Ay’il waited until darkness had settled well upon the Fulani camp, for his neck’s sake. He had no doubt he could spirit away the camels without detection, but he respected the Fulani, and had a healthy fear of what they did to thieves. Anyone raised in the open desert did, and the Fulani had often traded slaves with his mother. They were ruthless, as, he thought grimly, was she, remembering once when she nearly sold him to the Fulani as punishment for spilling a bucket of goat’s milk.
His mother, Roquila, reportedly dead at Medjai hands, was not a person he though of often. She had not bestowed upon him any sort of maternal affection, although his older brothers found favor with her. It was as if what little love she had stored in her heart had been exhausted by the time he was born. He had heard she was dragged to death behind Mustafa Al Ziyal’s warhorse, in accordance with the ancient laws that governed such things as revenge for the murder of a brother. He had mourned his mother’s death as he had his father’s and his eldest brother’s, for they were the only family he knew. He had loved them, in as much as he understood what it meant to love. He was realizing, however, that what they and his still living brother, Daoud, had given him was not what others considered love.
Love was what he had seen with Ardeth Bay and the American woman. They had touched each other with tenderness and spoken with gentle tones. He had watched them with discreet fascination, observing them in silence, surreptitiously, for he was certain this would not please the chieftain as Bay was protective of his American woman.
Pleasing the chieftain had become very important to Ay’il, for he saw in it, survival. If he was to escape this damnable hole, he needed to show his worth to The Lion.
Obtaining three healthy camels would definitely secure Bay’s graces, and so, Ay’il crept slowly on his belly towards the waiting livestock, his hood pulled over his face to help him blend into the night.
As he reached the far side of the camels, he eased to his feet, still confident that the Fulani hadn’t a clue as to their impending impoverishment. He determined that the big bull would be the one to take, as he was obviously dominant over the others and they would follow him, quietly and without complaint. Slipping next to the bull, he untied the hobbling tether and prepared to silently mount the animal by asking it to kneel.
This was where his plan unraveled, for the bull, ever cantankerous, resented being asked to carry a rider in the middle of the night, and grunted with annoyance.
The sound made Ay’il’s heart lurch, and he at first froze, straining his ears for sounds indicating the Fulani were alerted, then doubled his speed, rushing to clamber onto the bare back of the beast and be off before he was discovered.
It was this noise that Tariq had heard, this low, obstinate bellow of the bull camel, and it caused him to shove aside his remembrances of his wedding night, of Jehan’s nubile body and loving heart, and tear across the sand, sword at the ready. He was acutely alert to the realization that someone was attempting to steal their camels, which would strand them all in the desert with little hope of survival. It was nothing short of a death sentence, and Tariq was not one to welcome death, not now that he had discovered a reason to live, and to love.
The object of that love, Jehan, relieved of duty until late watch, curled into a hollow in the sand, trying to find what sleep she could. A crushing headache had plagued her all day, and was now nearly unbearable. It caused a jumbling of her thoughts, even as she had sat in silence with Ibrahim, eating the sparse rations that passed for their meal. He had been deep in contemplation, which had suited her as well. Still, she had liked his company, and found a comfort in it. There was closeness between them, which, as she looked back, had always existed, even when he was not ‘officially’ her brother.
Now, however, she felt incredibly alone and verged on a rarely experienced feeling of hopelessness. The trouble between her and Tariq was central to this. He was growing more distant and obviously more angry with each hour; becoming more and more the distant, unreachable man he had been when they first met. It was as if the evil of the Cybeline temple had claimed him instead of her.
Compounding this, Ardeth and Carrie were still lost, perhaps dead, and Acenath’s fate remained unknown. Was her young friend dead? She had not seen her in the temple…. the temple…the great wicked place that had touched some deep, unknown part of her and now seemed to posses her Tariq. Jehan’s thoughts dwelt upon it, as a stabbing pain shot through her head, and she whimpered softly. Tariq’s name involuntarily came to her lips, and, as she wished for his touch, she imagined his fingers on her skin, caressing her as he had on their first night.
