Obsidian: Retribution (Book 2)

Twenty-Six: Come Back to Me

'I want to die young on the sand of the 'Amsala.'

Nazir jolted awake from the image of Baaku that slipped into his dream. He jumped off the bed, ran to the mirror, and released the breath he had been holding. His eyes hadn't changed. You weren't having a vision, calm the fuck down. It was a memory. A dream. Nothing more.

A memory to forget and yet he never could, for that matter. He remembered the day it had been spoken, the grin on Baaku's face when he said it, even the way his hand caressed the scooped up sand as it slipped through his fingers. It was their first Dyal together. Baaku had stood in the pit of the Birkhramsala, face drenched in the scorching sun, turning a full circle to drink in the monstrosity of the outdoor structure built to hold over thirty-thousand spectators that wrapped around the famed fighting ground of the gods, and hammered those words into his heart. Into both their hearts.

A memory, no more. That Baaku had chosen the 'Amsala to fight had nothing to do with it. The venue was a common choice for duels between kha'as and khumars. It was always an honor to fight on the sacred ground of Birkra, the god of war, with the city of Citara as witness. This was no sign, no vision.

He shook those thoughts away as he dressed and cleaned himself, threw on a freshly pressed zikh and stepped out of the room. Out in the corridor, Kaal who seemed to have been waiting there for some time straightened upon seeing him. A neatly folded robe of blue and gold that had been draped over his arm swayed as the captain stepped forward.

"Nazir Kha'a." Kaal dipped his head in a ceremonial show of respect. They were, after all, in public. "A gift from the Ma'adevi." He shook the robe free of its creases and folds. A large falcon stitched in gold stared at him from the back of the robe, its wings stretched out on both sides as if to embrace the shoulders of the one who wore it. Wrapped loosely around the falcon that represented the Visarya khagan was the white snake image of the Ma'adevi.

Two symbols, intertwined as one. An offering of truce or a display of chains around my neck? There would be a crowd at the 'Amsala this morning. She knew this, and symbols mattered.

Kaal stepped forward, holding the robe open. "If I may."

Nazir looked at the robe and then the man who'd brought it, realized from the expression of someone caught between a sword and a spear that the captain hadn't been given much of a choice. He turned around and slipped his arms into the sleeves, clenched his jaw as it pulled down his shoulders. Another weight to carry. Another problem to deal with.

Kaal smoothed out the crease with his hands and took his time as he reached under Nazir's hair that had been trapped behind the robe. A thumb brushed across the back of his neck by no accident before he pulled it free. A reminder, to be sure, of something owed that must be paid.

"It looks good on you," said Kaal, standing half a step too close than necessary, close enough for Nazir to feel those words against his earlobe.

Nazir turned toward him and pulled back. Whatever Kaal saw in his eyes painted a shadow across that face. The captain, at least, managed to manufacture a rather convincing look of sympathy. "I'm sorry this happened."

"He's not dead yet, Kaal, no matter how much you wish it," Nazir snapped and realized what he'd done. "I'm sorry." He sighed. "I'm not in a diplomatic mood this morning." I want to lash out at something, someone.

Kaal nodded. "It's all right. You can take it out on me. That way, I am of some use to you." There was an edge in that tone, even if the words seemed genuine. "And for what it's worth, no, I don't want him to die. I can't fill a dead man's shadow, Nazir Kha'a, and I don't want to. However different our reasons are in this, I am still on your side. Can you trust me that much at least?"