The moment he saw Aza'ir's stumbling step, Zardi izr Aziz knew he would never make it out alive. Za'in izr Husari wasn't a forgiving man, had never been for as long as anyone remembered. He might offer you a chance to surrender if he were the one staging the attack, but he wouldn't let you live if you chose to attack him. In the case that Aza'ir lost this duel, Za'in would see to it that Zardi died on that plain along with his three hundred White Warriors.

And then he would head over to destroy his khagan.

It was a mistake coming here, Zardi thought, swearing in his mind for the fifteenth time. They were supposed to attack the Visarya with their combined forces—that was the point of bringing their White Warriors—not to allow this single combat to happen. He had known of the rivalry between the two men, everyone had, but he hadn't thought Aza'ir would be that reckless or stupid.

He was about to be dead too, from the looks of it.

It required action—immediate action—before it was too late. His mind was racing for solutions as he watched the two of them circling each other. He couldn't run, not when he represented his khagan as their khumar, not as a White Warrior. He couldn't initiate the attack on the Visarya either, not after the terms had been stated.

He could, however, consider himself an outsider regarding this whole thing. The agreement, he remembered, was strictly between the Visarya and the Kamara khagans. By law, there should be nothing wrong if he were to loose an arrow at one of them and declare his own war as the third khagan present. That happened often enough in the White Desert. Conflicts between khagans were not always limited to two parties. He might have been only twenty-two, only received his zikh just a year ago, but he knew these things.

And he did just that. He fitted an arrow to a bow and shot Za'in izr Husari.

The arrow hit the mark. Zardi congratulated himself privately for a good shot, watching Za'in tumbled to the ground. The plain went into shocked silence. All eyes were staring at Za'in izr Husari as he struggled to get back on his feet. The Visarya warriors had their hands on their weapons but seemed to be waiting for their kha'a to issue a command. It would have been ideal—for the Khalji and Kamara both—if real battle were to break out at that moment. They had the advantage here, after all. Zardi was hoping the Visarya would initiate such a fight as soon as he'd shot at their kha'a, but they seemed to be too disciplined for that.

The command never came. Za'in was either too proud, or he had other agendas. The man just pushed himself back up, getting himself ready to fight some more. Zardi sighed in disappointment and decided that it was still a smart thing to do. At the very least this should now offer Aza'ir the chance to finish him. He might be congratulated by his father for this victory. He should be congratulated—

Zardi izr Aziz never finished that thought.

***

Nazir flinched as something slammed into the khumar of Khalji, throwing him backward off his horse. The hatchet, he now saw, had buried itself in the dead center of his forehead, killing the young khumar instantly. In the middle of the plain, from where the hatchet had been thrown, Aza'ir kha'a stood with his hand in the air, breathing hard and looking like someone whose mother had just been insulted in front of his men.

It was a response born out of reflex, of madness and rage bursting at the seams from having been provoked in the middle of an intense, nerve-racking fight. You could see it on his face, in the snarl that still lingered, in the rage that etched deep in each and every line chiseled by years of hardships. And then, in the regret that replaced it when he realized he'd just killed a khumar of another khagan without warning.

You didn't do that unless you wanted to start a war.

The sound of three hundred steels being drawn all at once by the Khaljis rang like a shrill of some divine creature about to release its wrath upon men. The same action was then mimicked in unison by five hundred more Visarya warriors in less time than it took one to swear, and then Aza'ir's own five hundred picked it up, brought the tension to new heights with their own blades. Nazir didn't know who had been the first to set it off—with that many people it was difficult to see everything that was happening—but once the first move had been made, there was nothing either kha'a could have done to stop the chaos that followed.

The plain seemed to roll over on itself as thirteen-hundred horses broke into gallops, their thundering hoofbeats kicked up a sandstorm five-hundred paces wide and twice as long, filled the air with blinding clouds of white sand to match the ones over their heads. Riding above it, with it, a roaring of men and horses that could bring down the sky and everything in it. The three companies clashed upon each other like bodies of running water coming to meet in the middle where the two kha'a's stood, both of whom found themselves suddenly caught in the epicenter of something they could no longer control.

And then the killing began. White against White, Shakshi warriors against more Shakshis, drawing blood, severing limbs, cutting down brothers, fathers, sons, and husbands. Their very own blood, shed by men wearing the exact same garment, belonging to the same race, the same land, worshipping the same goddess, distinguishable only by the colors of the threads in their hair. Threads so small you couldn't see the difference from twenty paces. Threads that dictated whether one deserved to live or die.

