Sandstorm (40 page)

He couldn’t take it anymore. Hopefully the boy was asleep; if not, Ikram would find a way to wait until he was, but he couldn’t stand here in the dark anymore.

Crossing the street, he ducked into the courtyard and knocked on the door into which she’d vanished, standing so she couldn’t see him from the small window next to it.

A couple of minutes later the door opened, and Valerie’s pale skin went white as she saw him standing there. "Ikram…"

"My jewel," Ikram said, proud that he was keeping his voice level. "Is your son asleep? I would hate to upset him when I start shaking some sense into you."

Valerie looked like she was going to be ill, but nodded and stepped aside to let him inside.

"Why couldn’t you just let me go?" she asked quietly as he passed by her.

Ikram stopped and turned to face her, swooping down to kiss her firmly, briefly, furious that he was doing it with so much unhappiness in the air but loving how soft her lips were, the lingering taste of sweet and spicy wine, a hint of her lilac perfume surrounding them. "I love you," he said quietly, "and I’m not letting you go. I thought you felt the same."

"You don’t understand…" Valerie said softly, but Ikram was gratified by the way she let him hold her.

"Did you run because you have a son? Surely you don’t think so little of me that I would reject you for that? Tell me you think better of me than that, Valerie."

Valerie slowly pulled away, not looking at him. "I’m not stupid, you know. I go to the market nearly every day, running errands for people to buy the things I need. All it takes is listening at the right stalls, chatting with the right merchants to hear the rumors from the palace…that a savage with odd markings is next in line to be the King’s Advisor."

Ikram winced. "I wasn’t trying to hide that, exactly…more I’m still sort of…lost about it myself.

I ran away from the Desert. I never thought to find myself in a position of authority."

"Authority," Valerie said, shaking her head and laughing softly. "Oh, Ikram, only you would put it so mildly. After the King, you’ll be one of the most powerful men in the palace. Even the council will not be as close to the King as you. That he trusts a savage in that role…" she sighed and closed her eyes, and Ikram reached out to brush away the few tears that ran down her cheeks.

She jerked away, eyes opening briefly before she shut them again. "You’ll be expected to have a noble wife, chi—chil—" she never finished the word, but instead dissolved into tears.

Ikram grabbed her and pulled her close, holding her tight, not letting go until she quit struggling and finally relaxed against him, wishing he could do something to stop her tears.

"Jewel…what is so wrong? Do I look unhappy with you?"

"Y-you don’t understand," Valerie said to his chest.

Gently Ikram grasped her head and tilted it up, wiping tears away with his thumbs. "I won’t understand until you tell me, jewel. I’m a snake, not a mind-reader."

The weak jest earned him a wobbly smile – but all too soon it collapsed back into misery.

Valerie closed her eyes, voice faint as she finally spoke. "Having Simon almost killed me.

The doctors said I’ll never have another child." She finally opened her eyes. "You should have a real wife, a real family."

Ikram was utterly sick of those words. He leaned down and kissed her again, tasting salt along with the wine, the underlying sweet that could only be Valerie herself. "From where I stand, jewel, I already have a real wife, a real family – if only the idiotic woman in the room would say yes instead of no."

"But—but—"

Movement from the corner of the room caught Ikram’s eye, and he left Valerie sputtering to go look at the boy he was so curious about. She’d said ‘Simon’ earlier…kneeling by the small straw bed on the floor, Ikram took a long look at the small boy.

He was every inch his mother, right down to the so slender build and the brilliant hair. He had no doubt the eyes were just as green, and there would be a smile to match. What sort of man would even think to say no to this? He looked up as Valerie’s shadow fell across them. "He’s beautiful, my jewel. What man wouldn’t be proud to call the two of you his family? Do you really think so little of me?"

Valerie blinked back tears. "No, never. I wanted to be able to give you a son or daughter of your own though…you should have your own family, Ikram."

Ikram sighed and stood. "You are giving me a family of my own, jewel." He wiped more tears from her cheeks. "Why can I not make you realize this?"

