—<FOURTEEN>—

Blood and Sand

The Golden Plain, in the 103rd year of Basth the Graceful
(-1240 Imperial Reckoning)

 

 

The Lahmian watch-forts along the eastern edge of the Golden Plain were stout, sturdy affairs, having changed little since their creation almost a hundred years before. The first two had been built athwart the trade road, where it descended from the plain and wound through the wooded hills on the way down to the city. Four more had been built in quick succession, two to the north and two to the south, stretching in an arc that would allow Lahmian cavalry patrols to venture deep into the wilderness to either side of the road and interdict the bandit gangs that preyed on the western caravans.

Each stronghold was built according to the same specifications: a high, outer wall made of stone, wide enough at the top for four men to walk abreast, with a massive wooden gate made from cedar logs and secured with iron pins as long as a man’s forearm. Within the compound were stables, barracks, a forge and storehouses piled with enough stores to sustain a garrison of a thousand men for at least a month. In the centre of the compound sat a squat, thick-walled citadel, containing the fort’s armoury, its apothecary, quarters for its officers, a small cistern and a small shrine to the Temple of Blood. In the event the walls were taken, the entire garrison could retreat into the citadel and hold out for weeks, if need be; more than enough time for a rescue force to arrive from the fort’s neighbours and drive the attackers away.

It was a sound design—and a formidable stronghold for an attacking force to overcome—but much depended on the discipline and determination of the men tasked with the fort’s defence.

For the first few decades, the forts were a great success. Captains were paid lavish rewards for bandit heads, so they were aggressive and cunning in their patrols. Hundreds of outlaws were slain and hundreds more fled the plain for easier pickings elsewhere, until only the swiftest and cleverest of the caravan raiders remained. The desert tribes never came within a day’s ride of the forts and were far too wily and swift to be caught out by a patrol of city-bred horsemen. As the pickings grew slim, the rewards dwindled as well and the patrols rode out less and less. And since no outlaw band had ever been so foolish as to mount a direct attack on the strongholds, a sense of complacency became inevitable. Late-night sentries found better ways to pass their time than walking the ramparts, like playing dice in the marshalling ground, or sneaking a cup or two of beer from the fort’s ample stores.

Once upon a time, it had been a scourging offence to allow the ground to become overgrown within a thousand paces of the forts. At the northernmost of the strongholds, dense underbrush and young trees had been allowed to creep to less than a dozen yards from the outer walls. With so much cover, the warriors of the bani-al-Hashim could have approached the fort on a full moon night and none would have been the wiser.

As it was, Alcadizzar waited for a cold, moonless winter night before attempting the raid. First, a pair of archers was sent forwards to watch the ramparts and ensure that there were no sentries about. They watched for nearly an hour; when no guards were spotted, one of them let out the low cry of a hunting owl. Immediately, a quartet of tribesmen was sent forwards, carrying a light, slender ladder between them. Within minutes, the ladder was resting against the outer wall and Alcadizzar had waved the assault party forwards.

A dozen of the tribe’s quietest, most efficient killers crept up the ladder and over the wall. Armed with powerful, compact horse-bows and long knives, they hunted down the sentries one by one, then went to open the outer gate. It was foul luck alone that they were discovered moments later, when a soldier came stumbling sleepily from the barracks to empty his bladder and caught sight of them. The Lahmian let out a yell a half-second before an arrow found his throat; instead of taking the entire fort by storm the desert raiders found themselves with a pitched battle on their hands.

 

“They fought well,” Sayyid al-Hashim said, and then shrugged. “For the first few minutes, at least.” The stocky desert warrior paused to wipe blood from his eyes with the back of his hand. A deep cut across one temple had soaked his headscarf and turned his shoulder crimson.

Bodies littered the open ground between the barracks and the outer gate, feathered by thick, red-fletched arrows. Most were clad only in their linen under-tunics; others had died in little more than their britches. They’d grabbed whatever weapon was close to hand and rushed out to fight the dozen men of the assault party. Still more bodies were heaped around the open gate, where the tribesmen had held the Lahmians at bay long enough for the rest of the raiding party to arrive. Six of the assault party had been slain, and a seventh writhed on the ground with the broken haft of a spear buried in his guts. Alcadizzar knew each and every one by name and made a silent promise to the gods that their widows would be well taken care of.