How tender he had been, her wild rogue of a husband, and how beautiful was the sex they shared. Even through the blinding pain in her head, she remembered his loving ways. The memory was like an anchor, securing her against the undertow trying to drag her away. “Tariq….” she moaned louder, and then, sitting upright, her headache suddenly, instantly gone, she realized that he was going to do something horrible if she did not intercede.
Exactly what this was, she did not know, but with the epiphany of one who understands she is seeing a certainty, Jehan knew she had to reach her husband quickly if she was to forestall a true tragedy. Without further thought, she leapt to her feet and tore across the dunes like a possessed spirit.
Ibrahim had completed his private evening devotions, a special set of prayers he said every day for the lives and his wife and unborn child, when he heard the scuffling of Jehan’s boots in the sand. Trained by years in the desert, he knew she was running, and was immediately on his feet to follow, grabbing a faggot from the fire to serve as a torch. It was easy to track her, even in the darkness, as a crescent moon sat low on the horizon and offered enough light to see her fluttering robes against the night, like a falcon flying home, he thought in a flash of his own clarity, not realizing that he, too had the gift of sight that so plagued his half sister. In that moment, he changed his course, heading not after Jehan, but towards the camels.
Tariq did not know any of this. All he knew was he had a thief in his sights and would soon easily plant a well-thrown knife between the culprit’s shoulder blades. Pulling the blade soundlessly from its hilt, he gripped the tip in his fingers, aimed with confidence, and tensed his muscles in preparation for the throw. He could already see in his mind the knife embedding itself in the spine of the interloper, knowing he would not miss, knowing he would not allow anyone to take from him the life he had found.
In a fraction of a second, he would have released the knife with lethal result, had it not been for the sound of footfalls behind him. Whirling to see who would so carelessly approach, he came face to face with Jehan, tears streaming down her face. Incredulous, he lowered his arm and let her run into his embrace. Despite his mixed emotions over her betrayal, he could not distance himself from the love he had for her. “Jehan….wha….”
“Do not kill him, Tariq! You must not. Must not…must not. He cannot die. He is you,” she hurriedly explained, her words making sense to only her. Tariq found only confusion in them and, in frustration, turned back towards the camels, expecting to see the thief had escaped. Instead, Ibrahim, holding a torch in one hand and a struggling youth in the other, approached.
Turning on Jehan, Tariq pressed her for an explanation, his face contorting in anger. “He was stealing the camels. Why did you stop me? Who is he? Do not say he is me. That is crazy. Have you gone completely mad? Have I an insane woman for a wife?”
Tentatively, Jehan reached her fingers to her husband’s cheek. His beard had grown in dense and wooly, hiding the Medjai marks that lie beneath. So like him, she thought poignantly, so like him, with so much hidden, even from himself. Quietly, her voice ripe with tenderness and understanding of things far beyond her years, she answered as a finger traced the lines of his face, “It IS you….he is part of you. He is your brother, and mine sent him. You must not kill him, Tariq. You cannot. Do you not see?”
It was madness, these words she said, Tariq thought , and yet, there was a certainty in her voice that held him captive much as her beauty had always entranced him. For a brief moment, he did see, and he knew she was right. “How is this possible?” he asked in wonder, locked in a moment of understanding that even he hadn’t the power to resist.
Her smile was beguiling, as were her words. “Trust in fate, Trust me, Tariq,”
Trust her. Oh, how he wanted to, but he remembered how quickly she had turned on him before and pulled away, breaking the bond that had just formed, turning away from the truth he had just seen. Once again he became angry and spat bitter, pain-filled words, words that were meant to cut her deeply. “So that you can betray me again? I think not, witch.”
Seeing his face grow as harsh, Jehan sought to reassure him, fumbling with what to say as her confidence fled. Suddenly, she could not find the soothing words that had come so easily only seconds before. “Tariq, it was necessary….I could not….I…”
She did not finish, as Ibrahim’s commanding voice echoed through the night. “We have a visitor to our camp. Let us make him welcome.” The friendly words carried a chill in them, and a threat. All knew that Ibrahim held the boy’s life in his hands, including the boy.
