on, open and boundless before us. It is a peaceful desolation. The thought of dying here flashes through my mind. Zero’s ears perk up and he jerks his head to our right. In the distance, I make out the ethereal shadows of people, some riding, some walking, in a sizable line.

  I continue on for a few minutes, glancing occasionally at the faraway strangers traveling in parallel fashion. Suddenly, Zero nickers nervously turning his head. I follow suit to spy one of the travelers breaking formation and approaching our position on camelback. I steady my horse and reach down to grasp the hilt of my sword. The stranger’s dark robes are billowing about with the camel’s undulating walk. Brilliant red tassels swing back and forth on each side of the creature as they draw closer. I feel Zero pull against the reins, eager to retreat, and I tighten my grip upon my weapon.

  “Bezeén,” the stranger calls in a voice as clear as the desert sky. “Bezeén’ah.” He speaks his native tongue as he urges my horse to relax. Perhaps, he is commanding me, too. As he comes closer, I see a chain of small jeweled charms hanging lazily against his dusty, black linen robes. A faded crimson sash girds his sturdy waist, an ornate dagger tucked safely in one side. He stops his softly grunting camel and leans forward to see me better as he pulls his scarf to one side.

  “Hanaáh, Kheméri ay’sh,” he says, casually moving his hand to his mouth and gesturing outward in a traditional Al Kheméri greeting. “Honaáh eyo?”

  His green eyes are steady and his composure calm, yet I know his scimitar is within quick reach. I lie to him. “Hanaáh, Derrasiáni ay’sh.” In my limited Al Kheméri language, I tell him I am from Derrasia.

  He snickers and gives me a raised brow. “Derrasia, is it? No, Porphyrria. This, I am thinking.” He crosses his arms and waits for me in earnest. I consider an honest reply, as his demeanor is strong yet friendly enough. Then, I come to my senses.

  “You’re correct.”

  The stranger grins and nods approvingly. He points a resolute finger to my horse. “Your horse needs water. And you are far from your bed. You will come with me, wanderer. There’s an oasis half-mile to the east. I will give you bread and maybe a desert rat on the fire. Then, I will rob you while you sleep, yes?”

  A palpable pause hangs in the air between us. His expression is cold and serious, now. I ease my hand back to my waiting sword. His eyes grow wide and his booming laughter rings across the sand. “It is a joke, yes? I would never rob a man in his sleep. Only waking. Come, let us go, wanderer.” Without hesitation, Zero moves alongside the camel and we trot toward the ambling, lazy caravan heading east. I know I must follow this amiable stranger even if his presence disrupts the bliss of my own remote misery. Should I decline, I’ll surely be marked for some assault soon after.

  My companion showers me with short vignettes of their trading in the outland village of Sha’del. I half-listen with my eyes fixed ahead on the rambling convoy drawing near. Men, women, and children all covered in dull linen robes and flowing headscarves move along in quiet conversation peppered with snippets of laughter and exhortation. Three ridiculously encumbered wagons creak along, pulled by massive camels lumbering beneath the strain. Sighting us, one of the men on foot tromps over to speak with my guide. I can only decipher two phrases from their conversation: “eyo a’saát” and “henaáh wa al eyo.” You decide and he is your guest. Satisfied with their exchange, the man motions for me to head with my companion to the front of the meandering caravan.

  “That was my cousin Saheém,” the stranger tells me. “He is an excellent weaver and most suspicious. But I tell him you are a lost wanderer who can help protect our goods.” He waves his hands excitedly as he speaks and appears most pleased with himself.

  “Am I a guest or a captive?” I ask him pointedly to which he shakes his head.

  “Guest, guest, of course,” he says. “I am Adnaán. See? Now, we are friends and you are my guest.”

  “A friend would know my name.”

