The spacious dining tent, to Hasheem's surprise, was only a touch more extravagant than the others. Inside was a low-legged, wooden table covered with a long, white strip of fabric beautifully stitched in gold and silver around the border. One large, handsomely embroidered cushion had been placed at one end of the table for the kha'a who had yet to appear. Immediately to the left seated Nazir and then Djari. Iza Nyema took the place opposite to her granddaughter and left the place immediately to the right of the kha'a vacant—presumably for the kha'ri whom he had yet to meet.

His place was beside Djari's, iza Nyema had explained. It was to be so from now on, everywhere she went, at any time. He would take the tent next to hers, attend the same classes, and guard her during all activities unless she deliberately excused his presence. Nighttime would be an exception, but any private activity—iza Nyema had stressed—was to happen in his tent where he could still guard her effectively, and nowhere else. Only he should know that the walls didn't keep in sound very well, she'd added with a grin. He'd simply smiled at that and told her he didn't think he would be needing that information anytime soon.

Nazir looked up at him when he entered, brow raised in a small surprise, and gave him an approving nod. The serving girl, a dark-haired, hazel-eyed common blood with freckles on her nose blushed all the way to her ears when he caught her gaze and gave her a smile. Djari, however, simply looked and acknowledged his presence, unimpressed with his cleanliness and a change of clothing, or she was hiding it well. She smiled very little, he noticed, and always carried herself like an adult despite her age. A fifteen-year-old girl—he'd found out from iza Nyema—who looked like she had the weight of the world on her shoulders. He wondered if all bharavis were that way.

The kha'a entered the tent some time later, alone. He had anticipated the kha'ari to have arrived before or at the same time, had been looking forward to seeing the woman who had raised Djari and Nazir. The seat, however, remained empty while the meal was served, even though a place had clearly been set up elaborately for one more guest. From time to time, he would see Djari glance at the empty plate and then look away from the table, as if to clear her mind from an unwelcome memory.

They spoke of small things and he listened quietly, taking care to not show too much interest except when he was asked questions. Surprisingly, there had been no questions asked about his past, and he wondered if Nazir had already told them everything. If he had, none of them seemed to mind. Except maybe Djari. She sat through the meal without a word spoken, picking on her food absentmindedly and barely eating. He couldn't tell if something else was disturbing her, or that she was displeased with him. She was difficult to read, and he considered himself quite capable of reading people.

"I assume you have been trained to fight?" the kha'a asked, taking a sip of his wine and then glanced briefly at his son.

Kill, yes, fight, not so much, Hasheem wanted to say. Assassins were taught to kill swiftly, discreetly, preferably from a distance. He had been taught more on how to sneak up on his victims unaware and less on how to fight an accomplished warrior head on. It would have to be explained carefully.

"I can use a sword, a dagger." All kinds of cutlery. A rope. A silk scarf. His bare hands. Also poisons. He decided to omit all that from the answer. "I am...adequate with a bow." Compared to what Djari could do, adequate was considered the correct word for his own skill, if not poor.

"And the rest?" asked the kha'a. "How good are you?"

How good was he? He was Deo di Amarra's gold ring assassin. Back in Rasharwi, that was as high as one could go in status where deadliness was concerned. In front of Za'in izr Husari ... "I'm not sure," he concluded. If a fifteen-year-old girl could shoot like that, to these people, he could be average at best.

"A modest answer," the kha'a said with an approving nod. "We'll find out tomorrow. You will train with Nazir, and we'll get you some weapons to carry."

Djari shifted uncomfortably at that. She parted her lips to speak—to protest if he had to guess —and then pressed them back together.

"I will not be training with Djari?" He was treading on dangerous grounds, questioning the decision of a kha'a. Then again he was now the only one in the kha'gan who could not be ordered killed even by the kha'a without Djari's consent. There were, after all, privileges to being a sworn sword and blood, he supposed. Still, it was wise to not make an enemy out of powerful men, and he knew boundaries had to be carefully observed.

Nazir raised a brow and looked at this father. Izr Husari regarded him for a moment, sipped his wine before he replied, "Djari's training in combat has been limited, and she will no longer need them now that she has a sworn sword."

Djari, this time, didn't hold anything back. "You can't take away my training!" The tone she used was what he would consider a crossing of boundaries, even for a bharavi.

Her nan'ya winced at that, and Nazir shut his eyes like he'd suddenly developed a headache.

Za'in izr Husari was a big man, and when he drew himself up and squared his shoulders he seemed twice as large. "The next time you use that tone with me," he said crisply, the long, deep scar that ran down the left side of his cheek gleamed in the candlelight. "I will have your tongue removed and marry you to a khumar who doesn't need his wife to speak. I am waiting," he took a sip of his wine and placed it down on the table, "for an apology."

