—<TWELVE>—

Children of a Hungry God

The Golden Plain, in the 101st year of Sokth the Merciless
(-1265 Imperial Reckoning)

 

 

The bani-al-Hashim rode northwards for nearly a week, beyond the abandoned farmlands and into wild country where few Lahmians had ever dared tread. They moved only at night and burned no fires, eating unleavened bread and sleeping on the cold ground, because that was the tradition the bani had brought with them out of the desert. In ancient times, the children of the desert had to be wary of gathering in great numbers, lest they draw the attention of their many foes.

By the time Faisr al-Hashim and his people reached the rolling foothills along the northern edge of the great plain, there was already a vast city of brightly coloured tents pitched along the grassy slopes, their roofs rippling like banners in the chilly autumn wind. Dawn was breaking and herds of lean-limbed horses were stirring in the lower meadows; their guardians, keen-eyed youngsters armed with javelin and bow, straightened in their saddles and nudged their charges out of the path of the new arrivals. Faisr and his warriors, nearly a hundred in all, nodded to the young men and women as they passed, and favoured their herds with a polite degree of predatory interest. The sentries puffed out their chests and accepted the compliments with raised lances and their best, most intimidating stares.

Alcadizzar rode alongside Faisr al-Hashim and nodded solemnly at the sentries as the bani-al-Hashim went by. He was dressed in layered desert robes and a chequered headscarf like the rest of the tribe’s warriors and after twenty years among the desert raiders he sat in the saddle nearly as well as they. If the youngsters realised he wasn’t a true son of the desert, they gave no sign of it.

As they left the last of the herds behind, the prince turned his full attention to the vast tent city spread out before him. Older women and mothers in dark robes were already stirring, coaxing the cook-fires back to life and making preparations for the morning meal. Young children were dashing among the narrow lanes, fetching wood or water. Dogs raised their heads and barked wildly, warning their masters of the bani-al-Hashim’s arrival.

“Ah, curse the luck,” Faisr muttered as he surveyed the vast assembly of tents. Like Alcadizzar and the rest of the warriors, the lean desert raider was swathed in heavy robes of black and dark blue to keep out the morning chill. His headscarf hung loosely about his shoulders, leaving his bearded face bare. Cold or no, one did not approach a gathering of tents with one’s face covered, unless one meant to spill blood.

Faisr winced. “We’re the last to arrive. That’s a dozen pieces of gold I owe Muktil, the old thief.”

Alcadizzar chuckled. “Give him two dozen, then, for pity’s sake. When was the last time he rode against the caravans? We’re late because we were busy filling our bags with Lahmian gold.”

Faisr threw back his head and laughed, his dark eyes sparkling. “True enough! And maybe I’ll have you give him the coin, just to watch him squirm.”

Every one of Faisr’s warriors sported clinking bags of coin and rich ornaments, from jewelled daggers to gold earrings, worn to catch the eye of prospective mates and to show the gathered tribes how the bani-al-Hashim had prospered since they’d last met. Over the last twenty-five years, the tribe had gone from near-extinction to one of the wealthiest and most famous of the desert clans. Though the al-Hashim bloodline was an ancient and venerated one, it had fallen on ill luck over the last few generations. Faisr al-Hashim, the only son of the last chieftain, had a reputation of recklessness and impetuosity—both counted as virtues among the desert clans, but not exactly the best qualities one wanted in a leader of men. His time as chieftain might have been brilliant and altogether brief had it not been for his chance meeting with Alcadizzar. The prince could counsel the hotheaded bandit leader in ways that a tribesman would have never dared to do, and his knowledge of Lahmian military tactics was worth its weight in gold. With a relatively small number of fighting men, the bani-al-Hashim had gone on to perform a string of brilliant raids that were the envy of the rest of the tribes.

“Where do we fit into all this?” Alcadizzar asked, waving his hand at the tents.

Faisr nodded proudly towards the centre of the sprawling settlement. “A space will have been left for us, close to the chieftain’s tent. We’ll rest and take our breakfast while the women and children make camp, then there will be horse races and games of dice until the gathering this evening.” He winked at the prince. “And drinking. Lots of drinking.”

Alcadizzar’s nose wrinkled. “Not chanouri, I hope. I’d rather drink salt water.” The desert raiders’ favourite libation was a mix of fermented mare’s milk and sour date wine. He had tried it once, on a dare, and was sick for hours afterwards.

