She had her hair in small, painfully tight braids that ran from the edge of her forehead down to the small of her back. It was almost white, touched here and there with a knife's edge silver when caught by the light. Her nightmarish amber eyes stood out from her dark olive skin that showed a faint yet clearly visible trace of having been roughened by the wind and sun. She was wearing an expression of someone holding a whip and eager to use it.

On him, in particular.

"How many men do you have in your khagan, Djamal Khumar?" she asked in a tone one could probably use to sharpen a sword before scribbling something down on a piece of parchment.

"Eighteen hundred, iza Zuri," Djamal replied, realizing belatedly that he had just called her by her mother's name for reasons that escaped him. Such formality wasn't traditionally required for a child younger than eighteen, and he was five years older than she was.

He didn't feel five years older than she was. That was the problem.

A small frown appeared on her face, turning those somewhat prominent cheekbones into a feature now impossible to miss. "How many fighting men?"

"About fifteen hundred." A wild guess, to be honest, probably inflated too, but who kept count of these things when there hadn't been a need to round them up for battle for years. Not to mention irrelevant given the circumstance.

"A young khagan." She nodded, writing it down. "Horses and camels?"

Djamal paused to make a rough calculation in his head. He had prepared the number of goats, cows, and gold for dowry, but she was asking horses and camels, and not just his, he'd guessed by now. "Altogether we should have five hundred horses and about twelve hundred camels."

Again, she nodded, wrote that down too. He was beginning to wonder what else had been written on that scroll. "Archers?"

He picked up the offered cup of tea and took a sip, thinking harder now, seeing how it would be recorded. "About two hundred that can shoot at long range. We are a Khagan built on swords and spears, I'm afraid. If you will excuse my ignorance," he said, putting the cup down and stared openly at her, "am I here to discuss your dowry, iza Zuri, or are we going to war?"

She regarded him for a time before placing down the quill, then turned to look at her brother as if to ask for permission. Nazir kha'a who had, up to that point, been sitting quietly listening to what could only be classified as an interrogation gave his sister a nod of approval. Djamal couldn't imagine the answer being anything else. Initially, he had come with a mission to impress a young girl with whatever charm he possessed and convince the kha'a to approve the proposed dowry. As things stood, she seemed to be the one in charge of approving the dowry and the kha'a was already playing the part of the cringing, unwilling bride-to-be whose marriage was being negotiated in front of him.

"Djamal Khumar," she said.

Djamal straightened, almost cracking his back as he did. Almost. "Yes, iza Zuri?"

She was looking at him now with those unnerving yellow eyes, appraising him for the first time from eyebrows to ankles, probably noting the wrinkles and the stains on his zikh in between. If she was impressed, it didn't show. He figured she might still need to see his teeth to decide, maybe also his nails.

"I assume you are aware of the threat from the Salasar, and that I am the one believed to end this war?"

"I am," he replied. Everyone knew of the war to come, even now when they had more time to prepare from the change of salar and the unrest that was expected to follow.  He had also been told of what she was with regard to her brother's prophecy and the time of her birth. What it had to do with this, however, escaped him.

She sat taller, raised her chin a little higher. "What I need to win this war, Djamal Khumar, are warriors, archers, camels, and horses. I can only marry one man, and I must choose one who can give me these things. The answer is no, we are not discussing my dowry," she told him, "we are discussing the future of the White Desert and the freedom of our people as a whole, one that rests on my hand and that of the husband I choose, and I will not choose a husband until I am certain there is no one else in the desert who can offer me more. "

Hence, the written record, Djamal thought, feeling a little stunned at the revelation. Considering the cause, she was practical, logical even, and one had to admit she also had a point. But hearing something that made sense didn't mean one would be prepared to deal with it. He hadn't expected the future war with the Salasar to be the Visarya's main interest. For most khagans, his included, marriages like this were sought after to gain power over one's rival khagan or to increase one's security, but Djari iza Zuri and her brother apparently had a bigger agenda. To win this war, she'd said. And to think that he had come hoping to seduce her with his charms. Well done, Djamal. Well done.

"I see," he said. "You will need many warriors and horses."

She nodded. "At least ten thousand."

Perhaps more. "There are no khagans with that many warriors and horses, iza Zuri."

