Djamal swept his eyes around the gallery of the Birkramsala and realized half the city had come to watch. Not that it surprised him. The conflicts between the Kamara and the Visarya had resulted in the death of not one but two legendary Dyal champions, making it the most talked about topic for the entire desert in the past four weeks. Such things were considered exciting tales around campfires for those without power, a chance to climb the ladder for those looking for some, and a complicated situation to consider for those holding it.

To Djamal and his father, or anyone in their position really, an alliance of two powerful Kha'gans––or a fight between them––was either a threat or an opportunity, depending on whose side they were on at the time. His father had sent him to Citara the moment the news about Baaku Kha'a's trial had arrived. Their own alliance with the Visarya had yet to be decided, and Djamal knew his father's decision would depend on the outcome of this duel and his assessment of it.

If the rumors surrounding the two Kha'as hidden relationship were true, one could expect a long term alliance between the Visarya and the Kamara to follow Baaku Kha'a's victory today. Should Baaku Kha'a die this morning, his uncle's first deed as the new Kha'a would likely be a declaration of war against the Visarya, which could turn into a full-blown conflict involving many more Kha'gans. What they were about to witness was no ordinary duel between two men; it was an event that could change the fate of the entire desert, if not the entire peninsula.

The larger the stone, the bigger the ripples, Djamal recalled the line he'd written in his journal some time ago, looking at the crowd that had gathered to watch today. There were large stones here, in large numbers. He counted at least a hundred Kha'as and Khumars in the gallery, wouldn't be surprised if every Kha'gan in the White Desert had sent at least one representative of their own. News were only useful when they traveled fast, and with the leaders already present, they need not travel at all.

Djamal tugged on his zikh, wrapping it tighter around him. The sight of the Birkramsala that morning seemed to have turned the air colder, thicker with something sharp and hazardous to breathe. White-clad warriors in the thousands occupied the best seats in the gallery on either side of the oval-shaped fighting pit. The Bharavis among them wore white to match the zikh, making the area almost blinding white against the backdrop of whiter marbles. At the center of the White Warrior section facing east, the Ma'adevi sat next to her Deva'a, both in their official outfits of white and gold. Behind them, four pairs of Devis and Devas attended the event in similar uniforms of white and silver. Up on the higher tiers seated Citara-born warriors in gray, along with the handful of Makena merchants who had been allowed to enter the city to trade. Oranns scattered elsewhere in all shades of garment, giving that part of the gallery an unruly appearance compared to the rest of the color-sorted crowd.

For a moment, Djamal couldn't help but remember the quake that had collapsed an entire section of the 'amsala. What, he wondered, would happen if history were to repeat itself today?

An unsettling thought for another time, Djamal decided and shook himself free of the dreadful image. For now, what was about to happen below demanded his undivided attention. That, and what another man who had chosen to watch it close by, on the very edge of the pit, would do when it was over.

***

A strange calm settled upon Nazir as he stared at the two men in the pit, standing just ten steps away. The crowd seemed to him statues made of rocks and clays, pushed far and made blurry behind the figures of Rafa izr Zakai and Baaku who stood facing each other in silence. Tip toeing on the edge of his awareness was the knowledge that the Ma'adevi and the entire desert was watching. There were men of power here who would draw conclusions from seeing him on the belt of the Birkramsala and never hesitate to exploit it. On another day, such matters would have occupied his conscience, but that morning, there was a bubble that wrapped around him, a numbness that spread like a sickness or a corruption of some kind preventing him from forming too coherent a thought to care.

Someone stood up to introduce the two men, signaling the beginning of the duel. The man read the charges against Baaku, gave them reasons why the fight was to take place, and laid out the rules for those involved. The Ma'adevi had agreed to drop all charges in honor of the fight. Whoever walked out of the pit alive would be the rightful Kha'a of the Kamara Kha'gan. Further disputes would be considered high treason against the Ma'adevi. And so on and so forth.

Simple terms, enormous consequences, Nazir thought, for how many lives were hanging on the result of this duel. There would be war between the Visarya and the Kamara should Baaku die here. Rafa izr Zakai would make sure that happened. Other Kha'gans would choose a side. The White Desert would split again in alliance. An attack on the Salasar would have to wait. If they don't choose to attack us first in the midst of our own war, that is.

The drummers struck their first beat, and the warrior dance to honor Birkra, the god of war, began. It was a requirement for every duel that took place at the Birkramsala. The ritual extended the event, prolonged the excitement of the crowd, turning an otherwise ordinary fight into a ceremony to get the blood pumping like a tantalizing appetizer served before the main course. Duels, especially one to the death, ended in matters of minutes. The number of moves required to strike down an opponent would be recorded, talked about, and bets were taken over such numbers in the Dyal. The ritual was the same that morning, only they were betting Kha'gans here, not coins.