“Effete city dweller,” Faisr waved a hand disdainfully. “I suppose we can persuade a child to part with his wineskin so you don’t go thirsty.” The chieftain turned and regarded Alcadizzar thoughtfully. “Are you certain you want to go through with this?”

The question surprised Alcadizzar. “Me? All I’m risking is my life. You’ve got much more to lose than I.”

“Hmph,” Faisr replied, but didn’t deny the prince’s assertion. If Alcadizzar failed the trials to come, Faisr would lose face among his fellow chieftains. That was a fate much worse than death.

The long procession of riders edged their way slowly into the sprawling settlement. Mothers watched the mounted warriors with wary interest, while the children gawped and pointed at the glittering trophies the riders wore. Faisr nodded respectfully to the elders he met along the way, guiding the procession unerringly down the close-set lanes. Each tribe’s place in the settlement was determined by its status and relative strength, with the most prominent tribes closest to the gathering tent at the centre of the camp.

There had been many gatherings since Alcadizzar had joined Faisr’s band, but this was the first that he had ever been permitted to attend. The prince studied every detail of the great camp, trying to gauge the power and prosperity of the tribes. He knew from Faisr that there were nearly two-score tribes of varying size living on the great plain, moving constantly to confuse would-be enemies of their size and strength. Here, Alcadizzar counted tents, jugs of water and loaves of bread being laid out for the morning meal. He then weighed that against the number of horses grazing the fields below to separate the women and children from the fighting men. Even by a conservative estimate, the numbers surprised him. There weren’t hundreds, but thousands of them—a force to be reckoned with, in the right hands.

There was still much about the tribes that he did not know. Though he was Faisr’s most valued lieutenant, the chieftain was careful to keep tribal business and tradition to himself. For all of his contributions to the welfare of the tribe, Alcadizzar had remained an outsider.

Not that the past decades had been a total loss. The tribesmen were wary about their own politics, but made free with news about the Lahmians. The atmosphere within the city grew more nightmarish and oppressive with each passing year. More and more citizens were disappearing in the night and all manner of outlandish stories were being told in the wine houses. It wasn’t enough to stay off the streets after sunset; now people were being taken right from their very homes, never to be seen again. Only the aristocracy seemed to be safe, which naturally fomented all sorts of suspicious rumours in the poorer quarters of the city.

The plague of disappearances had grown so severe that it was even having repercussions on Lahmia’s economy. Fewer and fewer caravans made the journey to the city each year, and those that did rarely stayed for long. The slums were emptying out as well, depriving the docks of their labour force. The exodus had grown so severe that the government was now imposing a substantial “departure tax” on citizens attempting to leave the city for any reason. Once the greatest city in Nehekhara, now Lahmia’s citizens lived as virtual prisoners within its walls.

The reign of terror that gripped Lahmia hadn’t gone unnoticed by the other great cities, of course, but a few chilling stories and the misery of the common folk weren’t enough to provoke the other kings to war. Neferata’s puppet rulers managed the dance of trade and diplomacy as well as ever, playing the other cities against one another and keeping them too off-balance to risk an open confrontation with Lahmia. Alcadizzar kept in regular contact with his brother, apprising King Asar of everything he learned about the goings-on inside the city, but the word from Rasetra was always the same: give me evidence.

Slipping inside the city now would be dangerous in the extreme; escaping Lahmia with damning evidence of Neferata’s crimes would be nearly impossible. Alcadizzar knew that the desert tribes had ways of getting word to and from their kinfolk within the city walls, but such secrets were not shared with outsiders.

That would change tonight, Alcadizzar vowed to himself.

 

True to Faisr’s word, the tribe had a spot reserved for them: a great square of sunlit hill-slope just north and east of a vast meeting tent of dark blue linen. In keeping with tradition, Faisr and his warriors ringed the open space and remained in their saddles while the tribe’s women and children dismounted and unpacked the tents. In less than an hour, the first tent poles were going up, and the thudding of wooden mallets filled the air. Faisr’s tent went up first, followed by those of his lieutenants, and then the rest of the tribe. Finally, the ani mukta, the oldest mother of the tribe, called out that the camp was ready and the desert warriors eagerly dismounted.

By that point, a crowd of men from the other tribes had gathered around the bani-al-Hashim, standing a polite distance outside the perimeter of horsemen and shouting greetings and friendly jibes to Faisr’s men. When the old mother dismissed the menfolk a cheer went up from the crowd; the tribesmen came forwards to embrace Faisr and his kinfolk, and the celebrations began in earnest.

