In the Shadow of Swords (38 page)

Since the ambush, the heat had become even more brutal.

At the height of the day they were forced to take shelter, setting up tents to shield themselves from the suns’ heat. Lavvann sent Hussein ahead a short distance to scout out the road for them. He returned with periodic reports during their progress, and they adjusted their pace accordingly.

The last report had come two hours ago. No sign of anyone, and by their best reckoning, they were alone.

For now.

11

SARN WAITED.

Several hours after the others had gone to sleep, he watched as Marin approached his tent.

She entered silently, carefully moving aside the folds of cloth that hung across the entry. She paused for a moment, as though she could feel his eyes upon her.

She is beautiful
, thought Sarn. The way he felt about that startled him. Women did not usually affect him in that manner.

Sarn lay on his left side, wrapped in blankets, his head opposite the entrance. As she peered in the dim light, he moved slightly, shifting as though in sleep.

He admired her courage in entering his tent, and watched as lowered the flap quietly behind her. She took several small, careful steps closer and then hesitated. Slowly she reached for her blade. Sarn rolled into the shadows, vanishing from her sight. She froze, looking about wildly.

His eyes met hers as he stepped away from the dark wall of the tent and approached her menacingly.

Sarn had known that at some point, one of these travelers would try to end his life. Marin was the one whom he had suspected from the start. Earlier that night he had spied her venomous glances as they ate together.

After all, he had killed her husband, Hiril Altaïr.

Sarn saw her flinch, fully expecting a lethal blow, but he did not approach. Instead, he was content to watch the emotions play across her face—all but fear.

He continued to stand silently, waiting for her next move. Whatever weapon she had hidden behind her back remained there.

Sarn underestimated no one. While it was true that most assassins were men, there were women just as capable; and Sarn knew that they were, in some ways, superior. A woman tended to be more driven and relentless than a man. Female assassins were dedicated, deceptive, and ruthless. These qualities made them extremely lethal.

He had expected the worst from Marin, but he quickly determined that although she was capable of killing, she was not a killer. She was different. Yes, she was fair and cunning, but not cold and shallow. Something in her eyes told him she was much more complex than he could have imagined. He decided to spare her life tonight.

But he knew he would kill her eventually.

12

“DO YOU think I’m a fool?”

Marin went still. She recovered quickly though, hoping that her disappointment and uncertainty were not perceptible. She brought her empty hands up in front of her and murmured, “No, no, of course not. I heard sounds and feared you might be ambushed by some unseen attacker,” she said, flinching as she realized how feeble it sounded even to her.

Sarn lit a candle and continued to study her. She could swear his lips quirked. “So, you were worried about my welfare? I hardly believe that… and yet to take my life now would seem to be an

even greater folly.”

Her chin rose involuntarily as the anger boiled up inside again. “You know nothing about me or my motives,” she whispered.

He regarded her for a moment. Did she wait for his attack? Did she hope he would end her life quickly?

Sarn sighed and raked his fingers through his dark hair. He straightened and beckoned to her. “Come, sit—let’s talk. We haven’t spoken much, and I could use the company.” He sat at one end of the tent, thoughtfully leaving a place for her near the doorway, as far away from him as possible.

The irony of this invitation did not escape her; she stood for a moment, indecisive. Finally however her shoulders drooped and she sat quietly.

She looked around, then said, “I have watched you use magic—the false image of yourself when you battled the Haradin.”

“It’s a simple spell, a protective illusion.”

She raised an eyebrow. “But the use of arcane—even trivial—magic has serious consequences for the one who weaves the spell, doesn’t it? Isn’t that why there are so few who can do such things?”

He nodded, seeming unsurprised by the question. “True. It is said that one will first wither from within and then age outwardly from its continual use. Yet for some reason, be it a boon or a curse, I suffer little of this effect… at least, on the outside,” he said wryly, as if to himself.

“Are you jinn-born?” she asked.

The look that passed across Sarn’s face was brief, and to the untrained eye, undetectable. It told her that her guess had hit home.

