Hasheem had time to look behind his shoulder just before the arrow struck. The girl who had seemed so harmlessly small and thin in the stable was no longer what he thought she was. She was riding at his heels the way no girl should be able to ride on an unsaddled horse three times her size. The moment she drew back her bowstring and straightened her spine on top of the stallion was when he came to realize he would never make it to the Djamahari.

And he didn't, make it to the Djamahari. The arrow, despite the ridiculous distance between them, struck him from behind on the deadliest spot as if she'd driven it in by hand at close range. Had it gone through the way it should, it would have pierced his heart right in the middle and came out cleanly on the other side. By sheer luck, or fate, or whatever it was that had been keeping him alive this long, it didn't, and he fell off the horse with an arrow halfway in his back, still breathing and alive. For the time being.

The next thing he saw was her standing over him with another arrow already nocked to her bow. She looked at him and the embedded shaft, then frowned as if she'd missed her target. From her expression, she seemed to be contemplating whether to shoot him the second time or wait for the dozen or so guards now riding toward them to finish the job. When the stallion he'd stolen trotted back to her, she snapped back to her senses and decided the horse was more important.

He could have said something then that might have given her the urge to finish him where he was, knowing the consequences of being captured and brought to trial. For some reasons, he didn't, and would always wonder from time to time afterward, if that had been the right decision or the biggest mistake of his life.

They took him back to camp instead of killing him on the spot. She rode in the middle of the procession, surrounded by five White Warriors who guarded her like escorting chest of gold through the lair of bandits never mind the fact that there seemed to be no other living things in sight. It made sense in a way. Bharavis were becoming rarer and rarer even out here, deep in the heart of the White Desert. These silver-haired, yellow-eyed, so-called direct descendants of the moon goddess Ravi were the only ones who could give birth to oracles, and having an oracle could mean winning a war.

And he'd struck her, Hasheem realized, on top of everything else. The punishment for that, if he had to guess, would probably be close to being skinned alive and left to die on a spike.

They threw him into a tent, bound hands and feet and tied to a post with the arrow still sticking out of his back. For the very least it was warmer inside, and they'd been thoughtful enough to give him a blanket. Then again, they wouldn't want him to die before the trial in the morning. Desert people, Black or White, treasured their codes and honor like water. He was beginning to wish the arrow would kill him before they had a chance to finish move on to other means. But they would have thought of that, too, wouldn't they?

They had thought of it, because some time later the girl who'd shot him, the young Bharavi of Visarya, returned to make sure that didn't happen. She had changed into a form-fitting white gown of a healer. Her near-white silver hair had been tightly braided and gathered away from her face. He could see now, more clearly in the light made by the small fire in the tent, that otherworldly, characteristic yellow eyes shared by all Bharavis.

It wasn't the first time he'd seen one. Having lived in the Black Tower for years, he had seen the Salar's Bharavi wife a few times from a distance, but this was the first time he'd seen one up close. She was prettier than average, like most Shakshi girls and boys tended to be, but there was a hardness to her that made one appreciate her beauty the same way one might admire a well-made, carefully sharpened sword rather than a flower or a piece of jewelry. Then again, no person in their right mind would equate anyone who could shoot that way, girl or boy, with something so delicate.

She looked at him from where she was standing and frowned upon the realization that his arms had been tied behind his back in the way that made it impossible for her to tend to his wound.

"I'm afraid you'll have to cut me loose if you're here to remove the arrow," he told her.

She looked over her shoulder toward the door where the guards were sure to have been standing and hesitated. There were others outside who could do this for her, of course, which would have been more appropriate. Hasheem, however, would much prefer to not be handled by those White Warriors right now if he could do something about it.

"You know," he said. "I could take that knife strapped to the inside of your arm and hold you hostage." The idea was rather tempting, knowing how far they would go to protect a Bharavi, but not wise. "But I wouldn't live past tomorrow with this wound on a run. Believe me, I'm not stupid enough to try." At least not while an arrow was still sticking out of his back.

She looked at her left arm and then at him, her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. They were truly beautiful, he thought, if in an unsettling way.

"You'll be dead before you take ten steps from this tent," she snapped before walking over to sit behind him. "There are five armed guards outside to shoot you down from every direction if you try. Don't move." She took her time trying to loosen the knot, lost patience, and began to cut free the rope around his wrists instead. She knew how to use the blade, he could tell from how quickly the bond came off. Hasheem thought then of the girls he knew in Rasharwi, how most of them wouldn't even be allowed to carry a weapon—or learn to ride bareback for that matter—and decided he would have to stop regarding her as one or be content with dying badly.

Which brought him to the dilemma he was facing. He asked, "How many laws did I break?"

She had been trying to cut his robe open to get the wound. Her hands paused for a moment at the question, as if she'd needed time to count. It wasn't a good sign. "Three," she said.

"And the punishment for those?"

"Depending on the motive, you may be lashed or have your toes removed for the intrusion. For stealing, your hand would be cut off, but since it was a horse, it would likely be your arm. For attacking a Bharavi..." She paused for a moment, "it's decapitation."

No chance at dying pretty, then. "In that order?"

She nodded. "In that order."

Better than being skinned alive and left to die on a spike at least. "I suppose there's no chance you might be willing to keep that last bit between us?" By then he had come to the conclusion that her discipline might have been more difficult to move than a rock with ten men on it, but it was worth a try.

"I can also have your tongue removed for suggesting that I lie."

