It was cold on top of the mountain. It was always going to be cold if one wanted to climb somewhere high. Djari wished they could have buried her father somewhere warmer, lower, so people could visit him more often, but there were foxes and wolves down below to dig up his grave, and there was nowhere else Za'in izr Husari would have wanted to be buried except next to his wife. For everything he had and had not accomplished, everyone knew this had been what he wanted.

On the edge of the cliff overlooking the Djamahari mountain range, Nazir stood quietly in his zikh––a tall figure in white against a backdrop of white rocks and white mountain––staring at the horizon and the emptiness down below in the eerie hour before dawn. There was a hardness to his face now. A new, permanent expression written by a small frown that lingered, a grimace waiting to materialize, and an ache held back somewhere behind the gentle smiles that now never quite reached his eyes. You could tell a lot about people's lives from the lines on their faces, her mother had said. Hasheem had a face like that. One with too many wounds, too many scars to dig up and understand.

She wondered if she had that face too, now. It felt more difficult to smile, to laugh, to cry, to walk, to run, since she came back from the Black Desert. Her limbs felt heavier, colder, took more effort to move, like she was always dragging someone's corpse behind her, looking for a place for burial and had yet to find one.

More than one corpse, she corrected herself. She had, after all, been responsible for hundreds of dead bodies on that plain, including that of her father. All for a single decision she'd made to run out of camp toward her swornsword, for her own needs, her own heart.

Some mistakes are not forgiven by the gods.

Or men, for that matter. The evidence of that was written on everyone's faces at camp, in every tear that had been shed by a mother, a father, a wife, a son, or a daughter of those who never returned from that ride to save her. It was written, just as clearly, on the faces of everyone who had loved and lived loyal to their kha'a. Resentment, no matter how well guarded, always showed. It was a matter of time before someone said it, before someone pointed a finger as to who was responsible for the death of those people. Even if she could live with that crime, Nazir would never put up with it, and the khagan would fall apart. She knew that future was coming, and every day she spent at camp felt like watching a trail of flame creeping toward dry grass, every minute a countdown to when things would erupt into flames.

There were more trails of smoke than one, for that matter. The smaller khagans under their protection, having been won by Za'in izr Husari himself, had already begun to seek independence. They had to be subdued, put in their places, convinced that nothing had changed. Now, Nazir had to find a way to hold them in his grip by proving himself as powerful a kha'a as their father. Not a small task, given who their father had been.

It all happened too fast for them to prepare, too fast for anyone to adjust. But life waited for no one, her father had said, and mistakes were meant to be fixed, not to drown oneself in. She could do that. She could fix it by marrying as well and as soon as possible. Support from a large khagan could end the internal conflict. It could strengthen their influence in the White Desert, earning them more powerful allies, make their enemies think twice before attacking them. If she could win a kha'a or a khumar who could solidify Nazir's rule, and prove herself to be the responsible, dependable leader they all needed her to be, then her father's death and that of hundreds of White Warriors wouldn't be so meaningless. Perhaps people would forget, and forgive enough to trust their ruling family again.

The mistake must also never be made again.

'You are doing this to sever the ties. To walk away.'

Those words had hit a little too close to her heart. But if she had, it wasn't only for that. There had been many things on her mind as she walked toward his tent last night. She had not been sleeping well, sometimes not at all. Too many nightmares woke her up, kept her awake. She had been afraid of contact since she came back, had struck a stable boy without meaning to for touching her by accident a week ago. It would be a problem when she married, she knew, and a problem she had to fix as soon as possible. She had also been alone, had needed to talk, and didn't want to bother nan'ya who was still grieving for her only son, or Nazir who had his own weight to carry. She missed Hasheem. There was that. He was gone from her life, and would be gone for many years.

It was for the best, she thought. They needed the distance, or at least she did. There was a line that needed to be drawn for sure, both for her and for him. It would help her learn to seek comfort from somewhere else, someone else. The khumar had been gentle, attentive, careful, and she regretted nothing. She was less terrified to be touched by a man now, she felt, and they did talk, a little. He also recited some poetry. She hadn't known she liked them until now.

Pushing away those thoughts, she stepped up to stand beside Nazir. There were things he needed to know. Some good news that mattered. "Djamal Khumar is an ally," she said. "I think we can count on the Shakra to fight."

Nazir turned to her, curiosity in his eyes. He looked tired. Like he hadn't slept for weeks. "You talked to him afterward?"

She nodded. "I slept with him. He'll talk to the kha'a. I think he will succeed."

Nazir stiffened at that, like he'd just walked into a wall. "Djari..."

"We need more allies," she cut him off, turned away before she caught something she didn't want to see on that face, before he caught something on hers. Up ahead, the sun was rising, painting the white rocks with subtle shades of pink and purple. Soft, colorful lights danced at the horizon as they always had every morning, adding to her irritation. Sunrises were always the same in the desert no matter what had happened in it. Everything around her insisted on going forward as usual, like there was no time for the world to stop, to mourn those who had been lost, to care.

