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Chapter 6 |
Sandren was still asleep. Restless, feverish, muttering and thrashing, but asleep, healing. Aza added water and herbs to the tea he left brewing on the small fire. Sandren pushed at his hands and turned his head, but Aza got a good grip on his chin and forced the healing liquid down his throat. He sent a quick prayer to the goddess and to whatever desert spirits protected Sandren's soul. They had been here too long and Aza was getting anxious. They were still in Canthar territory and there was no reason to think the Macouni wouldn't return. Or that another band of scouts would find them. Aza resolved to give Sandren one more day, then they would have to move. Throughout the day, Aza rode out to check the horizon, the river, the edge of the forest. He saw no one, nothing suspicious, nothing aroused his ranger instincts. He circled back on a regular schedule to pour more medicine into Sandren. By nightfall, he was satisfied that they were safe, but he packed for an early start in the morning. Aza laid awake in the dark, occasionally spotting a star shooting from the bow of the night sky warriors. The wind was cool, the moon just past full, small wildlife left their burrows and came to the river. Aza was at peace, happy. This is where he belonged -- under the open sky, near a banked fire, full from his meal and snug in his furs. Sandren shivered. Aza rolled towards him immediately and pulled the furs up higher. Sandren quieted. He slept on, one strand of Aza's long hair clutched in his hand. 'Mine,' Aza thought, 'mine.' Most often his solitary life suited Aza, but lately he had grown lonely on his long circuits of the Khannem borders. A night in a village, a stop at a brothel, time with Hadiz on the rare occasions they saw each other. That had been fine when he was younger, but now Aza wanted -- needed -- more. He wanted a constant companion, one as different from himself as possible. Someone to learn from, someone to teach. Someone with whom he could discuss, argue, agree, depend on. He had wanted someone with spirit, with strength, with courage. He didn't want 'someone,' Aza chided himself, he wanted Sandren. Wanted him at first sight. He had left his usual path and was headed for a village when he had stumbled across the Macouni and their pathetic captives. Slavery was a way of life, the Khannem themselves owned slaves, so nothing caught Aza's attention until a bold, fearless boy stood up in the middle of the slave pens and demanded to be set free. Aza smiled at the memory and pulled Sandren a little closer. Sandren was unbearable awake, but asleep, he was pliant and warm. Perhaps his bad temper and ill manners were just a result of his abuse at the hands of the Macouni, and his sweeter nature would emerge soon. Idle daydreams of he and Sandren traveling out of the Canthar Emirate and back to Khannem lands flitted through Aza's mind, then solidified into a decision to keep Sandren with him. Soon he was dreaming of showing Sandren the world outside the Dharzin oasis by day, sleeping under the furs with him at night. It was just dawn when Aza came awake suddenly, muscles tensed. After a moment, he realized it was the absence of sound that had roused him. Sandren. No more feverish mutterings, no more restlessness, no more congested, labored breathing. The soft light touched Sandren's peaceful face. Aza brushed some tendrils back, left his palm against Sandren's check. The boy truly was beautiful: delicate bone structure, silky hair, soft skin. Aza looked at his hand, large, square, rough against Sandren's refined face. His arm across Sandren's pale chest was tattooed with tribal marks; a long scar twisted along his wrist. He moved his legs away. Thick, covered with dark hair, also scarred; unfit to touch Sandren's slender limbs. In that moment, reality set in. Dreams of having Sandren with him began to seem pathetic, childish, dishonorable. He should return the boy to his home, where Sakhari elders had chosen a destiny for Sandren. Despite what Aza wished for, Sandren would not survive long in his world, he tried to convince himself. The grasslands are too cold for him, he is accustomed to fine meals in airy temples, with books and music and other scholars. The wind and the sun would roughen his skin; solitary life on horseback would keep him from his studies. Aza closed his eyes against a sudden wave of pain, of disappointment, of loss. He had to harden his heart. Tried to imagine how he would feel if he were taken away from his home, everything he loved, everything he needed to make his life meaningful, to please the gods. He looked back down at Sandren. Sometimes what is desirable exists solely in its element; if taken from there, the essence of what makes it beautiful and free is lost forever. For the second time that night, Aza made a decision, a vow to himself. He will take Sandren home to Dharzin. Back where he belonged. 'Much as I want to keep him, to claim him,' Aza thought to himself, 'Sandren's destiny is something other than my own. It is the right thing to do.' Heart aching but peaceful, he slipped out of the furs to retrieve and fold the burnoose. He placed it within Sandren's reach so when the boy awoke, he could cover his beauty head to toe, become a Sakhari scholar once more. Aza pulled the furs up around Sandren's shoulders. The boy sighed happily, a sound that tore at Aza's heart, rolled over and settled again. He looked better, rested. Aza first went to the river and gave thanks to the Mother for Sandren's health and to pray for a safe journey, then turned and walked upstream, scouting for game and provisions. He returned with two pheasants and soon had them roasting on a spit, taro roots and wild onions baking in the coals, some for the meal, others for the journey. There was nothing to do but wait for Sandren to wake. Aza returned to the riverbank, vaguely unsettled, the rushing of the water a fitting background for his scattered thoughts. He needed to formulate a plan. If they crossed the river further downstream, they could skirt the outer edges of the Canthar lands. Aza didn't know this land well, but there must be forests and caves and rivers, settlements and towns along the way to guide him. He would head south until the grasslands gave way to deserts, he decided. Once in Dharzinian lands, it would be safer. He would be returning a lost boy to his tribe, not crossing unfriendly territory with a former captive. Satisfied with his plan, Aza's thoughts naturally returned to the boy in the furs. He would miss Sandren. A pain stabbed his heart. It was nothing in comparison with the pain in his temple. A flash, a sharp pain and the unmistakable feel of blood dripping from his eyebrow, closing one eye. He ducked but not in time to dodge a second missile that hit the bridge of his nose, bringing involuntary tears. He was on his knees when a third hit him squarely in the chest. Aza shook his head, dazed. Wiping away the blood, he tried to locate his attackers.
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