He and Faisr stood beneath the archway of the outer gate, surveying the bloody scene. They were both clad in breastplates of thick leather armour and skirts of flexible bronze mail, and wore round bronze skullcaps beneath their silk headscarves. Faisr glowered at the bodies of the dead soldiers, his hand clenched about the hilt of his sheathed sword. It had gone against his impetuous nature to hang back with Alcadizzar and let his tribesmen do all the fighting. By the time they had rushed into the fort with the raiding party’s small group of reserves, there was no one left to fight.

“What happened then?” Alcadizzar asked.

Sayyid nodded in the direction of the citadel. “As soon as the first of our brothers came running through the gate, the city dwellers turned tail and shut themselves up inside there.”

The raiders had pulled a pair of wagons into the marshalling field and turned them onto their sides, providing them with some cover from the desultory arrow fire coming from the citadel. The rest were hard at work looting the fort’s outbuildings. Tribesmen were shouldering past Alcadizzar with bundles of armour, stacks of swords and shields, jars of beer, and pretty well anything else that wasn’t nailed down. Nervous whinnies from the fort’s stable told the prince that several of the tribesmen were relieving the cavalry squadron of their mounts as well.

Alcadizzar rubbed his chin. By any reasonable measure, the raid could already be counted as a huge success and a humiliating blow for the Lahmians. He’d wanted to test the defences of the watch-forts and see how the desert raiders took to proper military tactics; he’d been satisfied on both counts. But the idea of leaving the fort intact stuck in his craw; he’d hoped to disarm the defenders and turn them out into the countryside, then put the stronghold to the torch.

“Have they sent any signals?” the prince asked.

Sayyid shook his head, scattering ruby droplets around his feet. “None.”

Faisr sighed. “It will be dawn in just a few hours,” he said. “Signal or no, we have to be miles from here by first light.”

Alcadizzar nodded at the chieftain. When he’d first met Faisr, the young bandit would have probably opted to remain, more than willing to gamble his life and the lives of his men in an all-or-nothing assault on the citadel. But now, at seventy, the chieftain was wealthy and powerful and the bani-al-Hashim was considered the greatest of the tribes. Though his courage and his ambition remained undimmed, he also now had far more to lose.

Faisr al-Hashim had aged well, despite the hard life of a nomadic raider. The desert tribes still largely enjoyed the longevity of years that the ancient Nehekharans once had. Now comfortably middle-aged, the handsome chieftain had a touch of grey in his beard and streaks in his raven-black hair; years of squinting against the sun and wind had etched deep wrinkles around his eyes, but his body was still strong and his steps swift and light.

By contrast, Alcadizzar seemed to have aged hardly at all. By his reckoning, he was a hundred and ten years old, but he possessed the physical qualities of a man still in his prime. Though Neferata’s elixir had long since faded in strength, it had not disappeared entirely. He was still stronger and swifter than any normal man and his wounds healed with extraordinary speed. Perhaps it was because he’d been fed the blasphemous liquid while still forming in the womb—Alcadizzar had numerous theories, but no real answers. Though Faisr and his fellow tribesmen could not have failed to notice, they never questioned it, either. Such was the loyalty—and the secretive nature—of the tribes.

Certainly, he and Faisr had become a fearsomely effective pair since Alcadizzar’s adoption into the tribe. As the chieftain’s prominence had grown in the wake of Bashir al-Rukhba’s decline, he had entrusted much of the tribe’s raiding strategies to the prince, which allowed Alcadizzar to refine his tactical skills and test the capabilities of the desert raiders to their fullest. The bani-al-Hashim had quickly become the scourge of the Golden Plain and, more importantly, had earned the respect and support of many of the other tribes.

