"Khandoor." Sarasef sniffed the wine after a few twirls, took a sip and paused for a moment. "South? No," he hesitated, "the oak there is sweet. This is rougher. Smoky. Almost burnt."

"Southeast." Nodding in agreement, Deo di Amarra reached over to fill his own cup and followed the same ritual. "Serefina."

"I didn't know they make wine in Serefina."

"They don't," Di Amarra replied with a grin. It was layered with a hint of pride. "I do. This is the first batch from my own production. What do you think?"

The Grand Chief paused for a moment before taking another sniff at the wine, trying not to appear surprised. It was normal practice for Deo di Amarra to bring some cases of his own reserves as gifts, but they had always been acquired wines, not ones produced for him. This was something new, though not out of the ordinary, given the man's ambition. "You're moving into wine business now?"

"It's good business. And it's about time," replied di Amarra, looking expectantly across the table. "So?"

He took another sip, considering both the wine and the Khandoor's seemingly endless quest to own everything in life he could get his hands on. Sarasef had known the man long before he took over the Rishi. Long enough to expect some things while holding an awareness that there was always an underlying motive to everything di Amarra did, including bringing his own wine to be tasted. A business proposal could be made from this later, other things could be proposed. "It's complex. Rough around the edges. Surprising in the aftertaste with a hint of pepper. I like it."

Di Amarra smiled. "And the prince?"

An almost seamless transition from wine to politics. Subtle, as always. Sarasef thought for a moment, weighing his feelings for what had happened in the Hall of Marakai earlier that evening. Some surprises there. A lot, if he were to be honest with himself. "Complex, rough, and surprising," he said.

Di Amarra nodded. "You wouldn't mind fostering him then?"

Not so subtle this time, and much, much too fast. "If," he pronounced, "I decide to foster him. My decision has not been made, di Amarra." 

To that, Deo di Amarra chuckled. "Oh, come now. You and I both know you're not going to risk losing the Sparrow. You like that boy too much."

He might have congratulated the Khandoor for that power of observation, but then his feelings about the Sparrow had never been a secret. "I do," he said. "You stole him from me."

A frown, or a mask of one. "Stealing is a little harsh a word."

The only right word, according to Sarasef. "I had already begun training him. You had no right."

"You were slow."

"It takes time."

"Time to win him over," countered di Amarra. "It was never going to work. Not then, not now. He would never work for you willingly and you know it."

He did know it, had even been told as much by the boy himself. Then again, that part of the Sparrow did more to increase his interest than to make him move on. "Not willingly, no."

Deo di Amarra looked at him, rubbing his thumb slowly on an arm of the chair. The hint dropped had been taken. Sarasef could almost see something turning in that redhead from across the table, trying to figure things out. It didn't take long. "Ah. The girl?" Di Amarra concluded. "Clever. But you didn't take Za'in's only daughter for this though, did you? The last time we met, you had sense."

"I didn't. I still do." Sarasef stifled a groan. The goddamn mess was still giving him a headache, even if it had given him an opportunity to use her as an incentive to keep the Sparrow. "I sent men to get him. They brought back two others. She was one of them."

"Stupidity. Such a deadly disease," Di Amarra drawled, nursing the cup in his hand with the same speed at which he'd said those words. "Let's see," he mused. "You could threaten to kill her to keep him, but then that would mean going to war with Za'in, which would be in the salar's interest and therefore you would sign our contract to reap the benefits. Or you can force him to stay in exchange for sending her home and to side with Za'in instead, breaking an alliance with the Salasar in the process. That's what you're trying to decide?"

"Perhaps."

"You do realize there's a problem with the latter."

He did. "Is there?" Said Sarasef. "Enlighten me, then."

Deo di Amarra leaned back on his chair, crossing his legs as he did. "Say, that in case she can convince Za'in to join forces with you—a difficult task considering the Rishi's history with the White Desert—and that you have enough confidence our boy wouldn't die trying to assassinate your brother, her terms were very specific—the return of her and her men—if I remember correctly."

"They were." He nodded. "You do."

"He is her swornsword and blood, Sarasef. By their code of conduct, Hasheem is her responsibility to look after as much as it is his to die protecting her. She won't agree to this."

"I haven't negotiated."