"Send out more invitations, Nazir, especially to the smaller khagans. We can try to find more alliances this way. We have to try." She knew it was unlikely, especially when the last time the khagans banded together had resulted in defeat and losing the Vilarhiti. Still, they had to try. With Salar Muradi gone and the Salasar troubled by the uprisings of its provinces, they had been given time to prepare, but that time wasn't going to last longer than a year, maybe two, if they were lucky. "Invite them here to discuss my marriage and we can propose something else. If there are more khagans who are willing to stand and fight, then we have to find them, and quickly, using me."

She could feel Nazir holding back a sigh, could see him turning back to fix his gaze in the distance from the corner of her eyes. He knew she was right, that what they wanted to do and had to do were two different things, and one had to always precede the other.

"I saw ... what happened," said Nazir. The words seemed to grate at his tongue, hard enough to draw blood. "I haven't ... been the brother you needed me to be."

Her breath caught at the subject being suddenly brought up. She had a hunch he had known it for some time, even before it happened. There were moments, in the past few weeks, when Nazir had looked like he wanted to say something and decided not to. It must have been difficult, she could understand it, and a man could only handle so many things. Nazir, ever since the death of their father, hadn't had time to breathe. He was always working, talking to someone, meeting with somebody, keeping something in order.

"Nor have I," she said, "been the sister you needed." It was only fair. Nazir had needed her too, for many things, and she hadn't been that support for him. There was, on top of everything else, the issue of his relationship with the khumar of Kamara that had been circling at camp, stirring up a quiet but obvious distrust of Nazir's dealings with the khagan they considered responsible for the death of their kha'a. Relationships like that between men weren't a problem in their society or for Citara. Their laws or the teachings of their religion didn't forbid it. The problem was who Baaku Kha'a was. The Kamara had only been a rival before, but now the khagan was their enemy, one every man and woman who called themselves a Visarya wanted––and expected––to see destroyed. By Nazir.

How he intended to deal with that, she was too afraid to ask.

Nazir turned, opened scars and unhealed wounds in his eyes. He took a step closer, raised both arms toward her, and paused halfway when she pulled back. She wasn't ready to be in that embrace, to cry. If she did, she might never stop, and there was no room for that, no time.

She had already cried in another pair of arms, and it would remind her of them.

"What news from the Rishi?" she asked, shifting the subject and the mood. A message arrived yesterday for Nazir from the Black Desert. With the death of her father and a change of salar, the original agreement between Sarasef and her khagan had to be altered. For now, Hasheem had managed to convince Sarasef to release and send her home with a promise of future aid from the Visarya in dealing with Saracen––a task that was going to need more time and preparation considering the current situation. The new salar was now in alliance with Saracen, and the army that had been sent with Deo di Amarra had just been offered to the brother instead. Unless Nazir could convince Citara to accept this alliance and allow him to send in a large enough force to help crush Saracen, Sarasef could be defeated and they would lose a valuable ally. For weeks now, Nazir and Sarasef had been discussing the issue in their correspondence, searching for the best solution.

"The Grand Chief has agreed to my proposal," said Nazir with a touch of uncertainty in his tone. "He's sent a hostage for me to negotiate with Citara. I'm hoping that the leverage is enough."

It would have to be someone important for Citara to consider it a leverage. Asking anyone in the White Desert to trust the Rishi was never going to be easy. These Black Desert mercenaries had been preying on their people for centuries, taking coins from the Rashais to carry out their raids. The only difference between them and the Rashais was that they would take coins from anyone, for any job, including her people. Some khagans were said to have hired them to raid a rival, and she was certain even Citara had secret dealings with the Rishi before. In a way, they weren't exactly enemies, but they also had never been an ally. "Who's the hostage?" She couldn't remember someone being that important to Sarasef besides Hasheem.

"A son."

Djari frowned. "Sarasef doesn't have a son." Not that she knew of.

"That's what I thought," said Nazir, turning to her with a look of incomprehension. That didn't happen a lot with her brother. "For some reason, my vision will not reveal anything about him. I can't see his past or his future. There seems to be a wall I can't breach. I was hoping you can tell me more about him. That's why I wanted to talk to you up here. According to Sarasef, I believe you've met him."

"I don't recall someone who fits that description," she said, trying to remember what she might have missed. "Perhaps I might recognize the person if I see him."

"I figured." Nazir nodded and turned to the big rock behind him. "Would you like to join us, then? After all, you've climbed all the way up here."

A tall figure stepped out from behind the rock, clad in a dark blue tunic trimmed with silver. His long, black hair was gathered into a ponytail that hung over his left shoulder, revealing a face that she did recognize. His eyes, she realized just now, were the exact same shade as Nazir's.

"That," she said, trying to keep her pulse steady, "is not a son of Sarasef of the Rishi."