The tribesmen spent the rest of the day outside the sprawling camp, lounging on ancient rugs down by the grazing herds. Faisr and the other tribal chiefs shared bulging skins of date wine and chanouri, and boasted of the daring raids they’d made against the city dwellers over the last few months. Boys and girls were sent down to the herds to fetch horses for the men to admire and haggle over, while young maidens came and went bearing platters of flatbread, cheese and olives. Laughter and rude jokes filled the air. Men had their best horses brought up from the herds and soon the ground shook with the pounding of hooves as they raced back and forth across the slope. Cups of dice were produced and bags of finger bones, and fortunes were gained and lost. Alcadizzar kept to a corner of the vast rug laid out for Faisr and his personal guests and sipped sparingly from a small skin of wine. He pretended to admire the new horses born to the tribal chiefs and offered a cheer or two when one of the bani-al-Hashim took part in a race, but mostly he sat back and observed the people around him.

Alcadizzar noted that most of the chiefs drank little and gambled not at all. Though they talked and joked as raucously as their warriors, their dark eyes were keen and wary. They studied the herds of their peers, gauging their strengths and weaknesses. Alliances were made over the purchase of colts, or the arrangement of breeding rights. Lesser chiefs came and went, kneeling and kissing the rough hem of the ancient rugs before they sat beside their betters. Perhaps half a dozen younger chieftains sat around the edge of Faisr’s rug, enjoying his hospitality and offering him gifts of friendship. By comparison, the rug next to Faisr’s belonged to Bashir al-Rukhba, currently the richest and most powerful of the desert chiefs. There were more than a dozen men crowding one another upon the great rug, each one vying for the great chieftain’s attention. Bashir sat in the centre of it all with a look of mild agitation on his bearded face. When he tired of someone’s presence he waved a hand at one of his three lieutenants, who shooed the lesser chieftain away like a mother would chase off an especially stubborn crow.

By the end of the day, Alcadizzar knew several important things. Firstly, that Faisr al-Hashim, while admired by the younger chiefs, had little in the way of political influence among the tribes. Bashir, whom Alcadizzar knew by reputation to have once been a formidable raider, held sway over the others by virtue of the size of his retinue and the wealth he’d painstakingly acquired. Also, judging by the way Bashir studiously ignored Faisr during the afternoon, it was apparent that there was little love lost between the two men. If the state of affairs troubled Faisr at all, he was careful not to show it.

Finally, as the sun began to settle to the west, a stir went through the assembled warriors. Alcadizzar straightened, just as the lesser chiefs all rose in a great flock and took their leave of Bashir, Faisr and the rest of the great chieftains. The prince looked about, frowning in bemusement—and then saw the dark-robed figure approaching the rug of Bashir al-Rukhba.

The man was tall, and moved with strength and purpose. He was clad in black desert robes, shot through with golden thread that shimmered in the mellowing sunlight. He carried no weapons, which surprised Alcadizzar, for that was a badge of manhood among the tribes. What was more, his face was covered, but not in a conventional fashion. His headscarf had been wrapped loosely about his head to form a kind of hood, and a thin veil of black silk covered his entire face. In his hands, he carried a large, ornate goblet made of gold. The sight of it stirred memories that made the prince’s hair stand on end. He caught himself just before his hand closed on the hilt of his sword and forced himself to relax.

Alcadizzar glanced over at Faisr. When he’d caught the young chieftain’s eye, he whispered, “Who is that?”

The lesser chieftains stared at Alcadizzar as though he were a fool. Faisr scowled. “The chosen of Khsar, the Hungry God. He serves the Daughter of the Sands.”

“Who?”

Faisr waved his hand in agitation. “Hush!” he warned, and said no more.

The chosen man made no obeisance to Bashir; rather, he stood at the edge of the chieftain’s rug and the great chief came to him, edging his way across the ancient mat. He bowed deeply, touching his forehead to the hem of the rug and the hooded man bent, offering his cup. Bashir straightened, accepting the goblet and taking a small sip of its contents. As he did, the chosen one murmured something and the great chief nodded in return.

Then it was Faisr’s turn. The hooded man approached and Alcadizzar’s chieftain edged forwards. He bowed and accepted the goblet, and the priest spoke softly to him. The words were in the tongue of the desert people, too soft for the prince to make out. Faisr nodded, and murmured a short reply. For a moment, Alcadizzar felt the weight of the chosen one’s stare, and then he moved on to the next chieftain in line.