All of which made the problem before Alcadizzar that much more irksome. Their choices for dealing with the stronghold were limited. They couldn’t very well starve the garrison out and the only way inside was through the single reinforced gate. No doubt there was timber in the fort that could be put to use as a battering ram, but breaking through the gate would be costly and then the soldiers inside would fight like trapped rats. The prince shook his head, thinking of great commanders like Rakh-amn-hotep, who sent thousands of men to their deaths during the war against the Usurper. He’d lost six brothers tonight and had no interest in losing any more just to make a point.

He was just about to tell Sayyid to complete the plunder of the fort and then instruct the raiders to withdraw, when the stocky warrior straightened and pointed a finger at the citadel. “What’s that?”

The prince glanced past the upturned wagons, and saw that the citadel’s heavy gate had been partially raised. A hand was extended from beneath the gate, holding out an empty sword scabbard for all to see. Alcadizzar blinked in surprise.

“They want to parley,” he told Faisr.

The chieftain was just as surprised as he. “Why?”

Alcadizzar shrugged. “We’d have to ask them.”

“It’s got to be a trick,” Sayyid growled. It was well known among the tribes that the city folk had no conception of honour.

Alcadizzar could hardly argue with the veteran warrior, but his curiosity was nevertheless piqued. On impulse, he said, “Let me talk to them.”

“Are you mad?” Sayyid exclaimed. “They’ll shoot you full of arrows!”

The prince managed a grin. “I’m not worried. The Lahmians are terrible shots. Faisr remembers. Don’t you, chief?”

Faisr grunted, and then slowly, his face split in one of his dazzling smiles. “I remember,” he said. “All right, Ubaid. See what they have to say. We can’t leave until we empty the stables, anyway.”

Alcadizzar nodded in gratitude to the chieftain, then strode towards the overturned wagons. “Parley!” he cried to the tribesmen, pulling his headscarf away from his face. “Let the city dwellers send out their emissary.”

No one stirred within the stronghold until Alcadizzar had emerged into view from around the wagons. He crossed the open ground between the barricade and the stronghold and stopped at the halfway point, arms folded. A moment later, a stunned-looking Lahmian in a lieutenant’s iron scale armour ducked underneath the gate and stepped warily into the marshalling ground. From the look on his face, the soldier expected to be filled full of arrows at any moment.

“What do you want, city dweller?” Alcadizzar shouted.

The Lahmian officer drew a long breath. “My captain, the honourable Neresh Anku-aten, wishes to discuss terms.”

Alcadizzar fought to keep his expression neutral. Who did this aristocrat think he was? “Tell your captain that he is not in a position to dictate terms. He has nowhere to go.”

The lieutenant paled. With an effort, he managed a nod. “Captain Neresh is well aware of this,” the Lahmian replied. “But he wishes to avoid further bloodshed.”

“Then tell the honourable captain to surrender!” Alcadizzar shot back.

“He will, so long as you guarantee safe passage for his men,” the lieutenant replied.

For a moment, Alcadizzar wasn’t certain he’d heard the man correctly. “Your captain wishes to surrender?”

“Only if his terms are met. He is adamant on that.”

Alcadizzar didn’t reply at first. It didn’t make any sense. His mind raced, trying to divine what the captain was thinking. Why abandon a perfectly secure stronghold when all he had to do was wait for a few more hours? If it was a trick, he was hard-pressed to discern it. Finally, the prince spread his hands.

“Very well,” Alcadizzar told the man. “Tell your captain that he and the garrison are free to go. If they leave their weapons and armour inside the stronghold, they may leave freely. Upon my honour, no harm will come to them.”

The lieutenant eyed Alcadizzar dubiously for a moment more, then ducked his head in a quick bow and hurried back inside the stronghold.

Alcadizzar waited, still not quite daring to believe what he’d been told. But a few minutes later, the stronghold’s gate began to creak upwards. When it was fully open, the first survivors of the garrison emerged into the night air, clad only in their under-tunics and britches. They filed past the prince with downcast eyes, heading for the gate.