Ay’il futilely struggled against Ibrahim’s iron grip. Ibrahim’s face was veiled, and Ay’il had no way to know that he was not Fulani, but was, in fact, the very person he had been sent to find. “Fulani dog,” he sputtered with all the boyish bravado he could muster. “The Medjai chieftain Ardeth Bay will have your neck for this.”
At this, Ibrahim stopped, turned to the boy, pulled down the cloth that hid his own Medjai marks and asked in the low, controlled voice of one who seeks truthfulness of a prisoner, “I think not, but by Allah’s name I shall have yours if you do not tell me all you know of my brother. I am Ibrahim Bay and I hold no love for thieves who hide behind my family name.”
Ay’il’s eyes grew round at the promise. He realized he was looking into the face of the other son of Kasim Bay, the bastard sired upon the mistress. It was the one of whom Ay’il had heard only stories of ruthlessness, including the rumored torture and murder of his eldest brother, Yamul. The boy stammered a bit but managed to look Ibrahim in the eyes as he answered, “It was he who sent me to find help. It is the truth, I swear it.”
Tariq and Jehan had observed all this from nearby. It hadn’t taken Tariq long to recognize the lad in Ibrahim’s grasp as his half brother, and he stepped forward as light of the torch illuminated his features. “Hoping to lead us into a trap, Ay’il?” he asked coolly, not exposing his own emotions. When the boy did not answer, he added, “Do you not know me?”
Ay'il looked upon the face now clear. Indeed he did know this man who stared at him with unforgiving eyes. It was Tariq the traitor. Tariq the fatherless dog. Ay’il knew him only as this for the truth of their shared mother had been kept from him. “I know you,” Ay’il answered simply, careful not to show the hatred that burned in him for the man who had betrayed his family.
Tariq looked away from the boy as if he was so much dust. Directing his words to Ibrahim, he said, “He is my half brother, the spawn of Rashid sired on Roquila’s polluted hole. Surely if he is here, his son of a pig brother, Daoud, is nearby. Slit his throat now before he can cause trouble.”
“You lie….” Ay’il shouted as he struggled against Ibrahim’s grip and Tariq’s words. Tariq could not be of his blood. It was unthinkable…. and unbearable. “Bastard…. Pig…. Traitor. I will kill you for such lies.”
Tariq saw himself in the boy’s rage. His anger, his frustrations, his abandonment, all of it was reflected back to him in the form of his half brother. Jehan sidled next to Tariq, intuitively knowing the unrevealed turmoil within his heart. Only she could know that Tariq’s coldness was a mask for the tangled emotions inside. Slipping her hand on Tariq’s arm, she gently squeezed it, letting him know she was with him, physically and emotionally.
Ibrahim noted this, as he had the exchange between the boy and Tariq. Ibrahim, who knew that the truth of a person was hidden in the small things that go unnoticed by all but the most observant. His instincts told him that the boy told the truth. “What do you know of Chieftain Bay, boy? Take care, for I have no reason not to heed your brother’s words and slit you open like a melon.”
Ay’il answered in short, gulping bursts. “He sent me for help. His wife gave birth.” His voice took on a prideful tone, “A fine boy I helped deliver.” Seeing as Ibrahim’s stern face did not soften at this, Ay’il continued more quietly, “We left them in a cave and we went to find camels and water. I came this way, and the chieftain, the other.”
Ibrahim shook Ay’il firmly once, as if he could rattle the words from his head. “Where are they? Can you lead us to them? By Allah’s mercy, if you lie….” The words trailed off but the promise of an uneasy death was plain.
“I do not lie. I think I can find the way.” Reconsidering as he stared into Ibrahim’s intense features, he swallowed hard and continued, “I am sure of it.”
Without looking away from the boy’s face, Ibrahim called to his companions, “Tariq, I believe we should not kill him just yet. Do you concur?” Tariq’s permission was not needed for this, as Ibrahim was the commander, but it was polite to allow an elder brother a chance to speak for the life of the younger. Ibrahim also sensed that Tariq wished to recant his earlier words.