"You…you really don’t mind Simon? That I can’t have another?"

"All I need is right here…if you would just agree to marry me." He looked back toward the sleeping Simon. "I would even adopt him, if you’d let me." He grinned suddenly. "Perhaps we should give him a Tavamaran name, hmm? Would that convince you I would like to have him for my son?"

Valerie moved into his arms, embracing him tightly. "That actually sounds nice. I’d like to raise him Tavamaran…not the way I was raised. I want to leave that life behind. I fled here because after my husband died – and it was only a marriage of money – his family tried to take my son away from me. I don’t want my son to know anything about that life. I like it here." She looked up at him and smiled, the happiness starting to come back into her eyes.

"Especially now. I…if you really don’t mind, and are still offering…"

Ikram laughed softly. "Beloved, I’ve been trying to do nothing but offer all night. Perhaps my father was right after all, when he said women complicate everything. Ow!" He mocked glared, rubbing the spot where she’d pinched him before tugging the ring from his sash. "I had this all planned you know. Still, I will settle for a simple yes by this point. Valerie, will you marry me?"

"Yes, Ikram, I will."

Knight to Rook

Being unnecessary did not sit well with him.

Of course, he doubted being unnecessary sat well for anyone.

Still, he had once been Prince Ryder LeRoi, a highly respected strategist and nephew to the King of Gollen.

Now he was nothing except Princess Cordelia's eccentric, useless cousin.

Oh, he was useful for diplomacy, for helping to figure out how this or that should be handled, but it was more a courtesy than anything that they asked his opinion and assistance.

Cordelia could handle it all just as well as he.

He was used to being someone whose opinion mattered, to whom people turned for advice.

Once his mind had been admired, his skills sought.

These days it seemed he barely existed, and he was confounded as to how to change that.

Cordelia had fit seamlessly into this new world. Rook did not regret choosing to leave his homeland to make a new home in the Great Desert...but he wished he had more to do here than simply flounder.

He could not even make real friends, beyond Shihab...and even against him, Rook felt inadequate. Shihab, though a concubine now, had once been just as skilled with a sword as with his mind.

Rook was hopeless at combat. His skill was laughable. That had been fine back home, where his mind was considered a weapon all its own. Here in the Sands where swordsmanship was so highly prized, where skill in battle was so vital...they were polite to the Princess's cousin, but that was all.

His steps slowed to a stop as he passed by the practice yard, the world around him fading out as he watched the sparring match below.

Two men fought in the main circle - one Fox, one Falcon.

He followed their movements, unable not to calculate, anticipate. "Low," he muttered as the Fox swung his sword low. "Feint left, downswing." Below, the Fox moved as Rook said.

"Feint back, lunge. Drop to avoid, swing around and up."

The Fox feinted back, and then abruptly threw himself forward, sword flashing in the sunlight.

The Falcon stumbled to the side, sword barely lifting to block in time. In the next moment, he was flat on his back in the sands.

Rook shook his head, tsking softly. The Falcon should have figured that move out; he'd fallen for it before. Rook started to walk away when a flash of movement, a familiar gait, caught the corner of his eye.

He stepped back, bumping into the wall, for fear of being caught staring as he drank in the sight of the man across the yard.

General Noor.

One of Prince Sahayl's closest friends and most trusted allies. He and General Kahlil controlled the royal army of the Great Desert.

He could not tear his eyes away from the man, and hoped fervently that no one looked up to catch him staring.

Noor was head to foot a Desert savage, and he made that such a very fine thing to be. The dark skin and darker hair, eyes a rich cinnamon, body sculpted by his hard life of first fighting savages, and then driving heathens from the Sands. Though he was currently wrapped up in the robes which fought off the damage the fierce sun could do, Rook had more than once seen him more casually dressed over one of Sahayl's private dinners.

He would like badly to know the man far more intimately...but he would be more likely to receive a gilded invitation begging his return to Gollen.

Sighing at himself, he turned away and continued along the open hallway which wrapped around the practice yard, connecting two major wings of the sprawling palace.