Di Amarra snorted. "Djari iza Zuri is a bharavi. They are raised to kill their firstborn before breaking a code.  Even if she hasn't been raised by Za'in izr Husari himself, there would be no negotiation over this. You can't reason with bharavis. Ask Lasura."

Judging from how messed up that kid was, he didn't doubt it. Although that might have been a product of the mother and father both. "A code, huh?" He swirled the wine. Took another sip. Interesting. "So, you think to abide by the codes and laws of Citara, she would do anything to protect her swornsword?"

A small pause from di Amarra, followed by a narrowing of his eyes. "You knew," said di Amarra, a ghost of a smile appeared on his lips, not so different from an expression a young boy on a brink of solving a riddle might have. "That's what you're trying to decide. How to get her to agree. Not whether to side with us. You want an alliance with Za'in."

He took another sip of the wine and stretched the time, rubbing his thumb along the side of the cup. "Do I now?"

Shaking his head slightly, di Amarra corrected himself. "No. Not Za'in. It's Hasheem. You are doing this for the Sparrow."

"I like the boy too much. You said so yourself."

"You will choose your side on the war based on the decisions of one boy?" The tone was laced with curiosity. An accomplishment, in Sarasef's opinion, if one could get such a reaction from Deo di Amarra.

"I will choose my side of the war," he said, leaning forward to catch di Amarra's gaze, to read it better, "based on the fact that you've risked your relationship with me to snatch him from right under my nose, that you've paid five hundred thousand silas for a single slave, and gone as far as bringing him into the Black Tower with you. You always have a good reason for doing things, di Amarra. What is it this time? Why Hasheem?"

For a moment, and only because he had been watching, Sarasef thought he saw a glimpse of restrained surprise in those yellow-green eyes. It lasted only for a split second, shrouded immediately by a shrug. "I've always liked pretty things. You know this," replied di Amarra.

"Enough to put yourself in prison for it? Or to risk your position, your power, your entire fortune to help him escape?" He had his doubts before. He was certain now. "We go back a long way, di Amarra. I know who and what you are. I know how and why you have achieved what you have. You specifically told him to go west, and out of pure coincidence, he ran into a girl chosen by the gods to end the war. And here we are—you, me, a boy and a girl both chosen by the gods, brought together into the Hall of Marakai to decide the fate of the entire peninsula by none other but the Silver Sparrow you have raised, trained and dictated his flight back into the desert. This isn't just coincidence, or chance, or destiny, is it? You had a vision, hadn't you? What exactly did you see?"

To Sarasef's satisfaction, the characteristic playful grin that had been playing about di Amarra's lips were gone. It had, somewhere along the way, been replaced by something much heavier and colder. The gesture alone was enough for him to draw some conclusions.

"So," said Deo di Amarra, looking at him from above the rim of his cup as he sipped the wine, "it's me you're wagering on."

It was his turn to shrug. "I'm a mercenary, di Amarra," he said. "I bid on the winning side. The side you have always managed to put yourself on."

"I have been sent by the salar," replied di Amarra. "It should be obvious whose side I am on."

"Have you?" Sarasef grinned. "Been sent by the salar? The pelt did arrive quite timely, by the way."

"You know me so well."

"If I do, we wouldn't be having this conversation," said Sarasef. "What's your stake in this, di Amarra? What kind of game are you playing?"

Deo di Amarra leaned back on his chair and smiled, showing a full row of straight, white teeth.

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

***

The wine was truly quite excellent, if a little too young, Sarasef thought as he poured himself another cup before heading to bed, bringing the bottle with him. He'd had a bit too much tonight, and yet he might still need more. Sleep was hard to come by these days when there was so much to think about.

Especially now that more things had been revealed—all at once, to make the matters worse. He'd never thought he would live long enough to be a part of the final war between the Salasar and the White Desert. No salar had even come close to mobilizing an army large enough to initiate it. No one but Muradi had ever taken—and held—a chunk as large as the Vilarhiti in the history of the Salasar, for that matter. With Deo di Amarra as his advisor, even without a son blessed by Rashar to win the war, the thought of uniting the peninsula under one rule wasn't exactly too farfetched for this man.

But Deo di Amarra was, by nature, unpredictable, and should the man were to switch sides, things could shift with his decision. He wondered if Muradi had known this when he'd sent the Khandoor to prison. Wise as he was, Deo di Amarra was not a forgetful man. He took retributions, in many forms, on anyone, and without fail. He just took them with an unprecedented amount of patience and an impossible calm.