Faisr rose without a word and his lieutenants followed suit. Alcadizzar’s head swam with questions, but he knew that this was neither the time nor the place to ask them. Bashir and his retinue were already heading back up the slope towards the settlement; the day’s festivities were clearly at an end.

Alcadizzar fell in beside Faisr. After they’d walked for a bit, the prince turned to the chieftain. “What happens now?” he asked quietly.

Faisr grinned. Despite having drunk his weight in spirits, his steps were swift and sure. “We prepare for the gathering. Then the fun really begins.”

Alcadizzar nodded. He jerked his chin at Bashir, who was striding among his retinue some way ahead. “He doesn’t like you very much.”

“You noticed?”

“He wasn’t exactly subtle,” Alcadizzar replied. “Will he be a problem?”

Faisr chuckled grimly. “Oh, yes,” he said. “You may count upon it. Don’t take it too personally, though; he just wants to try and keep me in my place.”

“He’s going to try to have me killed. How do I not take that personally?”

Faisr laughed and clapped the prince on the shoulder. “This is a world of suffering and strife, my friend. Death surrounds us every day. Would you rather be known as a man who died choking on a olive pit, or one who perished at the hand of an assassin, struck down by the order of Bashir al-Rukhba?”

Alcadizzar frowned. “I would rather be known as a man who lived a long and happy life, surrounded by his wife and children in a richly-furnished mansion.”

The desert chieftain sighed. “You city dwellers,” he said, shaking his head bemusedly, “have some strange notions about life.”

 

They dressed in their finest robes for the gathering of chiefs. Faisr gifted Alcadizzar with new garments of fine, white linen, and an over-robe of midnight-blue silk plundered during a raid a few months earlier. Outside, darkness settled over the tents, and in the distance, groups of young girls paced the perimeter of the camp on horseback, shaking silver bells and singing to the face of the rising moon to keep the evils of the night at bay.

Faisr raised a warning hand as Alcadizzar reached for his sword. “We carry no weapons,” he said solemnly. “You may wear a dagger, to cut meat or settle the odd quarrel, but nothing more. If you need a blade later, we’ll send for it.”

Alcadizzar swallowed his misgivings and nodded, tucking his jewelled knife into his belt. He straightened, and Faisr studied him intently for a moment, making certain that nothing was amiss. The chieftain nodded. “It will serve,” he declared, then his expression turned grave. “I must ask, are you certain you wish to proceed? There is no shame in withdrawing at this point. You can stay here in the tent until the end of the gathering, and tomorrow things will be no different between us.”

The prince sighed. He wanted to tell Faisr that there was nothing the chiefs could do to him that was any worse than what he’d endured in the gardens of the Temple of Blood. Instead, he waved impatiently at the tent flap. “Lead on.”

Faisr bowed, favouring Alcadizzar with a dazzling smile. “As you wish, my friend.”

The chieftain led Alcadizzar out into the cold night. The sky was clear and bright with starlight. Neru’s face was full and bright, shining her blessings down upon the camp. Sounds of revelry drifted through the air from the surrounding tents; muted laughter and women’s voices mingled with the chanting songs of the desert. The prince drank in the sounds and the smells of smoke, leather and canvas, and smiled contentedly.

It felt more like home to him than any palace or mansion ever had.

The gathering tent loomed large in the darkness. Two smaller tents had been pitched to either side of its single entrance, flaps drawn back on all four sides and lashed down in “caravan fashion”, so those within had a clear field of view in every direction. Rugs had been laid down in each, and small braziers had been lit to keep the night’s chill at bay. Nearly a score of tribesmen took their ease beneath the tents, sampling platters of food and drinking wine offered to them by demure maidens. More desert warriors milled about in small groups outside, speaking to one another in low tones. They all turned and bowed their heads in respect as Faisr went by.

“Wait here for a time,” the desert chieftain said, indicating the caravan tent to his right. “Eat and drink, or don’t, as it suits you. Once the business of the night is done, I’ll send for you.” Without waiting for a reply, Faisr ducked his head and stepped inside the gathering tent.

Alcadizzar watched Faisr disappear from sight and suppressed a sigh of irritation. The desert gatherings apparently shared one thing in common with the courts of Nehekhara; both involved a lot of sitting around and waiting. Scowling, he found a clear patch of rug inside the tent and settled upon it. A young girl edged towards him at once, holding out a bowl of sour-smelling chanouri. The prince held up a hand so the girl wouldn’t see him wince. “Perhaps a bit of watered wine?” he asked.