Jehan’s fingers tightened around Tariq’s arm as he considered his answer. Glancing down at her hand, Tariq could fairly feel warmth flowing from it into him, easing away the coldness he had tried to nurture against the boy, and against her. He had lived his life in such coldness, but her love had brought him from it before, and did so again. His eyes lifted to meet hers, and, as he knew they would be, they were waiting for him, her dark, beautiful eyes. She had been right, his unpredictable, wondrous wife had been right and he smiled ever so slightly at her. “Let him live…. for now.”
There was little time then for anything but striking the camp and riding in the direction Ay’il indicated. The boy rode on the camel with Ibrahim, a well-honed dagger against his ribs to ensure his continued co-operation. Ibrahim did not relish killing one of such tender years, but he was well aware that Ay’il could be leading them into a trap set by their enemies instead of taking them to Carrie’s hiding place.
As always, Ibrahim would do what he must, but in his heart, he hoped Ay’il was telling the truth, for all of their sakes.
*****************************
Ameera, curled like a cat on a divan in her favorite corner of her tent, read from a book her father had given her on the morning after her joining, just before he returned to his own village. It was the last time she saw him, as he was killed not long after, in a skirmish with the Tuareg. She sighed as the words on the page swam before her, her eyes tearing for a moment at the memory. As she turned the wick of her lamp up a bit, thinking of how deeply she missed her father still, she noted that a few tears had fallen onto the book. Blotting these away with the edge of her sleeve, she noticed, as well, that her eyes needed more flame by which to read than they used to, an inevitable sign that she was no longer the young girl Kasim Bay bedded as a virgin in this very tent.
The memory of that night brought an easy smile to her lips. She had not been sure what to expect from her joining. Oh, she had been educated, as were all highborn daughters, to take her place in her husband’s bed with compliance and willingness. She had even listened to some of the older girls discuss their own deflowerings, and had a very good idea of what would befall her. Her mother had gone as a young virgin to her father’s bed and had done her best to help her daughter understand what would happen and to find pleasure in it, but her mother had never prepared her for Kasim Bay.
Kasim Bay was a seducer of women, a seeker of pleasure, and an eager teacher of the ways of love to his young bride. He was also a kind and loyal man, albeit never a boring one. Indeed, Ameera thought with a sigh, loving Kasim Bay was like trying to remain upright in a sandstorm.
She let her thoughts linger on her first husband, remembering things she often did not think of, for, in the past, they caused her to miss him too much. Now, however, the memories were welcome, and she let them come.
Kasim had been a lover of the female species, this was very true, and they returned his affection with eagerness. In the months before her marriage, she had heard many stories of her husband-to-be and his way with women. He had never, it seemed, been long without female companionship of the carnal sort, but he had always conducted himself within the constraints of propriety in this regard. There was far more to Kasim’s appreciation of women than mere sexuality, as she was to learn.
During their years together she came to know well the many ways he admired women. He enjoyed the beauty of them and how they combined delicacy with strength. He adored their gentle ways and the wild sexuality many hid beneath shy smiles and dropped eyelashes.
Looking back upon her time with Kasim, Ameera knew with absolute certainty that he had cherished her deeply.
Oh, she knew he did not yet love her when she went to the marriage bed, but he valued her for her spirit as well as her beauty. He also appreciated her mind and her desire to be wanted as more than a trophy. She would not have chosen him if she had doubted this. Love was not what she felt for him, either, not at first, but she was already fascinated with the strikingly handsome man who was so different from anyone she had ever known. Within a year, she had done the task for which she was destined; she had given birth to a son for the house of Bay. She had also fallen incredibly, irrevocably in love with her husband.
It did not matter that she knew he had other women when she married him, as her father had several mistresses in addition to his wives. It was expected that a man of power have his…. distractions. It mattered to Kasim, however, and he offered to end these relationships, keeping himself true to Ameera’s bed out of respect for her and her family. Ameera knew he had made this decision in all seriousness, fully intending to honor it. That he could not did not diminish her esteem or love for him. He was a good man, her Kasim, far better than most, but he was human, and he had not been able to stay true to this goal.