Rage rummaged in Nazir's chest for a way out as he watched, biting back the disgust that pushed itself up in the back of his throat. It didn't take the Rashais or an enemy from faraway lands, nor any race whose shades of skin or hair differed from them to bring down the White Desert. There would be no common enemy, no evil on earth or in hell big enough to truly bring them together. What was an enemy, in any case, if not someone on the other side of the fence who refused to bend to you? What was the difference, between fighting the salar's army and this? What then, would winning the war against the Salasar achieve if this was what they did to each other? Who are my enemies? What exactly, am I fighting for?

The battle went by him in a blur of red, silver, and white. For a moment, Nazir was lost in his numbness, in thoughts he no longer understood. He could hear nothing but the muffled cry of men hacking off each other's limbs, couldn't tell which side was winning, where his father was, where everyone was, couldn't bring himself to care.

Maybe, there was no point to this, to any of this, after all. Maybe Djari didn't have to end the war and carry that weight. Maybe they could simply live and get on with their lives, waiting for their time to come. What difference does it make? Why did it matter if we die by their hands or ours?

Something crashed into him and threw Nazir off his horse, brought the animal down with him by the rope that secured his wrists to the saddle. A hand yanked him out of the way before the horse landed on top of him. Nazir, trying to figure out what had happened, turned left and right to survey his surroundings. Realized he'd just narrowly escaped a spear thrown at him by the help of someone.

A warrior came rushing in, sword high and swinging. Nazir yanked on the rope to dodge the blow, didn't have enough length on it to clear the blade. The figure next to him leaped into position, balancing himself on one knee to block the descending blow. Grunted when the blade came down on the steel handle of his axe. A small shift in weight, a leg digging into the sand propelled him forward, throwing the attacker back. Sinking low again as he charged forward, the axe head slammed into the man's torso, killing him in an instant.

It happened in a blink of an eye, so fast he would have missed it had he not been looking. Baaku said nothing as he strode over to the corpse, stood over it for an unconventionally long time to look at something before anchoring a foot on the dead warrior and yanked his axe free. Bending over, he picked up the dead man's sword and his dagger then walked back toward Nazir. He tossed the sword and the axe on the ground, leaving just the dagger in his hand to cut Nazir's bond.

There was a heaviness on Baaku's face, a tightness to his jaw that made the task of cutting him loose seemed like a much bigger struggle than it should have been. He parted his lips, pressed them back together with a frown, before deciding to ask, "Where are they?"

It needed no explanation; there were only two men on that plain that mattered. Baaku didn't look up as he waited for a reply. He kept his eyes on the dagger, the rope, the ground, anything but him. Nazir wondered what was bothering him more; hearing the bad news, or having to look at him when it was given.

Luckily enough, bad news hadn't yet happened.

"They're still in there," Nazir nodded toward the center of the fight, shaking his wrist loose from the bond. Thought he heard a sigh from the other man, only it sounded halfway between relief and worry. "How did you—"

A flash of silver came from behind Baaku. Nazir grabbed him by the zikh and yanked him off to the side, clearing the blade just in time. His other hand reached for the sword, brought it up to catch the blow in midair. The impact was still running down his arm when he shoved the man back, kicking the attacker's legs out from under him after a lunge forward. The warrior fell. Nazir raised his sword, moved in for the kill—

—and paused in midair as the man's braids caught his eyes.

Blue and gold.

"Nazir Khumar," the young man said from under him, confusion all over his face.

It was one of their own—someone from their southern camp, the third son of a blacksmith he knew. Yusuf was the name, if he remembered correctly.

Nazir lowered the blade, gave the man a hand to rise. "Go," he said. "I have this under control."

Yusuf got up on his feet, looked at him then at Baaku, questions in his eyes. Nazir straightened, gave the man a look that made him take an involuntary step back. "Go." A command this time. Before I'm forced to kill you.

The message was promptly taken this time. Yusuf gave him a nod, went reluctantly back to where he came from. To killing Baaku's men, of course. That was their enemy, wasn't it? The Kamara?

An awareness came to him then, a thought nagging at his conscience about the dead man lying a few steps from them. Something about the colors in his braids, how Baaku had taken time staring at him.

He shook his head, crushed that awareness out of existence. I'll deal with it later. Not yet. Not now.

Next to him, standing with his hand wrapped tight around the handle of his axe, Baaku flipped the dagger belonging to the man he'd killed and offered it to him by the handle.

It was wrapped in red and blue—the colors of the Kamara.