"Then I will not marry until someone does or can promise me that number." The answer came readily. Almost practiced, actually.

"Do you know," he said, holding back a smile, "that I might consider this as how far you will go to not marry?"

"On the contrary," she straightened, pulled back her shoulders, looked levelly at him, "this, Djamal Khumar, is how far I will go to marry. The White Desert is lost if we do not possess such a man. It is not worth saving if no khumars or kha'as will unite and stand up for what is ours. We might as well hand it over to the Salasar if no man is willing to fight for it whether by finding a way to have ten thousand horses or by attacking Rasharwi. I am prepared to go to war without a husband if no one will step up to the task. I am hoping," she said, rolled up the parchment and pushed it to the side a touch too harshly, "that I won't have to."

Those words, spoken in a tone that demanded them to be carved into stone and put on display at a village square, gave Djamal the conclusion that it was a blessing his khagan didn't have ten thousand horses. By then, he was pretty certain marrying this woman would result in him not living very long or dying very sane. But not every woman was made to marry or to raise children, his mother had said. If Djari iza Zuri was made for those things, it was obviously the White Desert she intended to marry and its children she was looking to raise, not a man and his offsprings.

A responsibility most grown men might find too much to bear, willingly carried by a girl whose shoulders could barely fill an armor, Djamal thought. Perhaps that was what it took for someone to end the war––someone willing to make the sacrifice.

And what about you? As a man whose shoulders can fill an armor, what are you willing to sacrifice? Should you even be here to seek a wife, during a time like this? Should anyone?

It occurred to him then, that this had been decided from the beginning and before he'd even made the journey here. He glanced at the kha'a, saw the change in his expression, and understood.

"Perhaps, Nazir Kha'a," he turned to the brother, caught those same yellow eyes that now matched his sister's, "you might tell me what it is exactly that I am here for. You must have wanted something else from us, knowing the inadequacy of our numbers long before this meeting. I think it's about time we move on to that discussion, don't you agree?"

***

The White Desert is lost if we do not possess such a man. It is not worth saving if no khumars or kha'as will unite and stand up for what is ours.

Walking back to the tent, Djamal turned those words over for perhaps the hundredth time that evening. What they were asking for was a lot to take in and accomplish, while the reward waiting was either certain death for his khagan or death in large numbers. No khagan would agree to this. No kha'a would risk that much or even consider it. The proposal was naive, delusional, impossible.

And yet those words had bothered him then, and they were still bothering him now like an old, festering wound one refused to acknowledge for fear of having to face the rot. But the pus was spreading––he could feel it like the pressure of a tooth going bad, like that bad taste on his tongue before a fever developed. The khagans pretended to act normal, even celebrated at the change of salar and to Muradi's demise, but one would have to be an ignorant fool to not sense the tension behind those half-drunk jests and manufactured smiles, or in the gloom that descended upon the campfires after the last jokes had ended, that time, no matter how much they wanted to deny it, was running out.

The army was already there, almost ready to march. Muradi had prepared ships, which were being tested and would soon be operational. While the provinces could be expected to create an unrest with every change of management, with the previous salahari––now mother to the new salar––holding power over Samarra, coupled with the fact that Deo di Amarra had resumed the position of Royal Advisor for Azram, it wouldn't be long before these unrests were dealt with. Samarra, after all, was the most powerful province second only to Rasharwi, which was probably why Muradi had specifically chosen its governor's daughter to be his salahari in the first place. A smart move. Too smart, that even after death, he'd still managed to secure the Salasar's stability with that one decision.

Depending on how competent the new salar was, and how well he treated Deo di Amarra, the White Desert may have just one or two more years to prepare for that final war to come. It was possible, yes, but the problem was that Djamal could see no way to make the khagans put down their swords and bows to come together in one or two years. Given how long khagan conflicts have been going on, one more century to prepare may not be enough time.

Conflicts were the price of freedom. People fought when they were free to fight. To end it would take a khagan powerful enough to round them up by force and a kha'a who could rule them. It just so happened, that the only man Djamal thought might have been able to do such a thing was already dead.

But his children were here, now, and had just asked him to make one of the hardest decisions he might ever have to make.

One of those children, Djamal thought as he ducked through the opening of his tent to find an unexpected visitor, is about to complicate the hell out of your life tonight.