There were two other women whom Kasim took to bed after their joining. One was Roquila, the wife forced upon him by the Council of Elders in an attempt to mend political fences between the tribes. The other was a mistress who claimed part of Kasim’s heart. She was the one in Cairo, Najima.
Ameera, naturally, knew of her and her husband’s abiding affection for her, and still sometimes wondered if she had made the correct decision in not allowing Kasim to take her as a wife. Kasim had once told her that she and Najima, in his opinion, would have become fast friends, and in the years since Kasim’s murder, she had missed having such a friend.
Most certainly, she and Najima shared as many things as would have friends, not the least of them, Kasim.
She sighed again, closing the book that had become abandoned as she let the past wash over her. She remembered when Kasim came to her with news of Najima’s pregnancy. It had been a frightening time in their village as several well-orchestrated assassination attempts on Kasim’s life had been thwarted. There had been threats against Ardeth as well and Ameera feared that a second acknowledged heir would place her young son at greater risk.
Already Ardeth showed a strong will and intelligent mind. Those who wished to use the Bay name to further their own causes would not easily manipulate him. Another son born of another mother might not be as hard to twist into a weapon by Kasim’s enemies. If so, he would become not a half brother to Ardeth, but a rival who could become a danger to his life. Despite Kasim’s wishes, she exercised her right as first wife and forbade the union with Najima.
It had led to a horrendous fight, in which Ameera saw, for the first time, a side of her husband that terrified her. He had been furious, his rage unbounded as he railed at her for being a petty and selfish woman who would deny an innocent child…HIS child….its birthright. He accused her of all sorts of terrible things, and even threatened her with divorce. She would not budge, however, and played her own trump card, that of accepting divorce only if it meant Kasim disowning Ardeth as well. Kasim, who adored his son, would never agree to this, and in the end, abided by her decision and made other arrangements for Najima’s child.
Understandably, his manner towards her cooled appreciatively in the months that followed. It was difficult for them both. For several long, lonely months, he refused to sleep in their bed, and she doubted if Kasim would ever forgive her, but then, something in him thawed. Somehow, he came to understand that she was not acting as a spiteful, jealous wife, but as a worried mother.
Even now, years later, she heard his voice, redolent with the rich, caressing tones she had so missed, as he came to her one night, just after she had gone to bed. “Ameera, wife, I wish to speak with you.” She had expected another argument, but his voice was gentle, much as it had been when she was a virgin in his arms for the first time. He continued, “The time has come for us to again be as a man and woman.” They were the traditional words of reconciliation and rejoining, the olive branch offered to bridge a marital rift.
How she had longed to hear these words, yet she would not immediately back down, she could not, for Ardeth’s life was still an issue. “I do not want my bed warmed by a husband who misunderstands me. One who thinks I am a cold, heartless woman who would take her revenge on a baby,” she had answered, her voice quivering yet resolute.
“I was very wrong to think such things of you, for your heart is the most generous I have ever known. I ask the mercy of that heart, now. I ask your forgiveness for misjudging you. I love you most sincerely, Little Moon. I always shall. I understand you were thinking of our son. I cannot find fault with a mother who fights like a tiger for her child.” He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his hand cupping her cheek, and she turned her head so she could kiss his palm. In that moment, all was forgiven for both of them, and they made love as each had been longing to do for so many lonely nights of solitude and celibacy.
Later, she would wonder what had caused him to see the matter from her eyes, and had asked him. He simply smiled broadly and answered that he had been enlightened by someone far wiser than he. Just who remained a mystery to her, but it healed the wounds each had caused to the other. It also made it easy in later years to agree to Kasim bringing the bastard son, Ibrahim, into their tent when the time came to train him.
She could not deny him this, not after the murder of his other children, born of the hated second wife, Roquila. Ameera had no choice but to accept that marriage, and wondered at the irony of it. She had refused Kasim’s marriage to a woman she would have likely found friendship with and was forced to agree to one with as wretched a serpent as slithered upon the earth.
Praise Allah that the spawn of that witch did not favor her, Ameera thought as she rubbed her taut belly. Tariq was a decent man, much as his father, Mohammed, had been, and he was a good match for Jehan, who had her father’s reckless nature.