By logic, he should bet on Muradi to win the war. But then there were the prince and the girl in play, both of whom had been marked by the gods tonight. He could still feel the presence of something bigger than he was—than they all were—before and after the lightning had struck. Only an ignorant man would not take such things into consideration. There were, he had no doubt of it, as many forces in play in this war above as there were below. It would need to be taken into account.

But what of his own intuition then? A leader should also listen to that, shouldn't he? After all, it had been intuition that had made him the Grand Chief of the Rishi instead of his older brother. And as far as his intuition went, he was almost certain that it was the Silver Sparrow of Azalea that he should be betting on. Or siding with, whichever side that may be.

He did like the Sparrow, too much than he could help himself and more than he should. The boy had been skilled, yes, but no more than some other, more experienced partner he'd had. He had been beautiful—and even more so now—but not unparalleled if one were to include women into the competition. No, it had always been something else that had captured people's attention and carved him into their memories, making them crave for more. Something much, much more complicated.

To Sarasef, the boy was an embodiment of everything they had lost that should have been saved. The only thing that separated men from the beasts they had all chosen to become in the fight for survival. There had always been fight in that boy when you beat him, hope when there had been no room for hope, compassion even for those who would break him to pieces. Hasheem had never been naive, no, not at the point when they'd met. He knew the world for what it was and knew men for the monsters they could become. He simply believed the alternatives were possible. That there were rooms yet, for things to change.

You could see it in the way he talked or looked at things. Even in bed when he was always fighting something to get through the night. It was difficult to take your eyes off someone who made you feel so alive, someone who reminded you of something long lost you once treasured. They paid him for that—for a moment to experience something so incorruptible, so impossible to bend in this world.

And then there was that pride. That precious, indestructible pride you couldn't pry it off him that had driven men like Sarasef out of their wits to try to conquer it, time and time again. Pride had been what was missing in the men and women of his era, except in the White Desert. Pride was a necessity to find peace in life, a flaw only when exercised in excessive amounts.

He had thought many times, that if the world could be changed, it deserved to be changed by someone like the Sparrow. Now he could see that possibility becoming a reality. Knowingly or not, the boy had been pulling everything and everyone who mattered together, setting things into motion by every little decision he made. Deo di Amarra had foreseen this, he was certain of it. His intuition, therefore, had been telling him to bet on the Silver Sparrow and whatever the boy chose to do.

It was that last conclusion, perhaps also something more personal, that made him decide to do what he did when he saw the boy waiting for him in his bedroom.

"What would it take," said the Sparrow, standing by the edge of his bed in an exquisite black Makena silk robe Sarasef had given him, "for you to choose Djari?"

Sarasef closed the door behind him, then proceeded to place the wine on the table—both the bottle and the cup. "I told you, I didn't bring you here for this," he said, making his way toward the Sparrow. There was a scent in his room now, one he remembered from long ago, and a new rougher, more manly one.

"You have, yes," Hasheem replied levelly. His hair was untied, unbraided. It was longer than what Sarasef remembered. He remembered wishing it had been. Remembered how it felt too, when he'd wound it around his fist. He could do that easily now. He wanted to.

"And yet you are here," he said, stepping closer to the Sparrow, felt the heat traveling down his stomach and further below, the moment he realized there was nothing underneath that silk robe.

"Yet I am here." The boy—the young man now—shifted his weight as he spoke, and in doing so, allowed the front of the robe to part a little more. "To negotiate. If you're willing."

It was deliberate, of course—that slight change of posture. Sarasef had been with enough men and women like him to know when he was being played. It didn't, however, mean knowing so would excite a man any less. "I thought you trade in different skills now."

"I do," Hasheem said. "I might kill you." He took a step nearer. "I can."

It could, easily, kill him—that string of words so strategically chosen to accelerate his pulse. It nearly did, if only he hadn't reminded himself to breathe. The danger was real enough, considering the situation. But the mere fact that Sarasef now knew very little of this young man, who, on the contrary, happened to remember exactly where and how to push him, made what happened afterward...inevitable.

"Remember," said Sarasef as he seized the space between them, along with the promise of danger being offered. "You came to me."

***