The Silver Sparrow

A Poor Excuse

The torches had all been put out by the time she reached the stable. They'd stopped lighting fires at night for years now to lessen the chance of giving away their location. Raids had become more frequent and successful since Salar Muradi had taken over the Salasar, and his intention to conquer the White Desert had neither been a secret nor subtle. It had also been under his command when her mother's caravan was attacked. The Vilarhiti had been lost, for the first time in the history of the White Desert, under his campaign. The best of their horses had been taken and now only a handful of Vilarians remained for them to breed. It hadn't been like this, her mother had said, not since that man had taken the throne.

Stepping halfheartedly toward the stable, she paused at the entrance for her eyes to adjust to the dark. A poor excuse, Djari admitted as she continued to linger unnecessarily by the door. For years, she'd been coming out to check on her horses during the night, sometimes to sleep in one of the stalls with them, and light had never been needed for her to navigate around the stable. Horses were great listeners, in the way that no girls or boys at camp who always seemed to tiptoe around her had ever come close. She spent more time with them than with people. Animals could be trusted when treated with respect, people, not always.

Something moved at the far end of the stable. Someone must have forgotten to secure one of the doors again. The last time that happened they spent the whole day looking for the missing colt. Djari sighed and picked up the rock that had been keeping the main gate ajar, hoping to close it before the horse could escape. The shadow moved again, this time, revealing a shape she knew was too small to be a horse.

Has Father sent someone to put her down already?

He might do that to punish her. Her father could be creative in delivering punishments when he needed to be.

Djari drew a breath and made her way slowly into the stable, dread coiling in her stomach at the thought that she might have been too late. Halfway down the aisle, she could see the silhouette of the person more clearly, and this time a different kind of panic seized her.

The man—she figured from the width and built of the figure—was wearing black. Black was the color of the Rashais. The color they didn't wear in the White Desert.

She reached for the bow on her back and paused halfway through. In that silence, she wouldn't be able to draw an arrow out of the quiver without being heard. She could call for help, but at that range, she wasn't sure she could outrun the man should he try to grab her. Backing out of the stable without being noticed was possible, but there were six of their most precious horses in these stalls, one priceless Vilarian belonging to Nazir among them. By the time help came, the man could be riding one with too far a head start for them to catch up.

Father is going to kill me for this, the thought crossed her mind as she drew out the dagger. It didn't, however, compel her to seek alternatives.

Holding her breath, she closed in on him, gripping tight on the dagger that suddenly felt too large and heavy in her fist. Short-range weapons were something she had not been given enough lessons on, and she struggled to recall everything she had been taught as she took ten steps toward the stranger. He appeared to be unarmed, at least from what she could see.

The intruder, to her surprise, had Lady cradled in his arms, and appeared unaware of her presence. Her mare looked unexpectedly calm in his embrace, but people of the desert would kill a human before a horse, if it ever came down to choosing one. Animals were useful. People, not always.

She drew one more breath and delivered her warning, keeping herself at a considerable distance. "Step away from the horse. Now."

He stiffened at the sound of her voice and she congratulated herself for it. "Turn around and state your business."