Sanctuary

General Hakkam rode at the head of the column, flanked by standard bearers and heralds. Once the tail of the column cleared the city gate, he halted his men and sent out flankers on both sides and well ahead to scout the situation. The cavalry moved forward at a walk, alert for ambushes. In his long career, Hakkam had fought nomads before. They were fearless, hardy, and addicted to surprise attacks. He had no intention of losing men to (or being humiliated by) a rabble of tribesmen, especially with the laddad as witness.

The scouts soon returned with strange news. A sizable force of mounted laddad were on the north ridge, watching the nomads. The tribesmen were massed in the Lake of Dreams. This dry depression, six miles from Khuri-Khan, had earned its name because travelers commonly saw mirages of water in the broad hollow between dunes. Like the laddad, the nomads were motionless, waiting.

Hakkam uttered an oath. His lieutenants thought he was cursing the nomads or the laddad, but in fact he was abusing the name of Sahim-Khan What had the master of Khur sent him into?

“Forward” he said, facing his horse west. At a leisurely walk, five thousand Khurish horsemen followed their general into the unknown Shafts the clouds, casting beams down on the glittering clanking procession Unlike Adala, Hakkam didn’t take the light as a sign of godly favor. It was shining in his men’s eyes.

* * * * *

Alone of all the nomads gathered on the dune ridge overlooking Khuri-Khan Adala slept. After returning from the tense meeting with the laddad lord, she finished some mending, then lay down in her small tent and went to sleep. Rain and thunder did not disturb her, nor did the presence of eighteen thousand armed laddad.

After midday, the sky grew dark and swollen, as if the heavy clouds would burst of their own weight, soaking the land below. Sentinels galloped back to the nomad camp with peculiar news. A single laddad rider was approaching Bilath had sent a band of bow-armed Weya-Lu to the high sandhill on the north side of the Lake of Dreams. From there they could pick off anyone daring to enter the camp. They might have dealt thus with the rider had not the sharp-eyed warmaster of the Tondoon, Haradi, recognized her. Haradi had been with Adala at the parley and had heard talk of the female laddad warmaster Kerianseray, also called the Lioness. This rider had burnished gold hair, which fell unbound past her shoulders It must be the Lioness.

Etosh dispatched Wapah to waken the Weyadan.

Wapah knelt outside the closed door flap of Adala’s tent and called softly. She bade him enter. He put his head inside, keeping his eyes respectfully on the ground.

“Weyadan, the female laddad warmaster comes. Alone!”

She lay with her back to him. Without moving, she said, “Summon the chiefs and warmasters. They will sit in judgment of the criminal.”

“It is maita,” he said sagely, and then withdrew.

Adala sat up slowly. Her head still ached, as it had ached for the past three days. The sky was responsible. The clouds hung over the desert like a gravid beast. She’d never known air this ponderous. It weighed on her so heavily she felt her skull would crack from the pressure. The usual cure for headache, chewing a leaf of the makadar bush, had provided no relief at all.

She poured tepid water in a copper pan and washed her hands, face, neck, and feet. During her ablutions, she blessed the names of her ancestors and called upon Those on High to judge her deeds this day. If she was found wanting in virtue or truth, she begged the gods to strike her down.

A bundle lay just inside the entrance to her tent. It proved to be a beautiful new robe of red linen, handsomely embroidered in white. The style and skill of the needlework marked it as having come from the women of the Mayakhur tribe. The collar and matching headdress were silk, hand-dyed, and fit for the khan’s consort, but as much as Adala respected the sentiment behind the gift, she couldn’t wear the beautiful robe. This was not a feast day, nor a day of celebration. Justice was to be done, harsh justice. It was not a time for festive clothes.

She put the new clothes aside and retied the sash of the much-mended black robe she wore every day, and slept in as well. Taking up an ivory comb—a gift from her late husband, Kasamir, and one of her few fine possessions—Adala mastered her unruly hair. Lately, she had noticed that some of the hairs the comb pulled out were not black, but gray.

Once her hair was smoothly braided, she emerged from her tent. Every chief and warmaster awaited her. They stood in a double line, facing inward, with Adala at the apex. Small patches of daylight speckled the ground, shining through rents in the ceiling of clouds.