And so the prince waited, watching Neru chart her course across the sky as the hours passed. His neighbours mostly kept to themselves, their minds intent on whatever grievance or request they intended to present to the gathered chiefs. Within the tent came a steady drone of muted conversation, punctuated by the occasional shout or peal of laughter. Once, Alcadizzar heard angry shouts break out and for a moment he thought a riot had erupted amid the gathering, but the other tribesmen paid the noise little mind, and within a few minutes the disturbance had subsided as quickly as it had begun.

One by one, the men seated around him were summoned into the presence of the chiefs. Some audiences lasted longer than others and nearly always the men emerged with stoic faces, giving no sign as to whether their wishes had been honoured or not. Once, a pair of black-robed men emerged from the tent, half-carrying one of the petitioners. The tribesman was doubled over in pain, one hand pressed against his belly. Blood ran freely between his clenched fingers. Alcadizzar listened to the man’s muffled curses as he disappeared into the night.

By midnight, he was alone in the tent. The maidens had withdrawn and the coals in the braziers were nearly spent. The sounds of conversation within the tent showed no signs of abating. The prince sighed and sipped at his wine, wondering if Faisr had gotten so deep into his cups that he’d forgotten Alcadizzar was waiting outside.

Beyond the gathering tent, the rest of the camp had fallen silent. The night air was still and cold, luminous with the light of the full moon. Alcadizzar breathed in the chill air, grateful for the way it cleared his head and focussed his senses.

Little by little, a sense of unease crept up the back of the prince’s neck. He was being watched.

Alcadizzar continued to breathe deeply, careful to show no outwards sense of alarm. As his eyes searched the deep shadows beyond the empty caravan tent opposite his, he drained his watered wine and set the cup aside. He casually rested his empty hand on top of his thigh, just inches from the hilt of his dagger, and waited for his unseen observer to reveal himself.

Minutes passed, and the sensation did not abate. If anything, it seemed more focused, more intent. Alcadizzar thought he saw a flicker of movement in the shadows near the wall of the gathering tent. He shifted slightly, presenting his right shoulder to the oncoming figure. His fingertips slid to the jewelled pommel of his dagger.

There! He could see a slender figure outlined against the flank of the great tent, creeping slowly and somewhat tentatively his way. Alcadizzar could see no weapons in the figure’s hands, but the sheer weight of his stare was astonishing. Was this a sorcerer, or some restless spirit that haunted the dark hills north of the great plain?

After a moment, the figure paused, still well hidden in the shadow cast by the tent. Alcadizzar felt goose-flesh race along his forearms. Finally, he could stand no more.

“I see you there,” he said, rising slowly to his feet. “What sort of man are you, to skulk in the shadows like a jackal? Are you thief, or assassin? Show yourself!”

The figure recoiled at the sound of his voice. Alcadizzar thought he might turn and flee into the darkness—but then, the person straightened his shoulders and took a bold step forwards, into the moonlight.

Alcadizzar’s eyes widened. The figure before him was short and lithe, clad in fine, black robes shot through with silver thread that shimmered faintly in the light. This was no assassin, nor a restless, hungry spirit, but a young girl of about fourteen years, her face wreathed by the folds of a silken headscarf. She had a long coltish face and a sharp nose, and large, leonine yellow eyes. A sinuous line of henna tattoos climbed up the right side of her slender neck, and traced its way along her jawline.

The prince stared at the girl in surprise. She studied him as a scholar would an ancient scroll, as though he wore his deepest secrets upon his sleeve. Not even Neferata had reached so deeply into his soul. He tried to speak, to ask who this girl was and what she wanted with him—but just then the entry flap of the gathering tent was drawn aside, and a black-robed servant stepped out into the night. The spell broken, the girl retreated at once, slipping back silently into the shadows.

The servant, unaware of the girl’s presence, beckoned to Alcadizzar. “Faisr al-Hashim bids you to join him,” he said.

Alcadizzar searched the darkness beyond the tent, but the girl had vanished. The servant paused, his brows knitting in a frown. He started to beckon again, but Alcadizzar shook his head, as though to clear it. “Lead on,” he replied.

The prince followed the servant into the hot, noisy gloom of the great tent. He had expected it to be subdivided by cloth partitions into discrete chambers, as he’d seen Faisr do with his own tent; beyond the entrance was a small antechamber, where a pair of maids came forwards with golden bowls and cloths to ritually wash his feet and hands. When the ritual was done, the servant led him onwards, past another tent flap and into the presence of the chiefs.

