Sandstorm (4 page)

So depressing to never quite fit anywhere.

He wondered if his father was awake. Probably. Idiot never slept when he was worried, and he'd railed and railed against his son's being the one to go into the Desert. He snorted. Like anyone else was half as good as he?

Hardly. Still, he'd hated to put that look on his father's face. And his mother's. Was mother all right? Were the other women taking care of her? Of course they were, but she would still have that look in her eyes, the one that made them look dim, like a candle behind a curtain.

She would start to fret the moment anyone left her alone - which he knew his father would not let happen, but for going on five years now…

Maybe they had gotten tired of worrying and were all right. Oh, this was why he didn't let himself think about it.

Ignoring the sharp bite of homesickness that hit him like a chill wind, he held tighter to his horse's reigns and forcefully turned his mind back to business. Calling up the images he'd memorized less than an hour ago, he compared it with other remembered pictures, sliding them together, seeing how they looked overlaid.

He was the only one who could have done this. No one else had his memory, the ability to perfectly remember something after seeing it just once. That memory was crucial, because to put to paper what he was memorizing would endanger every last Tribe in the desert.

Frowning in thought as images moved and shifted in his head, concentrating hard on picking out inconsistencies, errors, he barely noticed when his horse began to slow down and the trees of an oasis came into view, black and gray and white beneath the moonlight. "That's my Angel," he murmured softly. Sliding from the saddle, he led her to the water and let her drink while he unfastened his bedroll and the saddles bags. When she'd had enough, he led her into a nearby copse of trees.

One of the smaller oases in the enormous Desert; if the Viper Tribe was so close it was probably used with fair frequency. Hopefully no one would come this way before he could catch a few hours rest.

In a few days time, he'd be back in his own tent, safe amongst the Tribe he was staying with, and could enjoy some real rest before he came back south to locate the next Tribe.

Comparing what he'd gleaned from the Vipers with what he already knew, it would seem the Jackals were his next target.

He set out his bedroll and drew his robes and cloak tightly around his body, crooning softly when Angel dipped her head to nuzzle him goodnight. Closing his eyes, he pretended that the smell of trees and water and sand were incense and flowers, old books and rich, dark tea.

Soon, he told himself. Soon his mother would be fussing over him and his father lecturing up a storm about how stupid he'd been to do this. Then they'd settle down and listen to his stories and his father would constantly interrupt to ask about a dozen things that had or hadn't changed since he'd left the Desert to live in Tavamara. His mother would shake her head at both of them and press him for the details he would be trying to leave out so as not to worry her.

Then, after he had settled down, and they began to leave him in peace, he could begin to work on finding a way back to the Desert. He would find a Tribe that would have a real place for him, maybe…

Snorting at the absurdity of his thoughts, he rolled onto his back and stared up at the stars, ticking them off in his head from sheer habit. Maiden Fetching Water. Night Sheik. First Horse. Dozens of others, spreading out across the sky, blending into one another.

They never looked this pretty back home.

Rolling over onto his side, he closed his eyes and forced himself to relax, sleep. If he was lucky he would get four hours of sleep before he had to get moving again. More than likely he would only get three. Staying in one place for too long would get him killed almost as fast as sneaking into camps.

Even when he helped the idiots, they never liked him. He frowned, suddenly recalling what he had to tell Isra and his uncle.

The fake Falcon. So close that another tribe would not have known the difference. He wondered if the two he'd assisted had. Any Falcon would have laughed in contempt and cut the imposters' heads off. The Ghosts probably hadn't bothered to notice, all too happy to kill any Falcon that crossed their path.

He wished he had gotten a closer look at them; he was fairly certain the one who fought like a wild man had been the notorious Sandstorm he had heard so much about. The one everyone had heard about, even those Tribes who thought Ghost a mere legend.

Just as Cobra did not think Viper existed. Just as Owl did not think Falcon still lived. Just as a dozen more Tribes considered another dozen to be entirely rumor or long dead.

Because the Desert Tribes had a great many strengths, but communication was not one of them. He wasn't entirely certain they knew the meaning of the word. The Tribes all agreed every other Tribe was wrong about something; at best they were wrong, but not so wrong that an alliance was out of the question.