It wasn't about to come easily, Hasheem thought, looking at the young girl sitting next to him who seemed to have every intention to make Za'in izr Husari wait. She met her father's gaze with a mixture of rage and hurt in her eyes, chest heaving from trying to control her emotions. He glanced down at her hands, saw them clenched tight around the her dress, and contemplated whether it would have been appropriate to offer her some comfort. Before he could decide, Nazir reached her hand and squeezed it discreetly under the table. She closed her eyes then, drew a long breath and released it as she gave her father what was due. "Forgive me," Djari said, staring at the food she had barely touched. "It won't happen again."

The kha'a nodded, his shoulders relaxed the moment she apologized. Hasheem wondered then, which role Za'in would choose first, between being a father and a kha'a, when the time came. There was always a price to power, as with everything else.

"You engaged an intruder despite my orders to stand down and call for guards in the face of danger," her father began in a tone a kha'a might use with his subject. "You deliberately disobeyed me by pursuing him beyond the boundaries of our camp where you have been clearly forbidden to cross. Your training has made you arrogant and foolish. It will be taken away until you learn your place and understand your responsibility. Do you find my judgment unfair?"

Djari listened quietly, sitting still as a statue staring at a spot on her plate. Might have burned a hole in it if she could. "No," she replied, not quite defiantly but definitely not as submissive as it should have sounded.

"As a bharavi, your life is not yours to do with as you please. It is a property of the kha'gan, mine and that of the khumar you will marry. I expect you to remember this and act accordingly. Am I understood?"

She mumbled a response, eyes still fixed on the table. They were dry, despite being visibly red.

"You are the future kha'ari of a kha'gan," snapped izr Husari, his voice cutting through the silence like a whip. "Sit up straight and act like one. Do you understand?"

Djari straightened abruptly, the same way a soldier might have responded to his captain's command. She raised her chin, looked straight into her father's eyes and replied, "I understand. Za'in kha'a."

A retort of sorts, deciding to address her father by name. In many ways, Hasheem could see where it all came from. For a girl born into a ruling family, Djari had clearly been raised to see it as a burden to carry rather than a privilege. She was not being allowed much room—if at all—for being young and naive or for freedom, having been born into power.

Not a kha'gan to be defeated easily, Hasheem thought, if the sons and daughters of the Visarya were all raised this way. He was beginning to understand a little more now as to why the White Desert had never been conquered, just watching the two of them that night.

Three, he corrected himself, taking another glance at Nazir who had been sitting there observing them quietly, thinking—or seeing— something he wasn't about to disclose. Perhaps also working to rearrange everyone's lives to his liking ten—even twenty—years in advance with his gift. One would have to be truly brave or extremely stupid to not be afraid of Nazir. And he was afraid of the oracle, perhaps even more so than the kha'a.

"You are dismissed," said the kha'a to his daughter. "And for the last time, Djari, get rid of the horse."

Djari swallowed, decided to give her father no response before rising to her feet and left the tent. On the table, her food was left nearly untouched. It was the only mutual decision made by both of them that night—Djari's to not finish her dinner and the kha'a's to starve her for it. A clash of stone and metal, Hasheem thought, wondering how long this had been going on.

"Not since her mother passed away," iza Nyama explained when he asked the question later that night. The empty seat had been for the kha'ari was killed in a raid years ago, deliberately set up and left empty at every meal as per instructions of the kha'a. A reminder of what they'd lost, she'd added.

A reason for revenge, was what it truly was, if one were observant enough.

Revenge would mean a fight against the Salasar, against Salar Muradi. A fight that would take every kha'gan to unite if they were to attack Rasharwi, or an army large enough to draw the salar himself to lead his force into the desert. It had happened before in the Vilarhiti, and the mass slaughter that followed was still being talked about in bars and taverns more than a decade later. Salar Muradi was a legend in his own right. A hard, unforgiving man who knew how to fight—and win. For the kha'a to exact his revenge would take a force of epic proportions, and the command of a leader of at least equal capabilities.

A force of epic proportions brought together by Za'in izr Husari, Hasheem thought, backed by a trueblood oracle, and led by a girl who was born to end the war.

It was possible, Hasheem realized with a shiver running down his spine as he walked back to his tent afterward, that he had just become a part of something much larger than he'd ever imagined. He could see himself fighting by her side, cutting down Rashai soldiers in battle, even dying doing so, and immediately knew it would feel more right than anything he'd ever done in his life.

What do you want? Iza Nyema had asked earlier that afternoon.

The answer was becoming clearer to him now, even if he still couldn't quite reply with certainty. There was a sense of purpose, a yearning much stronger than simply to survive that was taking over his life at that precise moment. Something was changing inside of him. He could feel it in his bones, in the blood that was rushing through his veins.