Troy Denning - The Parched sea

"What was-?"

Lander did not let Ruha finish her question. He pulled her into the shelter of an arcade column. "They're trying to hit us with arrows fired from longbows," he explained, peering around the corner toward the fortress. Though the archers were hidden in shadowy crenelations of the wall, the Harper did not doubt that he and Ruha had been good targets, framed as they were by the arch.

For a moment, Lander lingered in the shadow of the column, savoring the closeness of Ruha's body. To kiss her, all he needed to do was lean toward her. Even with the sheikhs so close, she would willingly slip her veil aside. The young witch had made it clear that she would be his-whenever and wherever he wanted.

Lander wanted her, but, even if the sheikhs would leave them alone for more than a few minutes, he was reluctant to violate the taboo against sleeping with a widow. The Harper was not so much afraid of offending the dead husband's spirit as he was concerned about upsetting the living Bedine. As superstitious as they were about all things magical, he feared that if they discovered that he and Ruha had made love, they would throw down their weapons and leave the Zhentarim free to roam the desert.

Somewhat belatedly, Sa'ar called a warning. "Lander, Ruha! They are shooting arrows at us! Are you all right?"

Another arrow splashed into the water at the base of the bridge.

"We're fine," Lander responded. "Perhaps we should return to camp."

"An excellent suggestion," said Utaiba. "We have seen enough to make our plans."

Lander waited for the next arrow to bounce off the stone bridge, then scurried from the protection of one arcade pillar to another. Ruha followed a few steps behind. After leaving the bridge, they returned to their camels and rode out of arrow range.

"Perhaps we should assemble at my camp to discuss our strategy," Utaiba suggested to the other sheikhs. "I haven't much water, but I can offer dried figs and a few drops of camel's milk."

The other sheikhs accepted the Raz'hadi's offer, but Ruha shook her head. "If I am to be of much use tomorrow," she said, "it would be better for me to return to Sa'ar's camp and study my spells."

Utaiba and Sa'ar nodded, but Didaji said, "The gods gave your magic to us for a reason, Ruha. I am certain that whatever plan we develop, it will rely heavily on your spells."

"Then I will tell you the spells I can use," the widow countered. "But if I don't study them before I rest, I will not have them when you are ready to attack."

"What she says makes sense, Didaji," Sa'ar noted. "The witch does not sleep in your camp, so you may not have noticed that she spends every evening poring over her book. If Ruha is to be of use to us, we must do our planning without her."

Didaji nodded, then Ruha spent the next half-hour describing her spells to the sheikhs. They asked her several questions about each one, then assigned one of their number to repeat its capabilities. When they had discussed every spell the widow knew, she listed the ones she intended to memorize and told them to send word to her as soon as possible if they wanted her to learn a different one. By the time they were done, it was well after dark. The sheikhs went toward Utaiba's camp to make their plans, leaving it to Lander to escort Ruha back to her tent. In the Mahwa camp, the slow rasp of sharpening stones upon steel was punctuated by an occasional heavy twang as a warrior tested the strength of his bowstring. Some of the men were chanting an eerie, mournful song of war:

Be gone, strangers, be gone!

Leave the grass of our meadows

For the camels of our tribes.

Be gone, strangers, be gone!

We ask Kozah for one of those bloody battles

Where brave men die in pride and glory

And not from some wasting illness.

Ride, young men, ride!

Arrows do not kill

It is only fear that slays.

Ride, young men, ride!

Lander paused to take a burning twig from a campfire, then followed Ruha to the tent that Sa'ar's men had pitched for her. Inside, it was mostly empty, save for a single sleeping carpet and the widow's kuerabiches.

Ruha opened one of her bags and set out a simple meal for them to share. It consisted of nothing but water and a plateful of raw tubers that looked like fat, white asparagus stems.

"How soon will we leave for Sembia after capturing Orofin?" Ruha asked.

The Harper thought he detected a melancholy note in her question. "Are you sure you want to go with me?" Lander's stomach tightened with apprehension even as he voiced the question, but it was one that he had to ask. "The Bedine are growing accustomed to having a sorceress around, and you may not find Sembia to your liking."

Ruha offered him the plate. "If you are there, I will find it to my liking."

The Harper smiled. "Then we'll leave as soon as the battle is won." Lander took one of the roots and bit into it. It had the powerful taste of an onion, but did not make his eyes water. "Now that you're safe in your own tent, I should leave you to your studies."

Ruha shook her head. "I already know most of the spells I'll use tomorrow-unless they send word to learn new ones."

"But you said-"

"That I need my rest," the widow interrupted. "And it's true. Whether or not I need to learn a lot of new spells, I will need my rest. But there's no hurry, and for once the sheikhs have too much on their minds to worry about what we're doing."

Ruha locked gazes with Lander, leaving him with no doubt about what she meant.

"I should join the sheikhs in their planning," he said, feeling the heat rise to his face.

"They will argue for another two hours. Join them later."

"Tonight, of all nights, we should not give the sheikhs anything to worry about," Lander objected.

"Tonight, of all nights, we should not care," she countered. Ruha's dark gaze remained fixed on his face, her unspoken demand unmistakably clear. "Tomorrow, what the sheikhs think will not matter. The Zhentarim will be gone or we will be dead."

"Then wait a little longer," Lander said. He could not bring himself to look away, though Ruha's eyes were doing more to win her argument than her words ever could. "We will not die. I promise that."

"That promise is not yours to make. Only N'asr knows when we shall die, and he will not tell even an emir." The young widow uncovered her face, revealing her tattooed cheeks and full lips. "Have you not sacrificed enough for the Bedine?"

"But your husband's spirit-"

"I knew my husband for three days," she said. "Certainly his spirit is concerned about a great many things, but I am not one of them."

The young widow kneeled in front of Lander, then took his face in her hands and drew his lips to hers. When she kissed him, a wave of fire coursed through his body. The Bedine's superstition, tomorrow's battle, even the Zhentarim, no longer seemed important. All that mattered was the burning thirst that racked his body. Nothing could quench it except Ruha.

Lander felt the young widow slip the keffiyeh from his head, and then his own hands were clutching at her aba. In an instant, he had pulled it over her head and tossed it aside. Ruha let him run his callused hands over her soft sienna skin, then she unclasped his dagger belt and dropped it at his side. Her hands slipped beneath his robes, soft and caressing and igniting him with desire wherever they touched.

The widow moved closer, and the frankincense odor of her body filled his breath. Lander found her lips, and they kissed again, their desire raging hotter than the rocks of At'ar's Looking Glass. Ruha tugged the Harper's aba over his head, plunging him into darkness.

As they drank from each other's lips, the scorched world outside the tent faded to a mirage, and Ruha became Lander's cool well. He quenched his thirst with the sweetness of her love, and she took from him the comfort of his strength. Together, they made an oasis in the parched sea and, if only for a time, they held at bay the troubled sands of Anauroch.