Alcadizzar had expected a large, open space, layered in fine rugs and thick with a haze of incense, where the chiefs lounged in small cliques as they’d done earlier in the afternoon. To his surprise, he found himself standing at the edge of a circular space containing an immense wooden table, large enough to accommodate almost two-score chiefs with room to spare. The surface of the table was covered in a thin sheet of gold, hammered by the hands of an artist into curious, uneven contours. The prince stared at its surface for several moments before he realised that the play of shadow and light created by the contours suggested the rolling dunes of a desert. Long, curving lines had been etched into the gold; he knew from his studies that some of them matched the ancient caravan routes that had crossed the Great Desert in ancient times. Other lines were less obvious in their meaning. Perhaps they represented the nomadic paths of the desert tribes themselves.

The perimeter of the chamber was crowded with high-ranking tribesmen from each of the clans, who sat upon rugs and observed the proceedings with interest. The air was hot and thick, almost stifling, and spiced with the aromas of food and chanouri. Alcadizzar felt the eyes of the entire assembly fix on him as he followed the servant to the great table.

Faisr rose from an ornately carved chair as Alcadizzar approached and went to stand beside him. The servant indicated for the prince to stand a few feet from the edge of the table, where the gathered chiefs could take their measure of him. Alcadizzar met the gaze of each and every man seated at the table, and found not a single mote of warmth or welcome in their eyes. A few, like Bashir al-Rukhba, glared at him with obvious contempt.

Then the prince felt a familiar prickling along the back of his neck. He stiffened, his eyes drawn to the shadows on the opposite side of the great table. There, he saw the silhouette of a robed woman seated upon a wooden chair similar to those used by the chieftains. Her face was hidden in the gloom, but Alcadizzar knew she was staring at him with the same intensity as that of the girl he’d seen only minutes before. At her side stood Khsar’s chosen one, the hooded man that he had seen out on the hillside that afternoon. Instead of a golden goblet, the chosen one now held a tall, black staff in his right hand. Though apart from the rest, Alcadizzar noted that there was an empty space at the table so that the woman had a clear view of the proceedings.

Faisr laid a hand on Alcadizzar’s shoulder. “Here is the man I spoke of,” he said to the assembled chiefs. “Ubaid has ridden as a friend to the bani-al-Hashim for twenty years, as our customs require, and in that time he has acquitted himself as a warrior and a cunning raider. Look you the marks upon his belt,” Faisr said, pointing to the dense rows of kill-marks inscribed in the leather. “Fifty men, dead by his hand! He has earned the esteem of my people and has shed his own blood on our behalf many times. Indeed, he has saved my life not once, but three times.” The young chieftain spread his hands and winked at the other chiefs. “Of course, he still rides like a soft-arsed city dweller, but no man is perfect, eh?”

Many of the chieftains laughed and Alcadizzar accepted the jibe with a self-deprecating grin. Bashir and a handful of other chiefs just stared at Faisr, their faces set in stony masks.

“Ubaid’s loyalty and honour are beyond question,” Faisr said. “He has put aside his past and has embraced the ways of the desert. I tell you, he is like a brother to me and deserves to be a part of my tribe.”

“He is an outsider!” Bashir cried. The chieftain leaned forwards and pounded on the golden table for emphasis. “A city dweller! For all we know, he could be a spy for the Lahmians!”

At once, Faisr’s chosen men were on their feet, shaking their fists and shouting angrily at Bashir. Bashir’s men quickly followed suit, yelling at Faisr’s men. Daggers were drawn, their blades glinting in the lamplight. The chiefs caught in between took turns yelling at Bashir, at Faisr, and at one another.

Faisr let out a lusty shout and leapt upon the golden table. With a flourish, he drew his dagger and levelled it at Bashir. “If any man doubts Ubaid’s worth, then put him to the test! Challenge him, by wit, by blade or by horse!”

Alcadizzar saw Bashir smile hungrily at Faisr’s outburst and understood that this was the opening the older chief had been waiting for. He rose from his chair, his hand reaching for his own knife—when suddenly, Khsar’s chosen man stepped from the shadows and brought his staff down upon the table with a thunderous blow.

The entire crowd was struck silent in an instant. The chiefs all but leapt from their seats, their eyes wide with shock. Even Bashir looked stunned.

