Obsidian: Retribution (Book 2)

One: A Man to Marry

She had her hair in small, painfully tight braids that ran from the edge of her forehead down to the small of her back. It was almost white, touched here and there with a knife's edge silver when caught by the light. Her nightmarish amber eyes stood out from her dark olive skin that showed a faint yet clearly visible trace of having been roughened by the wind and sun. She was wearing an expression of someone holding a whip and eager to use it.

On him, in particular.

"How many men do you have in your khagan, Djamal Khumar?" she asked in a tone one could probably use to sharpen a sword before scribbling something down on a piece of parchment.

"Eighteen hundred, iza Zuri," Djamal replied, realizing belatedly that he had just called her by her mother's name for reasons that escaped him. Such formality wasn't traditionally required for a child younger than eighteen, and he was five years older than she was.

He didn't feel five years older than she was. That was the problem.

A small frown appeared on her face, turning those somewhat prominent cheekbones into a feature now impossible to miss. "How many fighting men?"

"About fifteen hundred." A wild guess, to be honest, probably inflated too, but who kept count of these things when there hadn't been a need to round them up for battle for years. Not to mention irrelevant given the circumstance.

"A young khagan." She nodded, writing it down. "Horses and camels?"

Djamal paused to make a rough calculation in his head. He had prepared the number of goats, cows, and gold for dowry, but she was asking horses and camels, and not just his, he'd guessed by now. "Altogether we should have five hundred horses and about twelve hundred camels."

Again, she nodded, wrote that down too. He was beginning to wonder what else had been written on that scroll. "Archers?"

He picked up the offered cup of tea and took a sip, thinking harder now, seeing how it would be recorded. "About two hundred that can shoot at long range. We are a Khagan built on swords and spears, I'm afraid. If you will excuse my ignorance," he said, putting the cup down and stared openly at her, "am I here to discuss your dowry, iza Zuri, or are we going to war?"

She regarded him for a time before placing down the quill, then turned to look at her brother as if to ask for permission. Nazir kha'a who had, up to that point, been sitting quietly listening to what could only be classified as an interrogation gave his sister a nod of approval. Djamal couldn't imagine the answer being anything else. Initially, he had come with a mission to impress a young girl with whatever charm he possessed and convince the kha'a to approve the proposed dowry. As things stood, she seemed to be the one in charge of approving the dowry and the kha'a was already playing the part of the cringing, unwilling bride-to-be whose marriage was being negotiated in front of him.

"Djamal Khumar," she said.

Djamal straightened, almost cracking his back as he did. Almost. "Yes, iza Zuri?"

She was looking at him now with those unnerving yellow eyes, appraising him for the first time from eyebrows to ankles, probably noting the wrinkles and the stains on his zikh in between. If she was impressed, it didn't show. He figured she might still need to see his teeth to decide, maybe also his nails.

"I assume you are aware of the threat from the Salasar, and that I am the one believed to end this war?"

"I am," he replied. Everyone knew of the war to come, even now when they had more time to prepare from the change of salar and the unrest that was expected to follow.  He had also been told of what she was with regard to her brother's prophecy and the time of her birth. What it had to do with this, however, escaped him.