What was a useless strategist to do?

Return to his room after a stroll to work on his lone little self-appointed project and sulk until suppertime. At which point he'd probably just remain in his room to read and study, rather than make things awkward by joining everyone for dinner. Everyone was cordial, and he got along with Shihab splendidly...but it did not erase the feeling that he did not belong. He was no savage, nor an impetuous princess who found a place for herself wherever she went.

It had taken him years to earn his place on the seas, and there he did not need to be a warrior - only good at telling them how best to sink ships and staying out of the way while they did it.

Here...no one needed him at all.

Slipping into his room, Rook stripped down to just his breeches and undershirt. Setting the discarded clothes neatly aside, he ignored his low work table in favor of the smaller one at the foot of his bed.

Upon it was a chessboard, one of the few possessions he held dear. It had taken them months of work, but finally his Uncle had begrudgingly sent two trunks of belongings each to him and Cordelia.

One of the things in his trunks was this chessboard. Custom made, he'd bought it during one of their few stops in Havarin. Rich, dark walnut and fine, pale maple. He kept it vigorously clean, protecting it from the elements as best he could. The pieces were carved from obsidian and amber, gleaming in the sunlight.

Currently it looked as though a game was in progress...except he was only playing himself, insofar as that was possible. Sighing softly, he moved the black rook, then moved to his desk and sat down to work.

The royal library was in a sad state. Though the Ghost Tribe had worked their hardest to preserve the tomes left when the palace had become the Broken Palace, a great deal of damage had been sustained.

He was only one man, but so far he had completely recopied two volumes, both histories of the Sands and Tavamara. Currently he was recopying something most would likely consider more frivolous - a book of songs and poems. He wondered if any of the Tribes still knew them, but had not yet managed to ask, half afraid that if anyone knew what he was doing he would find himself in violation of some small cultural quirk.

And would then lose the only thing in his life that made him feel useful. Sahayl's birthday was swiftly approaching, and the children of the Sands were looking forward to celebrating the birthday of their Sandstorm Prince.

Rook wanted to present the restored books as a gift, and partially in thanks for Sahayl's taking him in. That was the other reason he asked no one about the songs and poems - it would ruin the surprise.

Someday he hoped to begin writing translations, but he would prefer to have permission for that.

A knock on his door some time later brought his head up sharply, and it was a moment before Rook realized what the sound was. Shaking his head, focusing on the world around him rather than the pages of a book, he moved slowly on stiff legs to the door. "Yes?" he asked.

The palace servant smiled politely and sketched a low bow. "The Princess would like to speak with you."

"Ah. Certainly. Thank you."

"My pleasure."

Pulling on his clothes, smoothing everything out and ensuring it fell as it should, Rook stepped into the hallway and retraced the path he'd walked before.

Once again he found himself pausing as he reached the yard, unable to help himself. He could not resist watching, analyzing, predicting. Strategy was his life, and he had been trained to analyze and anticipate everything. Nothing was more fascinating than men sparring. War he would do without, even though a war would give him purpose...but sparring.

Yes, this would never grow boring.

The yard was mostly empty, only a half dozen men - four to spar, two observing.

"My man will take it," said one of the observers.

"It does rather seem that way," said the second man with a sigh.

Rook frowned, unable to resist responding to that, though his eyes never left the sparring men. "No, the Cobra will take it."

The second man, a higher ranking Fox to judge by his marks, sneered. "How would you know, heathen? You cannot even hold a sword."

Rook ignored them as the first man, a Cobra, agreed with the Fox. He kept his eyes on the battling Cobra, who to judge by the comments of the observers seemed to be losing.

Obviously they weren't paying enough attention.

"Feint left," Rook muttered. "Lunge past, backswing - down."

Even as he finished speaking, the Cobra completed the moves Rook had anticipated.

The two men rounded on him. "How in the Sands-"

"Most impressive," said a familiar voice that jolted right through Rook.

Startled, he struggled not to show it, managing to turn around slowly and offer a polite nod.