The Silver Sparrow

A Great Kha'a

"You are certain about this?" asked the kha'a of Visarya, taking the offered wine from his only son.

Nazir looked at his father with the usual sense of anxiety crawling in his stomach. Being in his late forty––though still well in his prime where skills and strengths were concerned––the lines of age on his face deepened every time he frowned, adding to the intimidation the old scar running down the left side of his cheek already delivered. Za'in izr Husari was said to be a strikingly handsome man in his youth. To Nazir, his father appeared more striking than handsome, and the evidence of time and hardships over the years only made that fact more severe.

"My visions are never certain," Nazir replied uncomfortably. The things he saw weren't always clear, and most require interpretations one could rightfully call a blind guess.

"Spare me your diplomatic presumptions, Nazir." The kha'a seated himself on a cushion behind the low table as he spoke. Nazir did the same on the opposite side. Nobody sat or stood higher than the kha'a, as per tradition. "You are the khumar and my trusted advisor. It is your opinion that I need, not information. Are you certain?"

Nazir swallowed, trying to keep his composure despite the reprimand he'd just been given. The kha'a of Visarya had never been a subtle man, especially not to his son. His father was a seasoned fighter, a battle-hardened, self-made kha'a who had risen into rank from a mere commonblood family. Someone who had obliterated three rival kha'gans and taken five more into his own, had done it first with an unimaginably small army of two hundred men, which had now grown into more than two thousand in the past twenty years. Za'in izr Husari was a legend, a name that opened doors and passages for those who followed him, a disaster waiting to happen for those who didn't.

A nightmare for sons to live up to, he often caught himself thinking. Not bitterly though, never that. Nazir loved his father, and had always found himself looking up to him, sometimes in a mixture of fear and respect, most of the time in awe.

"I am," he replied, this time with more conviction in his tone. He was going to be the next kha'a of Visarya, the most powerful kha'gan in the west, and would have to learn to wield and hold such a power. His father had never allowed him to forget it, even in small things, or when Nazir had been too young to understand what was being asked of him and why.

The kha'a nodded. "And Djari knows what this means?"

I believe so, were the words that came to his mind. He checked himself just in time. "She does."

He had told them everything—the boy and his sister—of what it all meant should they agree to do this. It was not a decision many people dared make, even for a grown man. To be someone's sworn sword and blood was to swear an oath to serve and protect the person beyond all reasons for life or until that oath was released. The boy would live and die under her command, regardless of the obligations to his family or his kha'gan. The punishment for breaking such an oath was the same as a White Warrior breaking his—an execution of three generations of one's bloodline. In exchange he would be under her protection and be subjected to her judgement alone. No laws could touch him so long as he remained her sworn sword and blood. It was the only way the boy would live past tomorrow.

To Djari, however, it meant that her life would be on the line for everything the boy did. One took full responsibility for one's sworn sword, that was the cost of having one. The problem being that she was a bharavi, a daughter of a kha'a, while the was a stray with no family for them to execute should he ever break his oath. The stakes were too unbalanced, too high for Djari or their khagan as a whole. While it would be her sole decision whether or not to accept that oath, the kha'a had to be informed. You are insane, was what he'd expected his father to respond to this. In too many ways, it was insanity.