Out on the pit, Baaku's axe made a sharp whistle as it split the air. A miniature sandstorm kicked up by rock-solid footwork formed a sheer curtain of falling sand, revealing a warrior painted entirely in gold as it dropped. Baaku moved like a god with his massive axe; one benefit of having trained to the point where the weight of it was no longer a burden. His endurance was that of a young man pushed past his limits on a daily basis, his prowess in the pit was hard to beat by anyone his age, much less a man twice his years. It should give him an advantage over Rafa. A big advantage. But is it enough?

The drums grew louder, faster. On the opposite side, matching his opponent in speed, in power, in precision was Rafa izr Zakai in red paint, giving the crowd a dance befitting a man of superior experience and a lifetime of practice in the battlefield. If there had been any weaknesses from having lived near five decades, it didn't show. Rafa's footwork was just as solid, if not more precise, more instinctive than his nephew. He had chosen a long sword and a dagger for the duel this morning, but Rafa's reputation with axes meant he knew very well how to fight against one.

It's all right, Nazir reminded himself, nothing changes. Whatever happened here, today, was the will of Ravi. Still, he couldn't seem to shake the feeling that there was something about the little girl and the flower he was supposed to understand.

"Nazir Kha'a."

He turned to find Kaal standing two steps behind, felt a touch of irritation to see the man's presence, and chastised himself. For how many people had come to watch the event, he had no right to claim such privacy. Kaal dropped back a step at the sight of his expression. The captain, as always, paid attention to every twitch of his brow and something must have slipped. "My apologies," said the captain, handing him a sealed envelope. "I have a message from the Ma'adevi."

Nazir took the message, wondered for a moment if the edge in that tone was hurt or something more bitter, and decided there were more pressing matters to attend to. He looked up at the gallery, saw the Ma'adevi staring at him, and opened the letter.

***

'Protect this Kha'gan, and don't let that pathetic son of mine ruin it.'

The memory came to Rafa as he performed the dance. He remembered his brother's words, spoken three days before he died. He remembered the promise he'd made too, strong as Aza'ir's grip on his shoulder on that day, heavy as the blow that took his life. An oath like that mattered. It meant you stick with it. Meant you see it through even if you had to kill the man's only son.

He could hear the gossips where he stood, the names they'd give him afterward: Rafa the Traitor, the Usurper, the Tyrant. It didn't matter. What mattered was the oath he'd given Aza'ir and what would happen if he were to lose this fight. His son would be executed, as per tradition. The Kha'gan might send his wife and daughter away to die somewhere they won't have to bury. Families of traitors didn't get to walk out of these things alive, that was the usual price of losing when one decided to defy one's Kha'a. Rafa knew this, had stepped into the pit knowing the consequences. 

Not the cleverest thing he'd done in his life, no doubt about that. But a promise was a promise, and he had promised to intervene if the son would bring down the Kha'gan. The moment Baaku had made the decision to ally himself with the Visarya, no one knew better than Rafa there would never be a way to talk him out of it. He'd raised the boy, after all, loved him like a son even. Could consider it his own fault to have created the monster who shot at his own father if he ever needed an excuse to kill the son, which he didn't. Someone's gotta do it one way or another. You don't clean up shit, you live in shit, and you die in shit. Anyone who'd survived long enough in the desert knew that.

Not a difficult task, considering he'd taught Baaku everything he knew, gave the boy that axe himself when he was twelve, told him how to use it. Funny how things had turned out. He had to mind his own damn lessons now to not get himself hacked to pieces by a weapon he'd gifted a kid.

The drummers stopped, ending both their routines. Baaku stood breathing mildly on the other side, rock-hard muscles now heated well enough to crack a rib, wouldn't have to break a sweat to do it, he figured. An opponent that young could crack all kinds of shit in someone his age given an opening, and from the looks of it, the boy wouldn't hesitate. A toxic sense of pride filled Rafa's chest at that moment, stretched his mouth into a grin he didn't care to hide. A fine young man Baaku had become. A warrior worth fighting against. A shame to end such a life. An honor, no doubt, to be the one to do it.

"Uncle." Baaku dipped his head in a gesture of respect. The boy had always been respectful, just not to his own father. Why, he'd never managed to figure it out.

"Last chance to change your mind, kid," he said. Like that would happen. Had to say it in any case, out of principle.