When the hooded man was certain that he had everyone’s undivided attention, he straightened slowly and drew back his staff. Alcadizzar saw that it was thick and obviously heavy, shaped from a kind of black wood unlike anything he had seen before. The faces of monstrous spirits had been carved into the wood, their fierce, inhuman expressions contorted into masks of rage and mindless hunger.

“Hearken unto the Daughter of the Sands,” the chosen one intoned. His voice was rough and deep, rumbling like the warning growl of a lion. At once, the spectators all sank to their knees. Bashir’s face paled with rage, but even he sank back into his chair. Alcadizzar hesitated, unsure how to proceed. Faisr quickly sheathed his dagger and the prince followed suit.

Slowly and painfully, the robed woman climbed from her chair. She was very old, Alcadizzar saw at once, her leathery face creased in a complex tapestry of wrinkles. As she stepped into the lamplight, the prince was startled to see that her eyes were a leonine yellow, just like those of the girl he’d seen outside.

The old woman approached the chiefs, and her eyes rose slowly to Faisr’s. “Were you raised in a wine shop, Faisr al-Hashim?” she growled. “Get off my table, boy.”

To Alcadizzar’s surprise, Faisr hung his head like a child. “My apologies,” he said, and hopped back down onto the rugs next to Alcadizzar.

The woman’s gaze turned to Alcadizzar; once again, he felt his skin prickle with the intensity of her stare. “You say that this one has observed all the customs of adoption?”

“He has,” Faisr replied.

“He has lived among your tribe for a span of twenty years?” she asked.

“As I said before, yes,” the chieftain replied.

“He has fought at your side and shed blood for the sake of the tribe?”

“Many times.”

The old woman’s eyes narrowed on the prince. “And in all that time, he has never given you cause to doubt his loyalty, or his devotion?”

“Never once,” Faisr answered proudly.

Alcadizzar found himself struggling to meet the woman’s stare. There was much that Faisr did not know about him. The chieftain was unknowingly risking his own honour on his friend’s behalf.

“Has he put aside his past life,” the woman asked, in a voice as pitiless as the desert sands, “and devoted himself entirely to the ways of our people?”

Before Faisr could answer, Alcadizzar cut in. “As much as any man can forget his people and the place of his birth,” he said. Faisr shot him a sidelong look, but the prince ignored him.

The Daughter of the Sands stared at Alcadizzar for a long moment. “Then let it be so,” she declared. “From this day forwards, you are one of the bani-al-Hashim.”

The assembled chiefs glanced at one another in amazement. Only Bashir al-Rukhba felt bold enough—or angry enough—to speak. “But the customs of adoption are meant only for desert dwellers!” he protested. “They are for adopting a man of one tribe into another, not… not this!”

The old woman turned and glared at Bashir. “An exception was made once before, Bashir al-Rukhba,” she said coldly. “Or have you forgotten?”

Bashir stiffened. “I have not,” he replied.

“Then you must presume to know the will of Khsar better than I,” the old woman snapped. “Is that so? Do you mean to gainsay me?”

All at once, the air in the tent was fraught with tension. Alcadizzar saw Bashir’s warriors shrink back from their chief, their expressions stiff with fright.

Bashir’s gaze fell to the tabletop. “No,” he answered in a subdued voice. “I would never do such a thing, holy one.”

“Then our business here is concluded,” said the Daughter of the Sands. “The hour is late and my bones ache. Let an old woman have her rest.”

As one, the chieftains rose from the table. Nervous murmurs rose from their warriors. The atmosphere was still tense and unsettled. Something momentous had happened, Alcadizzar knew, but he had no idea what. His thoughts were interrupted by a tug on his sleeve.

“It’s done,” Faisr said. For the first time since Alcadizzar had met him, the chieftain sounded shaken. “Let’s go.”

Alcadizzar turned to follow Faisr from the tent. As he went, he once again felt the stares of the entire assembly upon him, but they were as light as a feather compared to the weight of the old woman’s gaze upon his back. It took an effort of will not to hasten his steps and run headlong into the night.

 

* * *

 

Faisr and Alcadizzar were quickly surrounded by members of the tribe as they departed the great tent. A few offered quiet congratulations, but most were silent as Faisr led them all back to the tribe’s tents. Once there, some of the older tribesmen began stoking a fire and rousing their youngest sons to fetch wine and chanouri. Across the camp, the rest of the tribes seemed to be following suit, hewing to tradition and indulging in one last celebration before they scattered to the winds on the morrow.