  Adnaán shoots me a look of disapproval. “A friend, wanderer, would not lie. This I am thinking is what you would do.” He winks and prompts his camel onward. We plod forward near the front of the line for a half hour, Adnaán talking animatedly of his cousins, aunts and uncles the entire way. Presently, a young boy alerts the rest of the line to something just beyond. Peeking from the top of a sandy ridge is a grove of desert palms. Word travels quickly throughout the convoy and our pace quickens. Zero, sensing water and eager to quench his thirst, breaks into a hearty gallop until we top the mighty dunes. Below lay a sight to dazzle the most jaded of weary travelers: a lush stand of trees towering over a generous, sparkling pool. On each side of the grove sit four small huts with thatched palm-leaf roofs and carpet-flap enclosures. A man shouts to us from nearby one of the huts.

  Adnaán reaches our position and makes a friendly gesture toward the man. “That is Wadi,” he explains. “He is beyennát. Oasis-keeper. You take your horse to the far west side. That is for animals.” We ride down the slope to the oasis with the caravan winding expeditiously behind us. Adnaán and the keeper exchange pleasantries and assist the arriving convoy. A chorus of relieved moans rises from the camels as they scissor downward to discharge their riders. Once dismounted, I lead Zero to the west side of the lagoon and find a spot underneath a small palm to sit while he drinks his fill. The Al Kheméri are a buzz of activity, unpacking heavy carpets and tent-cloth and setting up lean-tos for shelter.

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  I close my eyes for a moment and she pours into my mind like a rushing river of pain. Two empty days have passed since Inari’s winsome laughter and warm affection left my world. I struggle to hear these memories over the intrusive, piercing imprecations of her wrath. The fierce ache wells up within me so I open my agonized eyes, wincing from the desert glare. Contented, Zero has taken position near my small tree to which I tie him accordingly before setting off to surmise the state of our new coterie’s encampment.

  Fragrant hints of garlic and saffron tease my nostrils as I move carefully through the endless array of heavy carpets and small, pitched tents of woven linen and camel hair near the eastern shore of the small, liquid miracle. A half-robed child peeks curiously from an open flap, eyes full of wonder and mistrust and sticks out his tongue as if to ward off the foulest of creatures. The women, calm, industrious shadows, do not acknowledge me more than an imperceptible nod as I pass. A sense of shame and guilt push me onward and away from them and I feel the weight of their silent judgement upon the back of my neck.

  Near the row of weathered huts, I pause as the men are in the midst of a heated conversation. Wadi, the appointed caretaker of our surroundings, speaks animatedly of a “ma’aat al t?m,” which I roughly translate to mean “problem from another place.” He offers his cupped hands to the sky repeatedly as he talks. Adnaán and a few of the other men respond in disjointed, brief clips of what I can only contend as argument. Finding me, their words fall into grumbling murmurs and Adnaán beckons me forward.

  “We will stay here for two moons. Wadi tells us we have enemies close by. I am thinking you and I will ride out at light and find their . . .” He trails off, furrowing a brow to find the word.

  “You wish to scout their location?” He shakes his head and smirks in earnest.

  “No, no. We know that. We will find their doings. Ah, their plans!” His face is brimming with eager anticipation of my compliance.

  “You wish to spy on your enemies?” I ask him, not attempting to hide my reluctance to his suggestion.

  “Maybe so. Maybe not so. You and I will discover this, yes? Faruk and Ansar will come with. This I am thinking.” Before I can answer, he pulls my arm and leads me to his own modest tent just down from the huts where he motions me to sit on a threadbare, green rug. “Stay,” he directs. I comply and he hurries away for a few minutes. The sky is casting low, now, and the light of small fires warms the camp in an intimate, familial glow. I am uneasy with my status as a stranger to these people. Perhaps, I should agree to remain with them and be of assistance? Or ride to my own devices once they surrender to sleep? Or, maybe, I am not free to do so?

  My thoughts are interrupted by Adnaán’s return with a small plate, heaped with steaming rice and bits of oily meat topped with thin, flat layers of bread. He sets it between us near our fire as he sits across from me and urges me to partake. The flavors of the meal swirl in my mouth and awaken a voracious hunger within me as I scoop another bite with a piece of bread. Suddenly, the prospect of life, of living, fills me with a desperate hope. Adnaán laughs.

