The Silver Sparrow

No Stranger to Pain

"I see Djari has gotten herself a handsome new horse," Zabi iza Nyema said after taking a step back to look at Hasheem, grinning widely as she did. Djari's grandmother and mother to the current kha'a was a handsome woman with strong features, made stronger by the numerous lines on her face. They were laughing lines though, Hasheem noticed, and she smiled a lot with her eyes. Nan'ya, Djari had called her. It was how grandmothers were addressed in the White Desert. Hasheem realized he'd forgotten that word, and what his own nan'ya had looked like.

Earlier that morning, iza Nyema had insisted he be taken to her tent as soon as the oath taking was done. He needed some clean up before dinner, she had said, wrinkling her nose. Hasheem didn't blame her. For the past four days he had been sleeping mostly in barns and stables with the animals and probably smelled like one. Iza Nyema had ordered him to be wiped down three times to make sure he was clean enough to be placed at the dining table. She'd also sent for a healer—a proper one this time—to check on his wound. He was especially thankful for that part, considering the fact that his relatively small arrow wound had turned into something a lot more substantial—thanks to Djari and her knife—on top of the burn itself that still hadn't yet healed.

"Now let's see what I can do with that hair," she said, sitting him down for a braiding session. All Shakshis braided their hair, at least in the White Desert as per tradition. Hasheem had never braided his. In Rasharwi, it reminded people of the White Warriors and often made people nervous. There were also strict protocols with braiding, he'd learned. Different styles defined different status in the kha'gan.

Status in the kha'gan.

The thought gave him a chill. It still felt unreal to him, thinking back at the events that happened earlier that day. He was a part of a kha'gan now, had sworn himself to a life of service and protection to Djari, tying himself to her in ways that could be considered more binding than being someone's slave. And she had chosen to place that trust in him, knowing what it meant, despite everything that happened the night before, or the fact that he had no family for them to execute if he were to break that oath.

It shouldn't have been possible, or allowed, even if the khumar himself had come up with the idea. The chiefs had said as much when Nazir brought him before the council and told them of Djari's decision. The kha'a, whom Hasheem later learned was none other than the legendary Za'in izr Husari, simply sat quietly on the dais, arms crossed in front of his chest, listening to his son with an unreadable expression. When Nazir had finished, he turned to Hasheem and asked, 'Why?'

It was the only question asked that morning, and the tent's entire population beside himself consisting of ten high-ranking White Warriors and one bharavi had turned to look at him for an answer. A simple question, truly, but also one most difficult to address given the circumstances. They expected him to have agreed to this in order to survive, naturally. While it wasn't completely wrong, it would have been the wrong answer, especially for Djari, who had stood up for him and agreed to take on such a risk.

But there had been no doubt in her eyes then, not that he could see. There ought to be none in his, for the sake of her, Hasheem had decided.

That morning, he turned to the kha'a and revealed the truth about the attack on his own kha'gan seven years ago, then lied about how and where he'd survived. A merchant family in Khandoor had taken him in, he'd told them the tale. Their caravan was attacked and burned down four days ago on a journey across the desert by a raiding party. It was where and how he'd gotten the burn, and also why he tried to steal a horse. As to why he would take such an oath, he'd told them the truth, or at least what he believed to be true.

The kha'a had listened, thought about it for a time that felt like a century, and nodded. The chiefs' protests erupted immediately after, only to be silenced just as swiftly with a few words from Za'in. Hasheem had never seen grown men—fully clad White Warriors at that—being put in their places that way.