“I will not burden you with my past tonight,” he said. “I wish to hear of yours.”

“Mine? How could that possibly interest you? My deeds pale in comparison to what you have done.” She made no attempt to hide the contempt in her voice.

“How is that? Your possession of the books tells me you are important.”

“I once had a future, but that was taken from me. Though it can never be replaced, I seek to right some of the wrongs done.” Marin paused and said, “The books will give me the chance to change this.”

“Then we share a common bond. Let hope we see it done, then,” Sarn said.

The shock of his words resonated in Marin. Looking at him, she knew he could see how she felt—and she could see his emotions, too.

He was pleased.

13

MARIN SHIVERED.

It was the following morning, and the company continued its trek to the oasis. Marin was still reeling from her conversation with Sarn.

Sarn had awakened everyone at the crack of dawn and was silent as they all packed their horses for the day. He didn’t say a word to her. Instead, he quietly fed and watered his horse and then consulted with the Emir away from all the others. They traveled six hours before stopping.

They reached a caravanserai without incident. The owners provided them with bedding, cheese, and bread. Marin heard the metallic clink of coins being exchanged. Somehow, she did not fear for their safety. In truth, Marin wasn’t sure what she felt anymore.

“You’d better get some sleep,” Sarn told her. “We have a long trek still ahead of us.”

“A week?” one of the others asked.

“Yes.”

“The path is becoming more difficult to follow with each passing mile,” Marin said.

“Finding proper passage from this point onward will not be easy,” Sarn warned her. “But don’t concern yourself. I know the way.”

Marin allowed herself a small smile.

“I am not afraid,” she said.

14

SOON.

Marin knew that her confrontation with the assassin was getting closer. It was impossible to keep from brooding on it.

She told Sarn little. He had been successful in getting information out of her, but she’d revealed only what she wanted him to know, weaving fact with fiction. Sarn had listened, nodding. The closest she’d come to Hiril’s death was a brief mention of a spy dying in Havar. For a moment, Sarn’s eyes glinted, as if he’d realized she was alluding to her late husband. But she’d moved on quickly, changing the subject to how she’d gained possession of the books that Malek sought to possess. Sarn had questioned her about that, and the answer she’d given was the same as before. “I came across them accidentally.” Sarn had nodded, seemingly accepting her explanation.

At some point during their conversation, Marin had found herself relaxed and even at ease with Sarn. His voice was soothing somehow. “My birthright has been more of a curse than a blessing,” he said. “Everything I have undertaken has been because of it.”

“So you are a servant, then?” Marin asked. She doubted this would draw out a confession, but thought it was worth a try.

“In a cruel way, yes,” Sarn answered. “There is a man named Fajeer Dassai. He is close to the Sultan and Prince Malek. I am atthe mercy of him and… others…” Sarn faltered. She detected a furtive movement as he touched something in his pocket. “… a tool for the Sultan.”

“And you must do as they command?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” Marin pressed him. “It seems that you would be a slave to no one.”

And then Sarn told her more than she ever would have expected him to reveal. He told her of his mother, and of the veil between the mortal world and the realm of the Jnoun—how in certain instances the barrier broke or tore, allowing these elemental creatures to slip through to Mir’aj. He told her of his father’s marriage to such a being.

Marin was silent, awestruck by his narrative. He went on to explain that he was both human and jnoun, begotten of his father’s seed and nurtured in his elemental mother’s womb, hence the mystical blood that flowed through his veins. “My mother died in childbirth,” he said. “My father later married an ambitious whore whose only desire was to use him to get at the wealthier men of the court.” He told her about the rage he’d felt over her neglect, how she’d arranged to have him kidnapped from his home and delivered to the Tajj al-Hadd. He spoke of his rage and the result of his uncontrollable actions.

“What happened?” Marin asked.

“I killed her lover,” he confessed. “She witnessed the attack and discovered my secret.”

“And she found a way to get rid of you.”

“Yes,” he said.