Over the next few minutes, nearly a hundred and fifty Lahmian soldiers marched by—more than double the small force that Faisr had brought with him. Last of all came the fort’s captain, a tall, black-haired noble whose handsome face was twisted in a bitter scowl. He stopped in front of Alcadizzar and inclined his head curtly to the prince.

“You are the leader of the raiders?” he asked.

Alcadizzar shook his head. “I serve Faisr al-Hashim the Great, chieftain of the bani-al-Hashim.”

“My men will come to no harm?”

“Have I not already given you my word, Captain Neresh?”

The Lahmian grunted in reply, as though not quite daring to believe what he’d been told. “I suppose you have my thanks then,” he grudgingly said.

Neresh made to leave, but Alcadizzar’s curiosity got the better of him. He stopped the captain with a touch on his arm. “A question, captain?”

The Lahmian turned. “What is it?”

“Why surrender?” the prince asked. “You must have known we couldn’t have taken the stronghold without a fight.”

Neresh’s expression turned bitter. “Of course,” he replied. “That wasn’t the point.”

The Lahmian sighed. “Eventually you’d have broken down the gate. Once inside, the fight would have been bloody, I promise you that.”

“I have no doubt as to your courage, captain,” Alcadizzar said. “Which is why this confounds me so.”

Neresh sighed. “Perhaps we could have held the stronghold. Perhaps not. What is certain is that many of my men would have died, and that would have been a terrible crime.”

Alcadizzar frowned. “When is it a crime to defend the honour of one’s city?” he asked.

The captain stared at Alcadizzar for a moment, his expression haunted. “That’s something I’ve been asking myself for a very long time,” he said, and turned away.

Alcadizzar watched the captain go. Forty years ago, such a reply from one of the city’s nobles would have been inconceivable. Had the spirit of Lahmia’s citizens truly sunk that far?

The prince followed after the captain, considering the possibilities. He found Faisr still standing at the outer gate, speaking tersely with a dust-stained rider. Belatedly, Alcadizzar realised the man was clad all in black.

“Things have changed,” Alcadizzar said to Faisr as the chieftain turned his way.

“Yes they have,” Faisr agreed. His expression was sombre. “We have to go. The Daughter of the Sands is dead.”

 

According to custom, the tribes never gathered together at the same location from one gathering to the next. This time, it was decided by Suleima’s last wish that the tribes would gather far to the north and west, at the very edge of the Golden Plain. This was wild country that had never been tamed by any man, Lahmian or otherwise, with unspoiled woods and a bubbling spring in the centre of a thicket-bound forest. It was hard going, even for the desert horsemen, but the tribes pressed doggedly on, determined to honour Suleima’s passing.

The bani-al-Hashim now numbered almost four hundred warriors, born from many advantageous marriages to the other tribes or adopted into the ranks over the years. This far from Lahmia, they rode in their full panoply. Silk standards crackled in the cold wind blowing off the mountains and their fine robes fairly glowed in the sunlight. Gold and silver twinkled at ear, neck and wrist, from the buckles of their wide leather belts and the scabbards of their swords.

The raising of the tents was a sombre affair. The men touched neither wine nor chanouri, out of respect for the dead, nor did they tempt the fates by gambling. In the afternoon, the chiefs all came together and offered gifts to their ever-hungry god: stallions’ blood, gold and silver coin, fine iron swords taken from the Lahmians, and more. Then they went into the forest to gather wood for a funeral pyre.

In the camp, the women were baking bread mingled with ash for the ceremonial meal at sunset. The children had been left to watch the herds at the edge of the forest, several leagues distant, so the tent city was eerily silent. The men kept to their tents, resting after the long night’s ride and waiting for the funeral rites to begin.

Alcadizzar spent the long afternoon alone in his tent, musing over the raid at the fort. All the tribes were abuzz with the news, and jealous at the wealth of plunder that the bani-al-Hashim had taken—not just weapons and armour, but fine horses and a chest full of coin that had been kept inside the fort’s stronghold. He had little doubt that several of the other tribes would be tempted to raid the other forts now, eager for loot and bragging rights. He had little doubt that the first few attacks would be successful, even forewarned as the Lahmians were sure to be. What interested him was how the city dwellers would respond at that point. With perhaps as many as half of their watch-forts put to the torch, they would have to respond in some fashion—either a massive military campaign to punish the tribes and drive them from the plain, or else a retreat back to the safety of the city walls. When he’d begun planning the raid, Alcadizzar had thought the former response was likely. But after speaking with Captain Neresh, he suspected the latter.