"And disappoint all these guests?" Baaku swept his eyes around the gallery, tugged up the left corner of his mouth the same way he always had before making shit decisions. "I've waited a lifetime for this. You know it."

Rafa chuckled. Young men and young ambitions. Always a pleasure to see, painful to swallow when you're no longer young. "Suppose I do." Rafa nodded. "I'll take care of your sisters. Your mother will be honored and cared for. Him," he said, threw a gesture toward the oracle standing nearby, "I will kill. You understand?"

Baaku nodded, wiped the playful grin from his face, and gave it to him straight, as he should. "I can't spare your son, but your wife and daughter will be well taken care of. You have my word. As for you––" Baaku drew a breath, a difficult one. "You will be buried a traitor to the Kha'gan, a kin, and an esteemed master of a Kha'a of Kamara." He stepped forward, offered Rafa a hand. "Shal 'akhram um shal 'ikhram Ravi, uncle."

May Ravi favor you in death and in life. An old prayer invoked on sacred ground couldn't be brushed aside. Rafa took the hand, closed his fist around it for the last time, and repeated the prayer in old Khandoor––the language of the gods. "Shal 'akhram um shal 'ikhram Ravi."

***

'You are the father I should have had.' Baaku remembered those words he'd spoken long ago and his uncle's fist that crushed his jaw afterward. It hadn't made his ear ring quite like the blow that landed just now. Then again, sword pommels and fists were two different things, and the intent to bury him hadn't been there ten years ago.

"Pay attention, Baaku." Rafa spun the sword in his hand, couldn't help making a comment. Old habits, he supposed. "What did I tell you? You're in the pit. Your mind stays in the pit. Come, boy. Unless you're waiting for me to die of old age."

It might take exactly that, Baaku thought, spitting out the blood that was beginning to pool in his mouth. Three moves and he was already bleeding. Not a surprise, given he was fighting the man who'd taught him how. "Don't reckon I have that long." Baaku righted himself, spun the axe in his right hand, caught it with his left, kept it going. Back and forth. It sucked a good load of his strength, that move. Came in handy though, when you needed to keep an opponent guessing where the next blow would land. Keep him talking. Distract. Surprise. "Unless you're coming down with a disease or somethin––"

Baaku shot forward, axe high and spinning. Rafa watched him come, never moved an inch, didn't even blink when he got in range. Baaku switched hands at the last minute, aiming for a surprise attack. A side step cleared Rafa from the path of his axe, a smooth backhand slash of his sword followed before the move was even finished. Baaku dropped low to the ground just before it took his head off, felt the blade go over his temple by an inch and saw a chunk of his hair flying between them.

Anchoring himself now, a free hand on the sand, shoulder blades straining to support his weight, Baaku swung both legs at Rafa's shins, forcing him to jump back a few steps. The gap gave him the opening he needed to hop back on his feet. Swung his axe again as he charged. Rafa caught it with his sword in midair, flicked his other hand to toss up the dagger to switch his grip, lunged forward, and thrusted that shit right at his liver.

***

Kaal saw the flash of the dagger just before it met Baaku Kha'a's torso, heard the gasp Nazir made as it drew blood, sucked in his own breath when he realized it didn't go in as intended. Wasn't sure if he was glad or disappointed. Wondered if Nazir could read something from the sound he'd made.

Baaku Kha'a, quick as a cat despite the size and weight of his axe, had managed to twist out of the way just in time and got away with a good-sized cut beneath the ribs instead of a punctured liver. Another brilliant footwork got him back on track. Another steady step on the sand balanced his weight for the other leg to deliver a kick at Rafa's midriff. Landed it flat-footed on the older man's torso and knocked him off his feet three steps back. Baaku Kha'a charged in, covered the distance in two leaping steps, brought the axe down on his uncle's head.

***

And missed. Djamal clenched his fists as he watched Rafa roll away from the path. The crowd erupted into a sound that shook the 'amsala, sped up his pulse to match that of someone who'd just run three lapses around the belt. Baaku Kha'a pulled the axe off the sand, brought it up again at shoulder height, slammed it back down on the other side, would have landed right between his uncle's eyes had he not been knocked off balance by the leg Rafa threw at him. The man didn't even blink when the axe had come down the second time, hadn't twitched a hair in that split second he decided to trip his nephew instead of dodging the blow.

***

Rafa pushed himself up with his old legs, wished he had the strength to hop back on his feet like the old days, took his time to appreciate the fact that he could still get himself up at all. His stomach was still sore from that kick. His breakfast rode halfway up his throat from the impact. The pain on his left side of the torso was screaming. Might be a rib broken. Might be two. Didn't matter. Gotta keep fighting if you could still move.

