On Fire's Wings - Christie Golden [61]
“Dragon willing,” continued Tahmu, “you will have plenty of time to learn the subtler details. On this raid, stay close to me and Halid. We will include you in all the planning from this point onward.”
As before, the clans assembled. The Clan of Four Waters was so formidable that Jashemi knew it was likely safe from any raid. There had never been one in his lifetime, and unless the House suddenly and unexpectedly weakened, he knew there never would be. The Clan of Four Waters was the one every other clan wanted on their side, not the one anyone wanted to attack.
He felt his mother’s eyes upon him during this time, although she still barely spoke to him. When his blood-marked sister had left the House in her father’s arms, to be abandoned to the Great Dragon, she had taken with her Yeshi’s affection for her son. It still pained him, but at least he had Kevla.
His affection for his half sister deepened with each encounter. Jashemi wished desperately their father could acknowledge her, but that was impossible. A public revelation such as that would shake the Clan to its foundations, perhaps rendering it weak enough so that others would feel sufficiently emboldened to prey upon it.
He felt linked to her in a way he could not articulate. They would have been inseparable had they been true brother and sister. As it was, he craved her company like he craved water after a ride in the desert. Jashemi had known other families with many siblings. Some of them were close, but he had never seen anyone need a sister or brother the way he needed Kevla. Despite her sometimes stiff formality, she made him feel that she wanted his company for who he was, not what he was born to; she wanted to be with Jashemi, not “the young lord.” Had they shared a womb together, been born at the same moment, he could not possibly care for her more.
That he was unable to say goodbye to her because of Yeshi’s scrutiny was agony. But he dared not jeopardize her further. Kevla had already suffered because of his carelessness; better not to see her than to arouse Yeshi’s wrath a second time.
This time, the ride across the desert to the Horserider Clan’s House was much less exciting to Jashemi. He was only going to greet death again; to deal it out, to watch it claim friends and perhaps family. Without anticipation, the long procession seemed endless.
The first night out, weary with the long ride, Jashemi fell asleep quickly.
The man was tall. His face was the color of goat’s milk and his eyes the color of the sky. His hair was as yellow as the sands. Jashemi had never seen a man that looked like him. He was obviously of high rank, as he was clean-shaven. Strange clothing adorned him, heavy and furred, as if he were somehow cold. When he breathed out, a white smoke encircled his head. He looked terribly sad, as if all the tragedies of the world had fallen on those broad shoulders. But there were laugh lines around his strange-hued eyes, and Jashemi liked him at once.
Jashemi heard a soft, low growl. His heart almost jumpedinto his throat as he beheld a simmar curled like a tame beast at the man’s feet. But such a strange simmar…its coat was not brown, but blue, and there were black and white stripes that ran along its body. The man leaned on a staff, and reached to pet the magnificent cat, then turned and looked straight at Jashemi.
“You should remember,” the man said, in a rich, pleasant voice. “You are a—”
Jashemi came awake with a spasm. He wiped his sweat-sheened face with a hand that trembled.
Even here, out in the desert, the dreams would not leave him be.
Tahmu wondered what was wrong with his son.
He was not sleeping well, that much was apparent, but Tahmu wanted to know why. Jashemi had not displayed sleeplessness on the previous raid, a time when he well might have been expected to. What, then, was troubling his heir?
On the third day of the journey, Tahmu took the