Year by year, little by little, Lahmia had been growing increasingly isolated. The caravans had dwindled to a fraction of their former numbers and the waves of immigration from poorer cities like Mahrak and Lybaras had ceased entirely. Though Lahmia still maintained its preeminence in Nehekhara by virtue of its economic and financial influence—and, he suspected, because Neferata was twisting the minds of the other cities’ emissaries—its position was becoming increasingly tenuous. News from the few desert immigrants left inside the city spoke of a pervasive atmosphere of terror. Deaths and disappearances were a way of life; anger and frustration at the impotence of the City Guard had given way to the cynical belief that the royal court was actually in league with the monsters. Even the Temple of Blood was coming under suspicion, something that would have been unthinkable twenty years before. But the more restless the populace became, the more the Lahmian king tightened his grip on the city. The gates were guarded zealously, day and night, and none could pass through without papers signed by one of the royal viziers. Even an approach from the sea was fraught with risk, as the Lahmians patrolled the beaches and the dockside day and night.

The prince reclined against the cushions and rubbed at his eyes. How much longer, he thought? How many years had he already sacrificed for the sake of his duty? How many more must he give up before he could finally begin the life he’d craved since childhood?

Soon, he told himself. It has to be soon. The city is falling apart from within. Cracks will start to appear. Have faith, and wait a little longer.

“Faith,” the prince muttered. “Faith in what?”

“The gods of Nehekhara are gone,” spoke a woman’s voice. “Believe in yourself, if nothing else.”

Alcadizzar whirled, scattering cushions and nearly tangling himself in his own robes. Across the tent from him sat a young woman, clad in black silk robes. A black neckscarf framed her sharp-featured face and contrasted against the burnished gold of her eyes. The line of henna tattoos along her jawline and down her slender neck reminded him at once of that night outside the gathering tent, twenty-five years before.

The prince stared at her in shock. “How did you get in here?”

Ophiria sniffed derisively. “Had you a wife and a few daughters, I would never have gotten within a mile of your tent,” she said. The seer spread her hands, taking in the well-appointed but otherwise empty tent. “You have no one to watch out for you. You don’t even keep a dog. Do you enjoy being so lonely?”

Alcadizzar scowled at her. “What do you want?”

Ophiria leaned back slightly, tucking her feet beneath her knees. “You could be a proper host and offer me some tea, to begin with,” she said, with a haughty tilt to her chin.

The prince stared at her blankly for a moment. “I don’t think you should be here,” he said.

Ophiria merely blinked at him with her sphinx-like eyes. “Remember to put a bit of honey at the bottom of the cup before you pour the water,” she said.

Alcadizzar sighed and went to the silver tray that one of Faisr’s daughters had brought him a short while ago. The water in the brass kettle was still quite warm. He poured her a cup of tea while he tried to collect his thoughts.

A few moments later, Alcadizzar set the small, ceramic cup before the seer. Ophiria took it in both hands and raised it to her chin. She breathed deeply, and a faint smile crossed her face. “Treasures from the far east,” she murmured, and took a tiny sip. She raised her eyes to Alcadizzar. “Thank you.”

“Why are you here, Ophiria?” Alcadizzar asked.

The seer arched a slender eyebrow. “You know my name? Then you must know that in a few hours, Suleima will be gone, and I will be given to Khsar as his new bride. After that, you and I will never have the opportunity to speak like this.” She took another tiny sip of tea. “Before that happens, there are some things you and I must discuss.”

Bemused, Alcadizzar settled onto the rugs across from Ophiria. “What is there to talk about?”

Ophiria peered at him over the rim of the cup. “For starters, why have you lied to Faisr all this time? What is your real name?”

