Memories of Ash (The Sunbolt Chronicles Book 2) (15 page)

“Your generosity in aiding travelers is known across the desert sands, and rightly so,” Huda says.

The warrior merely dips his head again, wishes us peace, and with a shout to his men, departs at a brisk pace.

Huda turns her regard upon Laith. “We meant to travel on another hour before resting.”

I’m pretty sure we meant to travel right through, but I’m more than happy to adjust our plans for a short rest. No doubt Huda’s intentions changed the moment she spotted the warriors, and again when she realized we had their escort.

Laith gestures expansively, the memory of his grin still lurking in his eyes. “Then let us travel.”

Huda sets our pace, and the warriors break into two groups, Laith and Faris riding ahead while the remaining four follow behind us. They are all armed with curved swords and bows and arrows. Their robes run the gamut from dark brown to sand gold. Unlike Huda’s
thobe
, theirs are unadorned, falling in simple elegant lines around them.

“That was Hamza ibn Mansoor himself,” Huda murmurs, speaking to me over her shoulder. “He is one of the leaders of his tribe, and one of the greatest warriors of the desert.”

“Ah.” All this means to me is that we were very, very lucky he didn’t take offense at our trespassing.

“And he has left his own son to guide us,” Huda adds. I finally place her tone: amazement.

“His son chose,” I point out. I suspect from the frown Hamza had so quickly wiped away, he would have been much happier if Laith
hadn’t
chosen. I go on, “And you made it clear where their honor lies.”

She chuckles, a deeper, throatier sound than I would have expected. “When you have chosen a path, you must walk it with courage.”

“Yes,” I agree, looking out past her scarf to the backs of the two men on their camels, and beyond them to where Fidanya lies, still hidden behind the desert hills.

We stop for the afternoon at a well dug beneath a high bluff. The shallow caves and wide stone overhangs provide shelter from the heat of the sun. There is plenty of grazing as well — the thorn bushes are now interspersed with other bushes whose smoother branches and wider leaves the camels clearly enjoy.

Huda sets out a blanket for us in a depression in the bluff that, while hardly a cave, provides us with privacy from the men. Laith arrives to check on us first, lugging a bucket of water. We drink from it, refill our leather water bag, and then Laith offers what’s left to Huda’s camel. It ignores the bucket, having drunk its fill the night before.

“Have you traveled to Fidanya before?” I ask Huda as Laith lifts the bucket once more, ready to return.

“No,” she says. “I have heard stories, but I have not been there before.”

“Is there something I can tell you?” Laith asks. He keeps his eyes focused respectfully on the blanket.

“I must find a friend there,” I say slowly, searching for the words I need. “But the first night, I will need to stay,” I gesture, hand open. The more I hear and speak the desert tongue, the more it comes back to me, but there are definitely still gaping holes.

Laith tilts his head, grinning. “That is no trouble, even if you
are
arriving on the first day of The Festival of Guilds. There are three great caravanserai on the outskirts of Fidanya. Each offers travelers three nights’ stay at no cost.”

“Three nights?”

“It’s tradition. They are not so far from the desert to have forgotten the rights of the traveler.”

For which I will be long grateful, I decide. “What is the Festival?”

He blinks, then casts a quick glance at Huda before answering. “It is … three days of celebrating. All the markets are closed, and every trade guild presents itself to the king’s palace to offer up tokens of their finest work. They begin their procession from a different direction each day, starting from the east on the first day, the west on the second, and the south on the third. Each guild gives freely of their wares as they make their way to the palace, so the people have no need for the markets.” Laith’s gaze has turned dreamy, his voice sweet and deep. “In the evenings there are festivities the like of which few cities can boast. There are theaters built at all the great squares, showing plays from all the Eleven Kingdoms. There are fireworks to light up the night, and at midnight, they remember the turning back of the Northlanders.”

I frown, racking my memory for any reference to an invasion from the Northlands. “When did the Northlanders come?”

He laughs. “Hundreds of years ago, but they still burn models of fortresses and catapults to celebrate that victory.”

“Have you seen the Festival before?” Huda asks from beside me, her curiosity piqued.

“No,” Laith says, his voice falling. “My brother has, and told us often of what he saw. I have been to Fidanya before, but never at this time of year.” He offers us his crooked grin. “Perhaps in escorting you, I shall finally see some part of the Festival myself.”

Huda looks at her pack, delving inside it with complete focus, as if our meal will otherwise escape us. Laith hefts his bucket and returns to the men.

A few minutes later, as Huda sets out dates and cheese for us, Faris appears with a platter heaped high with dates, a different kind of cheese, and rice mixed with spiced meat. As he spies Huda’s food, he says, “No, you are our guests now. Let us provide for you.”

“Even as our tribes war,” she says, looking him straight in the eye.

“Even as our tribes war,” he repeats. And then, as she continues to meet his gaze, “Let us be your hosts in truth.”