Ibrahim, too, had become very dear to her, as much a second son as was possible, and she thanked Najima for giving birth to him.
Of course, Ameera was well aware of the sacrifices Najima had made to bear her son, and not unmindful of what else she owed to the woman who had also been beloved of Kasim Bay. She had assisted Ardeth greatly, being his eyes and ears in Cairo, but there was another reason for Ameera’s gratitude towards Najima. Had it not been for her, Kasim’s body would have never been found. They had never met, but the two women shared an unbreakable bond even now, years after the death of the man they had both adored, a bond formed by the agony his death caused.
Closing her eyes, she could almost imagine Kasim sitting next to her, his dark eyes glittering with masculine pride when she told him she was expecting their first child. How happy they had been as she swelled with the babe, although the pregnancy had not been easy. None of hers had been, except for this most recent one. She would have thought carrying a child at her age would have been more difficult, but it was not, and she smiled in contentment.
This pregnancy was not at all like her previous ones, just as Masoud was not Kasim, but there was love between them, a warm, comfortable love that had its own perfection. Masoud had been her father’s choice for her when she was a virgin, and she imagined how entertained he would be now that she had finally chosen the ‘right’ husband. Kasim, too, she knew, would find humor in this, as no man had been as close to him as had been Masoud.
Drowsy, Ameera settled back into the cushions a bit more, and let her heavy eyelids close. Masoud was still in the garrison, and would return within the hour. He would want a light late supper then, and she would massage the scars on his injured leg. It plagued him, but he would not show this weakness to the men. He was again a chieftain and needed to seem invincible. Until his return, she determined, she would nap and dream of beautiful things, of her life past and the days to come, of the child that grew in her womb, and send prayerful wishes skyward for those who were somewhere in the open desert. “Keep them safe, Kasim…” she murmured as she drifted to sleep.
********************************
Masoud grimaced slightly as he stepped down from the bright red stallion. It was Jehan’s horse, Shaitan, the devil horse, as the grooms called him, but Masoud liked the stud. He had served well in battle and cut a stylish figure in the village. Masoud might be aging, but he still appreciated a fiery steed. There was a silent understanding between him and the horse, Masoud decided, as he saw to it that a number of mares made it to Shaitan’s pasture in exchange for the stallion remaining a willing mount.
Steadying himself against the horse’s shoulder as a spasm of pain shot through his leg, Masoud whispered, “I have become your procurer, my friend. But you carry me well, and are far more trustworthy than many men I know. A pretty filly awaits you. Be courtly with her or she will render you a gelding with one kick.”
Another man, one Masoud had come to trust, was near and chuckled at the joke. Khalid had become Masoud’s companion on these evening rides through the village, and, as well, in Masoud’s plans for what would happen if, Allah forbid, those who were missing in the desert did not return.
Everything was aimed at preserving and protecting the one assured heir of the house of Bay; the unborn child in Safi’s body sired by Ibrahim. Towards this, a network of alliances held the village in tight control, in which many men played important roles. Masoud could easily see to the day-to-day matters of the village. He had been a chieftain for many years before stepping down to marry Ameera. Azeel and Ibrahim’s private guard assured the security concerns were dealt with, and Khalid, as Safi’s brother, would be essential in the raising of the child.
Masoud had promised Ibrahim that he would raise the baby as his own, but he was well aware that he was not a young man, and unlikely to see the child reach adulthood. Upon Khalid’s broad shoulders would fall the weighty task of bringing the child to maturity. It did not matter if the baby was born male or female, for it would represent the last link of the Bay line. If it was a girl, the choosing of an appropriate husband was paramount. If it was a boy, Khalid would be responsible for raising a chieftain.
Masoud gave the reins of the stallion to a stable boy and eyed the man into whose hands the future might be placed. “You are quiet tonight, Khalid.”
“I am always quiet, honored elder,” came the answer. Another boy hurried to take the reins of Khalid’s bay mare. “See to it that she is cooled properly, with careful brushing,” the big man instructed.
