Page 7 of Blood of the Sands

The woman looked back and forth between me and the food, and I fidgeted impatiently, as if the meal might suddenly disappear.

“You either have to feed me or untie me,” I said.

She considered me for a moment before putting the cheese on the bread and holding it up to my lips. I didn’t waste time leaning forward to shove as much of it in my mouth as possible, nearly choking myself.

“The clans don’t often have prisoners,” she commented, meaning clear. The clans tended to deal with enemies and criminals decisively, either by death or exile. I knew this all too well.

Still, it explained why I was shoved in a storage tent.

I didn’t care where they put me, too busy leaning forward to snag my next bite of bread and cheese.

“I’m Izumi,” the woman said, clearly trying to carry on a one-sided conversation while I focused on chewing before swallowing. I narrowed my eyes at her, wondering why this woman would bother introducing herself to a sacrifice.

She shrugged. The rest of my small meal passed in silence. Once the food was gone, she stood, picking up the plate and turning toward the exit.

Despite having just slept, I found myself drowsy again. The fullest stomach I had had in a while, mixed with the disconcerting lack of anything to do, made my limbs heavy. I slumped back into the sand. Before pushing out of the tent flap though, Izumi paused.

“The new moon is in three days.” She didn’t look at me as she said it.

I don’t know if she meant it to be a kindness, warning me of the date of my death, but I oddly had no reaction. Three days or ten, it didn’t matter. My breaths were numbered.

Closing my eyes, sleep claimed me before I even heard Izumi leave.

The next two days passed similarly, Izumi bringing me water and a meal twice a day, and me sleeping the rest of the time. I didn’t think it was possible for me to sleep so much, but I consistently surprised myself. By the second day, I chided myself that I should be thinking of an escape plan, but something in me urged patience. An odd sense of waiting overtook me. It wasn’t quite peaceful, but I was filled with the stillness of a caracal about to pounce. I was content to wait.

On the third day, the morning that would be followed by the night of the new moon, the routine broke. Izumi walked into the supply tent earlier than usual, carrying no food or water.

“The clan needs this tent today, so you’ll have to stay outside,” she said by way of explanation.

She hauled me to my feet, and while my legs cramped with disuse, they still held more strength than they had when I had first arrived. Waiting had done me some good. With a hand around the rope at my wrists, Izumi led me outside, and I squinted in the sudden light, looking around to get my bearings.

Based on the thin density of the tents here, we were somewhere near the edge of the encampment, as I would expect for a little-used supply tent. The center would be reserved for the living tents of prominent riders and clan members, arranged in circles around communal cooking fires and areas for people to gather and work while children played and hunting dogs rested.

Izumi led me to a tent at the very fringes of the encampment, where she motioned me to sit before tying my bound hands to one of the stakes driven deeply into the sand at the corner.

“I’ll be able to keep an eye on you here, so don’t try and run,” she said before striding off purposefully.

I watched her go for a moment before more movement caught my eye. For the unpopulated edge of the clan, there seemed to be a large amount of hustle and bustle. Riders trickled in, horses laden with bundles and tents as if they had been traveling, although this encampment seemed to have been present for days.

It was almost as if the clan had split up, and now part was rejoining with the whole. I watched curiously, mostly admiring the horses of the new arrivals as they trickled in bearing supplies. Likely that was why I had been kicked out of the supply tent, so the newcomers’ reserves could be reorganized with the rest of the clan.

I didn’t mind, as it was a welcome break in the monotony of considering my impending death. I faced the appointed hour with numb resignation, but every so often the instinct to fight for survival at all costs would rear up again. The desperation to escape would strangle me until I reminded myself there was no point—no family to welcome me home with open arms, or horse waiting to be fed and pampered. Death would be a welcome respite from unending loneliness.

Today, though, I was saved from the repetitive cycle of panic and exhaustion by the chance to watch the influx of people. Even as my gaze was constantly drawn to the horses of the incoming riders, movement in the open space beyond the encampment caught my eye. I turned to find a crowd of people trickling out onto the packed area of sand, and my gaze landed on their weapons. Each carried a saber. These would be the clan’s riders.

They boasted an impressive number, appearing to be several hundred strong. I had never seen a clan with such a large fighting force, although rumor had it that the Great City of Kelvadan boasted a force of nearly a thousand riders, the most formidable army in the Ballan Desert. To be a rider of Kelvadan marked you as one of the most impressive warriors in the desert, and supposedly, the world. As a child, I had dreamed of ranking among their numbers, although that dream seemed impossibly far away now.

I had only seen the Great City of Kelvadan once, camped outside its walls with my parents when I was nearly too young to remember. The haziness of childhood memories added to its dreamlike quality in my mind—the towering walls and the skilled riders on the most beautiful horses I had ever imagined. Even now I could feel my eyes widening and my jaw hanging open the sight of the Kelvadan riders in action. My parents had laughed at me when I declared that I would be a rider of Kelvadan, reminding me that we were proud members of Clan Padra. Now I had no clan, and riding for Kelvadan was an even sweeter and more unattainable dream.

The riders before me now were much more real but lacked the exaggerated prowess of the Kelvadan riders in my memory. As I watched, they formed long lines, facing off in pairs. Walking to the front, as if to lead, was a figure that caused an odd flip in my belly.

Even from this distance, I recognized the man in the mask. His unremarkable gray tabards and robes distinguished him as much as the broad set of his shoulders and something understated yet powerful in the way he held himself. My gaze snapped to him so quickly, it was like a falcon zeroing in on their prey. Perhaps it was because he had been the one to bring change to the monotony of my existence, but he had impressed himself deeply in my mind.

He unsheathed his own saber, which he carried across his back as opposed to at his hip, and moved it into a ready stance. The lines of riders copied him, but I didn’t spare them a glance.

As he led them through drills of strikes and parries, my eyes remained fixed on the way the man in the mask moved. Even as his movements remained slow in demonstration, he held all the power of a coiled snake, waiting for the right moment to strike. That controlled strength spoke of danger, but there was something undeniably mesmerizing about the sight.

Like the desert, he offered both beauty and death.