He revealed the training he’d received in the Tajj al-Hadd from Fajeer Dassai. He told her how Dassai had groomed him from an early age to do his bidding, how he’d become a virtual slave to Dassai because of his blood. He explained how the seeds of resentment festered. “I am a pawn to the Sultan of Qatana.”

Marin remained silent.

“Yet… someday… I might live in peace,” Sarn said. “But only upon the Sultan’s death can this occur.”

“For you to be free, the Sultan must die?”

“Yes.”

His revelations subjected Marin to an onslaught of conflicting emotions. When she returned to her tent, she had a new perspective on her husband’s killer. On the one hand, revenge for Hiril’s murder still drove her, compelling her to complete her task. On the other, she’d discovered, like it or not, a newfound compassion for Sarn.

She tried to shake it off, but try as she might, she could not rid herself of the feeling.

Her sleep that night was troubled.

15

MARIN MUTTERED a curse.

She had told more lies and used more trickery in her attempt to avenge her husband’s death than she ever would have imagined. She should not have listened to Ciris Sarn last night. She should have excused herself as quickly as possible and returned to her tent.

No one should have to endure as much as she had—no matter what their crime or what they’d suffered in life. She hated Sarn because she needed him. She needed him to save her from
becoming
him.

Marin and her escorts rode behind Sarn and Prince Malek, making good time in the blaze of the double suns. Off in the distance, mirages shimmered along the endless horizon, seeming to float over the blinding white sand. Sarn had told Marin this morning that the oasis was only a day’s journey away.

And when we find the last book
, she thought,
will I have the conviction to kill you?

Rammas shook his head as if reading her thoughts. “It doesn’t matter anymore. You know what we must do.”

Surprised, Marin found herself nodding.

She secretly hoped Sarn had heeded her request.

16

DARKNESS FELL.

As the second sun set, they made camp at the base of a large sand dune. Malek and Sarn sat huddled together away from the others.

“We’ll stay at the oasis only long enough to regain our strength. The location of the treasure will not be far away,” the Prince said. “And when we are finished, we return.”

Sarn nodded. His mood was reflective and troubled. All day he’d been lost in thoughts about Marin and the potential consequences once the book was found and the ghuls were released.

“She will lead us,” Malek continued. “When we reach the spot where she will unearth the fifth book, I will move quickly. One slash with the blade, and her blood will spill out onto Rim al-Jass.”

“And the others?” Sarn asked, already knowing what the answer would be.

“Surely they will not be too much for you to handle. I will help once I’ve killed Marin.”

“Releasing the ghuls will be our foremost concern,” Sarn said. “The men who accompany Marin will no doubt fight them, but I can’t guarantee your safety.” He looked at the Emir. “It’s possible that their strength will be too great even for me.”

Malek smiled. “I have confidence you will defeat them. Don’t concern yourself with it.”

Sarn nodded. “Then once it’s finished, you will give me my reward.”

“Yes.” Malek smiled. “And then your curse will be lifted.”

Sarn nodded. This promise outweighed any other decision he could make. His glance darted toward Marin’s camp. He’d been thinking about what she’d said to him. Now her words brought back memories of Fajeer Dassai and the actions that ultimately had sent him on this path of fate. That single act of rebellion—stealing the Books of Promise and laying them beside Hiril Altaïr’s body—had brought them into the hands of the woman whom he knew to be Hiril’s widow.

“Follow my lead,” the Prince said. “And do not fret. Our journey will end soon.”

Sarn nodded. “I’m ready.”

17

WAHA AL-RIBAT.

Ahead of them they could see a ring of jade floating in an alabaster ocean of sand.

Despite the welcoming oasis, Marin was lost in visions of her encounter with the assassin. That she was a trained warrior of the Four Banners was still true, but she was first and foremost a woman.

She felt the pain of those who needed nurturing. Upon hearing Sarn’s life story—how his adolescence had been spent, the treachery of wicked men, and his search for peace—her entire body had become exhausted with inner turmoil. Here was a man who was not at all what he seemed. Sarn was no demon; he was a mortal tormented by memories and dreams—and a curse.