A rock with ten men on it, Hasheem repeated himself. Perhaps even twenty. "You might want to write that down," he said. "Or they might forget to remove something tomorrow." The list, truly, was getting pretty long and appeared to be growing by the minute.

"It would be me who will have to remove them tomorrow."

Now, that he hadn't anticipated. "Because I struck you?"

"Because I shot you," she said as-a-matter-of-factly. "You are now my prisoner, my responsibility to execute. That is the custom."

A highly fucked up custom. He had to restrain himself from saying it or she might find yet another body part to remove tomorrow. Surely there had to be some kind of age restrictions on these things that wouldn't allow a girl to hack off limbs and heads of prisoners. But considering her pride and discipline, she might find it offending if they didn't let her.

The way she breathed with some difficulties revealed many things, however. "You haven't done this before, have you?"

Silence and then a heavy sigh. "No," she admitted. An honesty there he could admire. "I wouldn't have to if you had died," she added, regrettably.

"It would have solved all kinds of problems, yes." On both her part and his. Who would have thought his death could be so useful, or convenient. "Believe me," he said in a tone that was more apologetic than he should have sounded, given the fact that they were discussing the very subject of his death, or rather the manner of it. "I'm beginning to regret that very much right now."

In truth, it would have been merciful, poetic even, to have been shot to death with an arrow to the heart by a Bharavi while riding on the back of a beautiful white Vilarian horse, if only the arrow had gone through the way it should. By some divine intervention, it hadn't, though according to her, the fault seemed to have been his. "It was a good shot, by the way." A good shot was a good shot, whether or not one were the target, and a compliment always worked in softening people, didn't it?

It didn't. Not on her. For some reason, his experience as the highest paid escort in Rasharwi had become utterly useless with her. Then again, he'd never had to entertain a Bharavi.

"It was a perfect shot," she snapped offensively. "You should have been dead."

"Forgive me," he said, trying not to smile too widely. Small and fifteen at best if he had to guess, the girl had more conviction and pride in her than some men twice her size and thrice her age. "I had no intention to offend. For what it's worth, you will have another chance tomorrow."

To his surprise, she didn't respond. He wondered what her expression would be like, sitting behind him at that moment, what she would look like if her color were high, when she was surprised, entertained, or flattered. He also realized he was unreasonably agitated by the thought that he might not live long enough to see any of it.

"You're not afraid," she said at length. It sounded more like an observation than a question.

I'm done being afraid, he wanted to say, but it would require an explanation and she might find it offending. There was, apparently, an unlimited number of ways to offend this girl, and he was acutely aware of the possibility of her using a blunt blade on purpose to cut off his limbs tomorrow. "Is it not considered an honor to be killed by a Bharavi?" She would like that, wouldn't she?

Again, she did not.

"There is no honor in death," she replied. Bitterness there. Perhaps also scars. "It's useless and wasteful."

Not always, he wanted to say but thought it wise not to argue. Death had opened doors for him in Rasharwi, and in the desert where resources were limited, dying meant fewer mouths to feed. They'd kill him tomorrow for that reason, first and foremost.

Her hand paused the moment she finished removing the bandage around his burn wound. Hasheem wondered then, if the stories—the lies—he had prepared to tell even mattered at that point. His penalty was already death, whether or not she believed his stories.

"How did you get this burn?"

'Make up a story. A good one,' Dee had said. Lying wasn't difficult. He had survived this long with a lot more than lying. But that night he simply didn't want to. Not to her.

"What is your name?" he asked.

It must have been an inappropriate question, but she gave it a consideration and replied, "Djari."

"Djari." It was a pretty name. Every man should know the name of the person who would be taking his life, shouldn't he? "Don't ask your victims too many questions if you have to kill," he told her. Knowing complicated things when one had to end a life. Walking away from a body of a one's enemy was easy, knowing he had been a father, a son, or lover, was not. This was his gift to her, if he was to be her first kill. One good deed before death seemed like a good idea, even though it probably wasn't enough to save his soul.

"You have done this," she said, thoughtfully.

"I have."

"How many times?"

How many times had he killed? Ten? Twenty? Fifty? Or had there been more? He thought for the first time of the deaths he'd caused in the past seven years. The soldiers who'd raided his kha'gan. The inmates who'd attacked him at Sabha. People Dee had wanted dead. The general just two nights before, and the city guards that had pursued him afterward.

The very thought angered him. How many times? she'd asked, as if he would have been proud to name the number or consider it some kind of an achievement. The Rashais did that, those raiders did. Soldiers told tales of warriors they'd kill, villages they'd burn, girls and boys they'd raped and slain. Stories to wet their appetite before dinner, to entertain at campfires. "Do not," he snapped at her before he could stop himself, "mistake me for the scums and murderers who count their dead."

The hands that had been busy with removing the bandage paused for a moment. He heard her draw a long breath and held it for a time. "Then what are you?" she asked icily, obviously not pleased with the tone he'd just used. "If not a scum or a murderer? What were you doing in our stable?"

The sudden display of hostility didn't surprise him. He had tried to chastise a Bharavi, the equivalent of a princess in the White Desert, whom he had also discovered to be proud to a fault. It just so happened, that when it came to the issue of pride, he was also notorious for being just as bad. "Trying to survive," he replied, for the first time with spite in his tone. That was, in reality, his only crime done around here, or anywhere.

"Would you still try, given a choice?" A voice sounded from the doorway, smooth as silk and slippery enough to rival one. Hasheem closed his eyes to the fact that they were no longer alone. He knew this man, knew the words to come before they would be spoken.

Not again.