Most alliances did not last long.

Those few who had tried to unite the Tribes had either been Tavamara Kings who had run scurrying back to their palace after mere months, or Sheiks within the Desert who either were killed in battle or realized how stupid they were being.

The Tribes were united only in that they were meant to be divided, and everyone outside the Desert needed to mind their own business.

Heaving a sigh, he sat up and dug into one of his saddlebags, pulling out a pouch of dried meat. Getting up, he moved to the edge of the water and knelt, scooping it up in one hand to drink. His hands made it taste like dirt and sweat, but beneath that it was cool and crisp.

Almost as refreshing as the sleep he wasn't getting. Nights like this he missed being a child, when he could pester his mother into singing him to sleep, or his father into telling him a story. Of course being an adult had its benefits - none of which he was enjoying. But if he dwelt on that he really would never get any sleep.

Chewing almost absently on the tough, faintly-sweet, smoky meat, he stared at the reflection of the moon in the rippling water and let his thoughts jump as they wanted, never lingering long on any of them, until his overactive mind finally wore itself down. Crawling back to his bedroll, he curled up and fell into light doze.

Ingrained habit forced him awake two hours later, the sky just beginning to take on a faint haze that would turn eventually into sunrise. "That time already?" Sighing, he gathered his things and fastened them in place on his saddle, then mounted and turned Angel west. "Take us back, Angel. To our home away from home."

Three

"Good morning, oh beautiful desert rose."

Isra's head shot up from the book he'd been reading, and he moved without thought, lobbing the nearest heavy object - another book - at the speaker's head. "Shut up. Get out of my tent."

"Why, Isra! What's wrong with your face? Is that a scar? Who dared to mark my beautiful desert rose?"

"OUT!" Isra roared, standing and leaping over the small, low table at which he had been studying, lunging for the speaker and tackling him hard, sending them both to the floor of his tent. "Do you want to die, Simon?"

Simon grinned. "If my death will bring happiness to the face of my beautiful desert rose, then gladly I will give my life."

"Shut up," Isra said sourly, and slapped him hard on the chest before rolling off Simon and standing up. His fingers went automatically to the thin scar that ran down the length of his right cheek. "I see you've already caught up on Tribal gossip." He picked up the book he had thrown at Simon and resumed his seat at the table. "Despite the fact I hear you've been popping in and out like a man sleeping with the Sheik's wife."

Simon shuddered. "Thank you, no. That woman terrifies me. I think she should be Sheik. I've been busy. Very. Is that tea?"

"Yes, and you can't have any because you're an insufferable ass."

"Oh, insufferable. You're such a fine student." Simon sat down across from him and stole the cup Isra had said he could not have.

Isra glared, sky-blue eyes flashing with warning. "That is mine. Put it down, or I'll dump it on you."

"So violent," Simon with a grin. "It's kind of sexy on you, my beautiful desert rose." He ducked the punch swung his way, falling on his back and laughing until tears streamed down his face.

"I hate you," Isra said. "Mind, body, soul all fall into disharmony when you're around."

Simon laughed harder, tanned skin flushing red from the exertion of it. Eventually he sat up.

"You have to tell me your version of the story, Isra. Did you really try to kill the Crusher?"

"That man needs killing," Isra said venomously. "His temper is-"

"Worse than yours?" Simon asked with a grin.

Isra hefted a book in warning. "Didn't I tell you to shut up? What do you want that you're disturbing my peace so?"

Simon smiled and held his hands up in surrender. "Peace, brother of my soul, I only came to tease you and hear the tale from your lips."

"There isn't much to tell," Isra said with a grunt and set the book down. He combed hands through his short, ink-black hair, smoothing it out where tackling Simon had disheveled it.

"Uncle and the Ghost Sheik were speaking; the Ghost lost his temper after Uncle refused to agree to certain terms - namely a definite location of where to find Falcon - and when it was obvious Sheik Hashim was going to attack, I moved first. His stupid son blocked my attack and engaged me. No doubt you've heard the rest."

