Sand and Blood

Chapter 25: Lessons Taught

Children in the desert have a special place, beyond the wars of night and day.

—Kimichyufi Garèki

Rutejìmo woke to the smells of a wood fire and cooking meat. He snapped open his eyes and stared up at the unfamiliar tent above him. For a moment, he didn't know where he was, but as the events of the night drifted through his mind, he remembered crawling into Pidòhu's tent. He rolling on his stomach and peered out of the gap between the tent flaps.

It was still night, but barely. There was a sharp edge where sunlight began to reach over the horizon, but the desert remained in shadows. The air was crisp, and he felt the bite of the night's coolness against his skin.

He crawled out and stood up. He breathed in the exotic scent of wood and followed it to a campfire.

Mikáryo had her back to him as she crouched over the flames. She had stripped down to a loincloth and a black top that wrapped around her chest. She balanced on the balls of her feet, which she had dug into the sand. Black tattoos covered her entire body, except for a bare patch centered on her spine. The unmarked area of her skin was in the shape of a horse head. She had fresh wounds across her back and arms that he hadn't notice the night before. Dark-gray bandages wrapped over them, but there were bright-crimson stains in the center.

Even with her injuries, he remembered the look she gave him over the fire. She was exotic, and he had become painfully aware of her femininity and strength. A strange tingle ran along his skin, an unfamiliar sensation. And then it was gone, leaving behind only a pounding heartbeat.

She looked over her shoulder at him, her eyes dark and a smile across her brown lips. "You aren't ready for that, Jìmo."

"I-I—"

"You should just stop talking," she said wryly. "You'll just embarrass yourself."

Rutejìmo sighed. "Sorry, Great Pabinkue—" He hesitated at the glare ghosting across her face. "Káryo."

"Good. Now, come over here and eat. You need to eat. Tachìra will be rising in a half hour"—she gestured to the brightening horizon—"and he and my clan don't always see eye-to-eye."

He inched forward as she spoke and looked at the hunks of meat sizzling on both of her tazágu. It was the same meal as the previous night, but far better than the rations or the meat from the alchemical bag.

"Eat so I can have my weapons back."

Grabbing a wooden board, he eased the meat from the spike and sat back. "Káryo?"

Mikáryo stood a rod away, wrapping the long black cloth around her body. She had one foot up on her horse as she covered her leg. "Yes?"

"Why are you doing this?"

She looked back at him, shook her head with a smile, and returned to dressing. "You keep asking that. Do you not like the answer?"

"No, but you're a clan of the...."

"Oh," she said, "you want to know why the evil murdering and stealing assassin of the night is helping the noble warrior of light and justice?"

Rutejìmo blushed hotly. "I'm not a noble warrior."

"And that," she said in a whisper as she strolled closer, "is why I'm helping you." She reached down and caught his chin with her fingers.

His heart thumped, and he felt the burn of embarrassment searing his cheeks.

"You are utterly helpless. Pathetically, in fact." She smiled, one corner of her lips curling with her amusement.

Rutejìmo's emotions turned to a sharp anger.