Masoud waited until the boys were out of earshot before asking, “They have been slacking, Ardeth’s stable boys, in his absence?”
Khalid was not one to cause trouble for the lads who cared for the horses in Ardeth’s stable, which included his mare now, but he also would not forgive mistreatment of the horse who had carried him safely home from battle. “Intisar had saddle marks left upon her, underneath, along the girth,” he stated simply as the two made their way through the courtyard towards the village.
“I will remind the stable master that Ardeth will not be pleased by laziness.” Masoud considered how much the stable missed its true master. Perhaps no other place was as much Ardeth’s as was this. Indeed, Ardeth’s old warhorse, Osiris, had taken to staring towards the open desert, as if he, too hoped to see a familiar man in the rising dust devils and blowing sand.
“You would have his first chore upon returning be that of disciplining errant stable boys?” Khalid asked with a hint of humor.
“I can think of nothing he would enjoy more,” laughed Masoud. “Surely it is a more pleasant task than reporting to the Tribal Council.”
“Upon that, the entire village agrees.” Khalid grinned at the thought of this and followed Masoud from the stable.
A silence fell between them as the two walked through the night. Masoud broke it with a polite query as the point at which they would part company was approaching. “Does Safi prepare a dinner for you, my friend?” If the answer was no, Masoud would invite Khalid to share the mean with Ameera and himself.
Khalid flashed a proud smile. “She is teaching Acenath to prepare molokhia. Safi assured me it would be edible, this time.” His eyes wrinkled just enough to tell Masoud that Acenath had yet to perfect this particular dish.
Masoud nodded in understanding. The soup was considered a staple of Medjai meals and all brides had to master it. “How is she? The girl?” Masoud was aware of Acenath’s torture, and had often seen her with Ameera and Nuhreen. He was sympathetic to her plight as he had known many women and girls, maltreated as an act of revenge or retribution, who had simply chosen to die, one being his youngest sister.
Khalid was not sure how to answer. Acenath was physically much better, but emotionally, he knew she harbored a great sorrow. Normally, an answer of non-committal pleasantry would be given, but he had come to trust the old chieftain, and was frank. “Her body heals, Masoud, but her soul is still fragile. I … I do not know how to help her.”
Masoud placed a fatherly hand on the other’s arm. “This is all to be expected, boy. Have patience with her, and faith in yourself. With Allah’s guidance, you shall heal each other.” With a dip of his head, he turned towards his own tent in which waited Ameera, the woman he had coveted for longer than it was honorable to admit.
Khalid watched as Masoud faded into the darkness. Truly, the elder’s words resonated in his soul, as the old man had cut straight to the heart of the matter. Khalid had no trouble finding endless patience for Acenath, but he had a great deal of trouble finding faith in himself.
He still blamed himself for what had befallen. She had been entrusted to him, as had all the women of the chieftain’s household, and he had failed. It did not matter that others, including Ardeth and Acenath, had absolved him of blame. The weight of Acenath’s torture pressed upon his heart like a great stone.
********************************
Ameera was still asleep when Masoud entered their tent. He stood just inside the door, silently removing his weaponry before approaching her. How lovely she was, his Ameera Talal. No, he corrected himself, his Ameera Bay. She had kept Kasim’s name as was her right, and he had not minded. The babe in her belly would carry his name and that, in itself, was honor enough.
That, and the fact that it was his name she called softly when her climaxes came, strong and with abandon. She was a remarkable woman, even more so than he had imagined. “Forgive me, Kasim, but we will simply have to share her when we both join you in Heaven,” he said softly.
At the sound of his voice, Ameera’s eyes opened and she smiled, happy to see he was home. Still, she could not help but tease him, for he had, once more, remained with the soldiers until late in the evening. “You have made me wait yet again, Masoud. I have already sent Nuhreen to bed and dinner was prepared hours ago. A woman might think you were in no hurry to return to her bed with the way you tarry.”
Extending his hand to assist her to her feet, he grinned adoringly. “I waited thirty years for your bed, my dear Ameera. A few hours is but a grain of sand.”
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The Cult of the Cybeline – Chapter 30