“Our guest may eat,” Huda says finally, gesturing toward me, “but it has not been a year since my brother died upon the swords of your tribe. I cannot share your food.”

He lowers his head slightly, his eyes darkening. He has lost someone as well. The sickening truth of what it means to be enemies, to speak of war, clutches at my chest, squeezing the air from my lungs.

“I see,” he murmurs, and sets the platter down by my side.

I don’t know how to accept it. Smiling and nodding seems like a betrayal to Huda; to take it without acknowledgement
,
exceptionally rude. But, like Laith, Faris simply turns and walks away.

I look down at my hands. These are not my people, not my concern. Except that, in a very real sense, they may be my people. Laith and Faris might actually be my relatives, and Huda — Huda I would want as a friend and sister, if I could choose such a thing. But my choice, now, is to seek out Stormwind. I cannot help each person I come across, least of all when they neither seek my aid nor want my interference.

“Eat,” Huda says, pointing to the platter Faris brought. “Do not feel that you cannot eat the food of your host for fear of offending me. You are a traveler, and this enmity is not yours.”

I want to tell her that I am sorry about her brother, though his death has nothing to do with me. I want to tell her that I have killed, and brought death, and that I want it all to stop. But she cannot eat the food of her enemies, and we are worlds apart, though we sit upon the same blanket. So I eat, from the platter of her enemies, and from hers as well.

After a brief afternoon rest, we travel on through the remaining hours of the day and into the night. Laith had suggested that we could reach the nearest caravanserai bordering the city around midnight if we kept going. Huda and I traded glances and agreed to this plan once. She has no wish to remain in her enemies’ company longer than necessary, and I want to get to Fidanya as fast as possible.

So we ride on by moonlight, the stars our guide, six armed men our escort. A few hours past sunset we crest a low ridge to see a great plain spreading out before us, all traces of the hills vanished. Nearest us, the land lies dark, hidden beneath the undulating shadows of crops. Farther on, bright lights begin to intersperse the fields here and there, and then the lights grow closer together until the far part of the plains seem nothing more than a carpet of light.

It is huge, this city. I had not expected something so populated so close to the desert.

“How is there water for all the plants?” I ask Huda as we descend to the first of the fields.

“Two great rivers flow through this plain,” she says. “The king had channels built to spread water to the fields.”

“Does he,” I start, then hesitate, not sure how to ask my question. “Is he king of the desert?”

She snorts. “He thinks so, but we follow our own laws. We send him a tribute each year, and he leaves us alone.”

“Mmm.”

She lifts a hand toward the spread of light before us. “One who lives in such a place cannot understand the way of the desert.”

Though I have traveled through the desert less than two days, gazing at the density of light and wealth and humanity concentrated on the plain before us, I think I do see some of what she means.

We reach the caravanserai deep in the night. Lit with a vast quantity of glowstones, the collection of buildings appear bathed in light, the open yard before them bright and cheerful. As tired as I am, I notice only that they are big, clean, and bustling with people. From somewhere nearby, shouts and laughter ring out among strains of music. From farther away comes the occasional boom of an explosion, though no one seems alarmed. All part of the festivities, I expect.

Laith and Faris intercept a young man wearing a long tunic topped by a sleeveless vest, as well as a loose drawstring
selvar
not unlike those worn by the desert folk, except that his have somewhat more folds of cloth centered at his waist, creating a baggier look as a whole. The young man leaves and returns within a few minutes with a young woman to assist Huda and me. She is dressed in much the same style, though the cut of her
selvar
is slightly roomier, if that’s possible. Rather than a vest, she wears a sleeved jacket lightly embroidered with stylized flowers.

With her help, we unload our camel and carry Huda’s belongings into one of the buildings, leaving the men to see to their own mounts. The woman leads us down a hallway to a locked door behind which are built a series of stone spaces that look like nothing so much as cells barred with iron gates. Staring at them, I feel a chill creep down my spine. I rub my arms, trying to dismiss my fears. I’m just tired. These cages are filled with sacks, trunks, barrels, and all manner of objects, not people.

Huda pulls out what few items she will need, and I shoulder my pack, and the rest the woman locks into an empty storage space, handing Huda the key.

We follow the woman up a flight of stairs to a dormitory. Most of the beds lie empty. Here and there a woman shifts on her pallet, her form swathed in blankets. “We have only three beds left,” our guide says as she leads us to the back of the room. “Our guests are at the Festival, but this room will fill up by morning. It is well for you. Your men must sleep in the back courtyard.”

Huda presses her lips together, but doesn’t offer a correction on our relation to our escort. Instead, she thanks the woman for our quarters and a few minutes later we are both in our pallets.

I open my eyes to find the dormitory half-lit, curtains drawn over the windows. I peek out from behind the heavy cloth at the great semicircular cobbled yard we rode into last night. It lies relatively quiet now, the hour still early. I spot only a pair of horses hitched to a post and a small group of men conversing in a doorway.