"Well you are rather pretty, Isra. Everyone says so. It's that western blood, it gives such odd lines to your face." Simon grinned. "The scar is a nice touch, actually." He leaned across the table and pressed a quick, soft kiss to Isra's frown. "Did he really call you a woman? Desert rose? And live?"

"Only because Uncle made me stop," Isra grumbled, looking somewhat mollified by the kiss.

"Stupid bastard." He closed the book he'd been reading with a snap and shoved it sullenly away. "Uncle won't let me out of my tent."

Simon patted his hand. "You did break protocol by trying to kill a Sheik and Amir during peace talks."

"They started it."

"All the same."

"Have I mentioned I hate you? Simon."

Simon grimaced. "I hate that name, really and truly I do."

Isra smirked. He lifted his arms up and tilted his head back, stretching with a soft moan, rolling his head to help ease the tension brought on by hours bent over books. Inside his cool tent, he'd discarded all but a pair of loose, black pants. The muscles of his chest and belly rippled as he stretched and moved, hinting at how much strength was in his lean, slender body. His hair was short, cut close to his head, a rich blue-black. Skin bronzed by the sun was the final touch to his exotic looks, mostly eastern, but with strong marks of his western father. "Simon, Simon, Simon," he sang, rolling away as Simon lunged at him, laughing in delight now that the tables were turned.

Simon at last grabbed him, pinning him to one of the many soft, brown and gold carpets lining the floor of Isra's tent, just barely avoiding knocking them into a small, wooden chest beside the bed - a large, deep settee piled with colorful pillows. "I wonder what the Sandstorm would say if he saw his pretty desert rose spread out like this."

"Dead!" Isra roared, bucking and kicking, forcing Simon off, back, and in seconds their positions were reversed. "What is your problem today?"

"I'm a little giddy about being back among people. Well, people whom I like."

"Giddy? More like just plain stupid," Isra murmured, but bent down and licked Simon's lips, biting down on his lower lip. "Brat."

Simon hummed, pleased, and took a proper kiss.

Isra pulled back, staring down at his oldest friend.

Sheer stubbornness, no doubt, was the only reason that Simon's skin was a rich, dusky gold.

All his years of studying in the west, Isra had never seen anyone with Simon's coloring do anything but turn as red as sweetberries. As in everything else, Simon was a stunning exception. He was even more slender than Isra, his muscles developed but not giving him much weight. Hair the color of dark rubies fanned out across the carpet, still damp from a recent bath. A small birthmark, like a smudge of dirt, rested right where his nose blended into his right cheek. His eyes were a blazing green, further brightened against his sun-bronzed skin.

Simon was a fine one to make fun of him for being pretty. "Brat," Isra muttered again before kissing him hard, tongue sweeping inside his mouth, dueling for dominance while his hands began to map Simon's body.

"Hate being alone for that long," Simon said when he broke away, his own hands exploring, sliding under Isra's pants, pulling them together, making them both groan at the contact.

"Then stop disappearing, idiot. Lady save you from your own stupidity."

"Doubt it," Simon said, and abruptly moved, sending the world spinning, pinning Isra to the rug and leaning down to kiss him hard before moving to lap and nip at his throat, down his chest. "As you often like to say, I deserve every bit of it." He paused suddenly, earning him a glare, nails digging painfully into his skin, and grinned. "So, should I call you 'my desert rose'

while we do this, and you can call me 'Sandstorm'?"

Isra snarled in rage and threw him off, passion turning into a desire to kill.

Simon laughed.

"So I guess this means that your chances at ending hostilities with Ghost have vanished completely," Simon said pensively, one hand stroking lazily up and down Isra's arm.

Isra stirred where he was curled up against Simon's side. "Not that we ever really had a chance of ending things. Falcon and Ghost have hated each other too long for that. I guess Uncle thought it couldn't hurt to try…I wish he'd let me kill the Sheik." He glared at the memory of the meeting in the oasis. "And his stupid son."

"Don't get riled up again, I'm too tired," Simon said, laughing softly.

"Stop aggravating me then," Isra replied, pinching him.

Simon chuckled softly. "Isra, dearest friend, it aggravates you that you have to breathe like the rest of us."