The prince was taken aback. “My name? Why, it’s—”

“Carefully now,” Ophiria said. Her voice was soft, but her eyes glinted coldly. “Do not presume to lie to me, city dweller. Especially when so much is at stake.”

Alcadizzar paused. Suddenly, his mouth had gone completely dry.

“Very well,” he said. “My name is Alcadizzar. I am a prince of Rasetra.”

“You lie.”

Alcadizzar’s eyes widened. “No! It’s the truth—”

“You are no prince,” Ophiria said, cutting him off with a raised finger. “I see you resting upon a throne, with a crook and sceptre in your hands. You are a king.”

Alcadizzar clenched his jaw. “In time perhaps, but not yet. There is something that must be done first.”

“And what does this task of yours have to do with my people?”

Ophiria’s gaze was sharp and direct, like a poised blade. It unnerved him, to a degree, but at the same time he found himself eager to finally be able to speak of the secrets he’d kept for so many years. After a moment, he reached his decision. Without a word, he went back to the tray and poured a second cup of tea, then sat before Ophiria and told her everything.

She listened to it all in perfect silence, nodding at times and sipping her tea. When his story was done, she stared at him thoughtfully.

“And what happens once you’ve obtained this evidence of Neferata’s crimes?”

Alcadizzar sighed. “Then the other great cities will have no choice but to take action. We’ll march on Lahmia, and—”

“I mean, what happens to my people once you’ve used us to get what you’re after?” Ophiria said.

The prince shifted uncomfortably. “Well, I would go to the chiefs and ask for their help,” he said. “I suppose Faisr will be angry with me, but I will beg his forgiveness. The evil at Lahmia’s heart threatens all of Nehekhara. Everything I’ve done has been for the good of the entire land. I hope he’ll understand that.”

“And if the chiefs help you, what then?”

“I don’t understand.”

Ophiria put down her cup and leaned forwards. “Once you’ve driven out these creatures and claimed your throne, what becomes of the people who adopted you as one of their own, twenty-five years ago?” She swept her hand through the air, gesturing at the walls of the tent. “Will you bring us to your city and keep us at court like trained hounds?”

A pained expression came over Alcadizzar’s face.

“I see,” he said in a hollow voice. “You think I see the tribes as just a means to an end. That as I soon as I’ve gotten what I want from them, I’ll forget my oaths and cast them aside.”

“It’s happened before. Many times.”

“That’s true,” Alcadizzar said. “But not by me. I’m no city dweller, Ophiria. This is my home, as it has been for many years. These are my people. Let me ask you a question now, what is it that the tribes truly want? Tell me, and if it’s in my power, I will give it to them.”

Ophiria studied him carefully, searching for any sign of deception. Her expression softened, and she leaned back. Her gaze fell to the teacup.

“We want forgiveness,” she replied.

“What?” the prince gave her a baffled look. “Who am I to forgive you anything?”

“On the contrary,” Ophiria replied. “I think you’re the man we’ve waited hundreds of years to meet.”

Alcadizzar shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“No, of course not.” Another ghostly smile crossed Ophiria’s face. “You’ve only been with us for a quarter-century. We haven’t given up all of our secrets.” She sighed. “Have you ever wondered why the tribes came here, so long ago, and why we still remain?”

“Of course. I’ve asked Faisr about it several times, but he never would tell me.”

The seer nodded. “That is because he was ashamed. It is a hard thing for any man, least of all a chieftain, to admit that his people are oathbreakers.”

Alcadizzar straightened. “Oathbreakers? What do you mean?”

Ophiria sighed. “The people of the desert live and die by their oaths, Alcadizzar. It has always been thus. Khsar is a terrible and pitiless god, but our oaths to him allowed us to prosper in a land that confounds and kills other men. We lived in the Great Desert for centuries and we were content. Then came Settra, the Empire-Maker, and we were sorely tested.”

The prince nodded. “I’ve studied his campaigns. The desert tribes came the closest to defeating him of any army he ever faced.”