No dealing with it later, then. Nazir drew a breath, felt like he was going to be sick, and looked up. The confirmation was there in Baaku's eyes, in the pained yet unwavering gaze he always had whenever Nazir's words or actions struck him hard. He knew without having to hear it spoken what it meant, what Baaku had just done to save him, without pause, without hesitation.

"Take it," said Baaku. His hand, Nazir saw, was steady.

He stared at the knife, saw it for what it represented, felt the questions like a dozen sharp talons digging into his heart all at once. He had to make a decision, here, now, who and what he would be fighting for.

But who was his enemy? Who am I supposed to kill? Your men for my khagan? My men for you? Who dies here, Baaku? Your father? Mine?

As if he could somehow hear those questions without needing them spoken, Baaku said, no hesitation in his voice, "Go help your father. Kill who you have to kill. Stay alive, Nazir. We need you to win this war. I need you to live."

I need you to live. A simple phrase, two different meanings. He had a feeling he knew which one, had known for some time.

Nazir took the blade, nodded once, and went back to war.

***

It was always going to happen one day, one morning, one afternoon. He'd known it from the first time he decided to sneak into Nazir's tent. You knew it was always going to happen, Baaku thought as he swung his axe at the warrior in front of him, cutting him down and moved on to the next, cut that one down too. Someone has to make the sacrifices to bring them together. Somebody has to be the monster to set things in motion.

Another man charged in from behind. Baaku sensed it coming with trained perception, caught the blow as he turned his horse to face the opponent, killed the man with the dagger in the other hand. Didn't look back to see which khagan he belonged to. It didn't matter which. It couldn't matter. One of us has to be the traitor. One of us has to take the blame.

A khalji was riding toward him, snarling as he raised his blade. Baaku grinned. An easy decision to make, for once. He threw the axe at the man, killing him in an instant. Rode toward the corpse to retrieve his weapon before turning back to follow Nazir.

They were heading toward the center of the commotion, to where the two kha'as would be. Nazir was riding to protect his father, to kill mine, probably. One of the kha'as had to die to bring this to an end. One khagan had to lose. He knew what Nazir was riding toward just as well as he knew why he was there, following no more than a few paces behind. That decision had been made a long time ago.

Someone trained an arrow at Nazir from behind. Up ahead, Nazir was concentrated on driving back an older, bigger man with a spear. Baaku flipped the dagger in his hand, guided the horse into position. Don't look, he raised the dagger, aimed, just kill the man, and made the throw.

The dagger caught the archer in the eye, right next to his braids woven in red and blue.

Baaku thought he recognized the man as he fell, remembered suddenly, those few drinks they'd shared one Raviyani with a few jokes in between. He remembered liking that man. It didn't matter. It couldn't matter. He strangled the life out of that thought, reached for another dagger in his boot, and kept on riding. One of us has to be the traitor. One of us has to take the blame.

Nazir turned to look over his shoulder then, the old man with the spear lying dead next to his horse. Baaku caught those eyes, gave him a firm nod. It's all right. I've got your back. At whatever cost.

At whatever cost. That's right. Drill that into your head, Baaku, make sure it stays.

Because it all came down to this, to the bigger picture, the bigger agenda. Nazir had to live, as an oracle, the brother to the one who could bring them victory, the khumar of the khagan with the highest possibility of defeating the Salasar. As someone who shared the same vision of freedom, as the only one who was worthy of the task. Nazir had to live, even if everyone else had to die. At whatever cost

He smiled at that thought, at the folly of it all.

So many excuses and justifications. So many lies. Who are you trying to fool?

Up ahead, the two kha'as came into view. A ring was formed around them by White Warriors who were fighting to give them space, to protect their own kha'as from interference. They appeared dangerously close to their limits, with Za'in limping badly from an arrow wound in his leg, and his father bleeding all over the place, chest heaving like a man who was close to collapsing. The fight was going to end any minute now. One of them was about to die on that plain.

Along with his son.

He looked at Nazir, saw the same comprehension in his eyes. It was common practice when a khagan took over another. You didn't leave the son and heir of the man you'd just killed alive to take his vengeance. His father had said he would take that risk if Nazir were to cooperate as an oracle. It was as likely to happen as Za'in sparing his life if his father were to lose.

There were going to be two deaths, not one, on that day.

Time was no longer there for him to stretch, to linger in its short existence, to seek comfort from in ignorance or denial, to pretend what they had was going to last. It was always going to come to this, and it was here, now, caught up and taken him by the throat.

Someone has to make the sacrifices to bring them together. Somebody has to be the monster...

Baaku put away his axe and unslung his bow, remembering then the question he'd asked earlier that morning, when everything was still quiet, when there was still time.

What happens to us?

***