  “Eat, eat. Who can say when such food comes again?” He serves himself a small portion which he devours mechanically and smacks his stomach, satisfied. “Now, wanderer, we can truly speak as friends and you will give your name.” I slow my consumption when I see him eyeing me, his head propped comfortably on his fist as he reclines. I consider his proposal for a moment.

  “O’rantz,” I tell him, truthfully and impulsively. Relief and dread in equal measure wash over me as I say it. Merely speaking the name feels like a step toward some ineffable freedom.

  He repeats my name perfectly and looks infinitely pleased as I nod. “This is a good name,” he says. “I like it. This name is one a man remembers.” I swallow my last mouthful and ask him if I am free to go. He jerks his head back in genuine astonishment.

  “You? Go where? Back to the fire of Al Sudan?” His expression is wild and incredulous. “The desert will claim you. And your horse, too. Hemma haas al eyo. You have a good horse. Do not waste him.”

  “You avoid an answer, friend.” To this, Adnaán grumbles heavily and sits up to face me directly.

  “O’rantz, you may go. Back to the desert. Even back to Porphyrria where you are hunted. But that is not your home.” My heart sinks and my body tenses in defensive anticipation. He knows who I am. He knows what I have done. How much is the bounty on my head?

  Unaffected by my reaction, he continues. “Words travel on many tongues. Even across the Al Sudan. Many moons ago, a gem trader tells me a story about a great kingdom in the Palelands turned to black stone and sand. He was . . . swimming in drink and told me many things. A wickedness took hold of this kingdom and the native people . . . Ibizi . . . what do you call them?”

  “Faeries,” I reply gravely.

  “Yes, faeries. They were touched by the darkness, too. Like a sickness. And you, O’rantz, you joined this dark force and fought for the bad spirits of the Ibizi. But the sky-gods came down and struck you all with mighty strength. Only you escaped and fled far away. To be hunted for all time by people you have wronged.” He sticks out his chin defiantly, more than assured of his accounting of the tale. I challenge his demeanor with silence.The meager flames from our fire cackle in retort.

  “This story is true, yes? This, I am thinking.”

  “Not entirely,” I say, coldly, cutting my eyes across the darkness where I vaguely discern the shape of my horse. I shift my weight ever-so-slightly, aiming for an easy retrieval of my blade.

  “You had a lover, too,” he says, studying my face carefully. “Only this lover was not meant for you, so you found another. And this one, you led to her death.”

  I suffer the familiar pang in my heart once more and the rush of pending flight leaves me. The cooling night wind sighs through the grove, tenderly bending the soft flames of the fires. A tiny sand flea lighting on my boot catches my attention. It disappears and quickly reappears upon my sleeve as if an apparition from the air itself before vanishing again like the memory of her smile.

  “More or less.”

  Adnaán leans forward and draws his dark robes near him for warmth.

  “You must tell me the story, O’rantz. I must know. The knowing of many things and many people will make me wise. I am thinking wisdom is good for my people.”

  He is waiting expectantly for my words. The wind dances about us, playfully lifting the sound of jingling camel bells across the sleepy camp. I resist another urge to cut my new friend’s throat and flee this desert space on Zero. I can ride to the far reaches and outrun the past. The desert will claim you. His words ring true in my mind. “You are wiser than me by far,” I think.

  “How much is the bounty?” I ask. He smiles and shrugs.

  “Enough to make me a rich man,” he replies, “but not enough to make me wise.” We stare at each other in mutual disquiet. A strange sensation, a desire to divulge everything courses through my veins. My story sits on its haunches upon my tongue. Adnaán will be my confessor and I will reach for absolution.

  “If it is wisdom you seek, I will tell you the truth of it. But, know this: a man may try to rise to the spirit of wisdom, but, in all things, he lives as a creature of circumstance. I was a different man then. A man with a boy’s view of the world.”