“Yes,” Ophiria agreed. “Long and bitter were the battles and many brave men were lost. But Settra’s armies were endless. We won every fight except the last, but that one defeat changed everything.” Her face twisted into a grimace. “The Empire-Maker brought together the surviving chiefs and made them swear powerful oaths to him. Oaths to serve his kingdom and to protect it unto death. We swore it before Khsar, mingling our blood with his sacred sand. And we honoured that oath for many hundreds of years,” she said, then her face grew troubled. “Until the Usurper came.”

“I don’t understand,” Alcadizzar said. “Your people fought the Usurper during the war. In fact, desert riders under Shahid ben Alcazzar saved the host of Ka-Sabar at the battle of Zedri.”

“That is true,” Ophiria said. “And we harried his retreating army for many days afterwards. But then the Usurper sent his lieutenant, Arkhan, to claim vengeance. He struck at our very heart, falling upon Bhagar with his army. Shahid fought like a lion, but when his own brother was slain by Arkhan, his heart was broken. To our everlasting shame, the Red Fox surrendered to the enemy and cast aside the honour of his people.”

Ophiria brought up her knees and hugged them against her chest. “And so Arkhan took from us our beloved horses—the one and only gift Khsar ever truly gave us—and he slew them all. After that, we became his slaves, toiling in the desert to build his black tower and to die upon his sacrificial altar.”

“And when the war ended?”

The Usurper was overthrown, but what did that matter? We had broken our oath to Settra, and Khsar took no pity on us. The desert, which had once been our refuge, now turned against us. Our wells dried up and storms erased all our safe routes through the desert. Soon it was clear that we could not remain in the desert and survive.

“And so the tribes left the desert in shame. They travelled first to Khemri, intending to offer themselves as slaves in hopes of redeeming their honour. But the city was in ruins, its people fled.”

Ophiria picked up the teacup and drained it to the dregs. Staring into its murky depths, she said, “Just then, when all hope was lost, the Daughter of the Sands went into the ruined palace, where Settra himself once ruled. She knelt before the dais where the great throne had stood and sought guidance. That was when she received the prophecy. She said that Settra had come to her in a vision, and told her to seek the City of the Dawn. There we would find the next king of Khemri and the old oath would be made new again.”

Alcadizzar listened, and a chill went down his spine. “That seems very difficult to believe,” he said.

“And yet, here you are,” Ophiria said. “Suleima saw it, too. That was why she intervened at the gathering all those years ago. She saw our salvation in you.”

The prince was silent for a long while. Outside, the sun was setting and the camp was beginning to stir. Ophiria set aside the teacup. “The hour grows late, Alcadizzar,” she said. “And you haven’t answered my question.”

Alcadizzar sighed. His hand fell to the knife at his waist. “Give me your hand,” he said.

“Why?”

The prince drew his knife. After a moment’s pause, he drew its edge against the palm of his left hand. He gritted his teeth at the sting and watched beads of blood swell up from the cut. “I have no sand of the desert,” he said. “So I must ask for your hand instead.”

Ophiria studied him for a moment, her face inscrutable. Slowly, she held out her hand.

Alcadizzar clasped it at once. Her skin was smooth and very warm.

“By my blood and by my honour, when I am king in Khemri, the sacred oath will be made new again,” he said.

Ophiria smiled and withdrew her hand. “So be it, son of Khemri.”

“But first, Lahmia must fall,” Alcadizzar said. “My own honour requires it.”

The seer stared down at the bloody imprint on her palm. She closed her hand.

“Watch the skies, oh king,” she said. Her voice had a strange, distant quality that made the hairs prickle on the back of his neck. “Look for the sign. A pennon of fire across the night sky, forked like the tongue of the asp.”

Alcadizzar frowned. “When?”

“In the fullness of time. When the pennon fills the night sky, wait in the woods to the north of the city and Lahmia will deliver itself into your hands.”

“I—” A thousand questions raced through Alcadizzar’s mind. But before he could ask them, Ophiria was gone, ducking out of the tent as silently as she’d appeared.

It was growing dark inside the tent. Alone in the growing gloom, Alcadizzar clenched his cut hand. “I will. By all the gods, I will.”