But Faisr was in no mood to celebrate. The chieftain stood for a moment, staring into the depths of the fire his warriors were coaxing to life, then plucked a wineskin from a passing boy and stalked off into the darkness. Without thinking, Alcadizzar followed.

Faisr said nothing as he made his way through the camp. He avoided the tents of the great clans and their fire-lit gatherings, and before long he emerged from the camp onto the hillside’s lower slopes. He led Alcadizzar down the hill towards the silent horse herds, finally settling down on the cold, damp ground not far from where they had lounged just twelve hours before.

The chieftain acknowledged the herd’s sentry riders with a wave of his hand, then pulled the stopper from the wineskin and passed it to Alcadizzar. The prince took it and squirted a swallow’s worth into his mouth, then handed it back.

“I take it that didn’t go as planned,” he said.

Faisr chuckled ruefully. “Observant as ever,” the chieftain replied, and filled his mouth with wine. He gulped it down and drank again.

“Who was that woman?” Alcadizzar asked. “A priestess of some kind?”

The chieftain let out a snort. “The tribes have never had much use for priests,” he said. “Instead, we have the Daughter of the Sands. She is given to Khsar, the god of the wastelands, as his bride. She is the arbiter of his laws, and when she speaks, it is with his voice. Do you understand?”

Alcadizzar frowned. “Yes, but…” He chose his words with care, uncertain how devout Faisr was, not wishing to cause offence. “The covenant with the gods was broken centuries ago.”

Faisr shook his head. “Forget about the covenant. That was made between the gods and your people, the Nehekharans.”

The prince nodded thoughtfully. Many Nehekharans thought of the desert folk as barbaric cousins, but the truth was that they were an entirely different race of men, whose history and culture stretched back thousands of years before the birth of the great cities.

“So… the tribes still enjoy the blessings of Khsar?”

Faisr threw back his head and laughed. “Blessings? If Khsar doesn’t burn your eyes from your head or suck the marrow from your bones, that’s a blessing,” he said. “He is the god of the desert. His breath gives life to sandstorms. The Hungry God gives no blessings, Ubaid. Only tests. By those tests we are made strong, or else we perish. There is nothing else.”

Alcadizzar spread his hands. “Then… what? Am I being tested?”

Faisr didn’t reply at first. He frowned up at the sky and then took another drink. “It’s possible,” he said. “Or perhaps there is a test yet to come.”

“I don’t understand.”

The chieftain sighed. “Once in every generation, a daughter is born to the tribes with the eyes of a desert lion. It has always been thus. Such women have the ability to look into a man’s soul and see what the fates have written there. For that reason alone, they have great influence among our people.”

The thought sent a chill down Alcadizzar’s spine.

“When I was waiting in the caravan tent outside, I saw a girl with those same eyes,” he said softly.

Faisr gave him a startled look. “You didn’t touch her, did you?”

“What kind of question is that?”

The chieftain relaxed slightly. “Forgive me. It’s just that it’s considered terrible luck to lay hands on one of Khsar’s chosen.” He sighed. “That would have been Ophiria. She will become the Daughter of the Sands when Suleima dies. Did she say anything to you?”

Alcadizzar shook his head. “No, but I will remember those eyes for the rest of my life.”

Faisr shook his head. “In all my time as chieftain, I’ve never known Suleima to take a hand in tribal matters. Now, in a single stroke, she affirms your adoption into the tribes and upsets the old order of the chiefs. Rebuking Bashir like that will cost the old jackal dearly.”

“The Daughter of the Sands has that much power over the chiefs?”

Faisr shrugged. “These days, yes. It wasn’t always so. The Daughter of the Sands used to serve as an advisor to the alcazzar, the chief of chiefs, but there hasn’t been one of those since Shahid the Red Fox died during the war against the Usurper.” The chieftain shook his head. “The seers were the reason that the tribes came here from the desert, centuries ago.”

Alcadizzar stared at Faisr, his curiosity piqued. “Why is that?”

Faisr glanced over at the prince and started to reply, but then appeared to think better of it. “That’s a tale for another time,” he said with a tired grin. “Too many revelations might spoil the wine, eh, Ubaid?”

Faisr raised the wineskin to his lips and took a deep draught, but Alcadizzar caught the haunted look in the chieftain’s eye nonetheless.

Alcadizzar looked away, out over the sleeping herds.

What had Ophiria and the old woman seen when they looked at him? How much did they know? The words of Faisr came back to him once more.

The Hungry God gives no blessings, only tests. By those tests we are made strong, or we perish. There is nothing else.