He took his time to breathe here, however, giving Baaku time instead of charging back in. Might be a bad idea to give him that break, but decided he could afford the risk. Rafa sucked in a lungful of air and counted one. Figured had time to get three of those, maybe four while the young lion pushed himself off the ground. Two. The kid wasn't even panting. Looked like he could still run down a horse and tackle the fucking beast. Thre––

***

Baaku rushed back into the fight, lunging forward with his axe raised high and growling. Nazir held his breath watching, following every move, every step, every misplaced limb. Baaku's speed was impressive, his footwork still flawless, but could he keep it going long enough?

Don't stop. Don't give him an opening. Keep pushing. Speed and strength were the only things Baaku had over Rafa. Everyone knew it from the beginning of the duel. It was obvious who was the better fighter between the two. Tire him out before he kills you.

The message crumpled as he closed his fist around it. Its presence dug into his palm as if to remind him what else was at stake at this moment. His head was spinning as he watched the two men in that pit, searching for an answer to all the puzzles he'd been given. There was a meaning to all of these things being thrown at him all at once. Something he was supposed to do, to see without his visions. He knew one thing, however: whatever needed to be done required Rafa to lose this fight.

Live, Baaku. I can't do this without you.

***

Kaal saw the words on Nazir's lips, spoken without sound, and yet they felt louder than the shouts of the crowd around them. It slammed shut the back of his throat, made the truth near impossible to swallow, forced him to face the lie he'd given earlier that morning. You do want him dead, no point to denying it. You want a life without him. As if it would somehow make a difference. As if you have what it takes to replace whatever the man would die taking.

'I can't do this without you,' Nazir had said. A stake in the heart for someone who had never been needed. A call that made him want to close these two steps, to take the hand that gripped the letter tight enough to draw blood, to offer some form of comfort, to be needed, at least once.

But such comfort wasn't needed. Not from him in any case. Not from anyone present at the Birkramsala but the one man who who was fighting to his death out there on the pit.

And death was coming. Everyone could see it. In the springing steps that were beginning to lose their precision. In the muscles of his arm that were beginning to strain as it swung the axe. In how calm Rafa izr Zakai was as he dodged every blow with terrifying accuracy and knowledge of where it might be coming from. The duel could end any minute now, in the split second Baaku Kha'a's steps faltered, or the moment he made his first mistake. This was a fight between a master and an apprentice, and for the latter to win was going to take some kind of divine intervention. Kaal didn't see how it could be done otherwise. Not unless Baaku Kha'a still had something up his sleeves.

'I can't fill a dead man's shadow,' he'd told Nazir. And perhaps he couldn't. But an orann took an opportunity when it was given or die with nothing in their pockets, and opportunity was about to be given to him now.

***

Somewhere in the middle of his moves, Baaku had an image of himself lying with his back on the sand, his uncle's sword sticking out of his chest, and the look on Nazir's face as he stared down on his corpse. The world around him seemed to have faded, the noises pushed back somewhere behind a brick wall that wasn't there. All he could see and hear was the head of his axe as he swung and the clang Rafa's sword made as it blocked his blows. His arms were getting tired, his precision held together by diminishing strength. It wouldn't have been a problem if he were fighting another man––he could still fight ten lesser ones with what he had left. Rafa knew his tactics, could read it like a fucking book he'd gone over fifty times, and Baaku knew better than anyone a single misstep would mark the end of his life.

But the old man was also panting, his arms were trembling at every impact, his legs straining to hold balance. It was now or never, Baaku knew it like the throbbing pain in his side, like the ache in his thighs telling him how much longer he could stay standing. No time to waste.

He charged in, spinning his axe for another chance at deception, threw in whatever was left of his strength knowing for certain this was to be his last try.

It was all right. Live or die, nothing would change.

You have to be ready for life, or the only thing you'll die holding is regret.

***

It was a fight to remember for a lifetime, Djamal thought as he fixed his eyes on Baaku Kha'a. The sweat and blood had smudged the gold paint on his skin, made him look like a divine being whose presence reminded them of the Birkramsala's legend as the sacred fighting ground of the gods. And for that brief moment, when the sun seemed to have focused only on the one figure in the pit, when every man and woman present held their breaths watching, Baaku Kha'a thundered across the pit like a raging sandstorm releasing its wrath on the desert, gripping those who experienced it by the throat, and forcing them all toward the edge of their seats. He could feel it in the deafening silence around the gallery, in the tension that seemed to vibrate the ground underneath his feet, that whatever might happen at the end of this duel, it was a day no one who had been there to witness would ever forget.

And it would have made a great story to tell, truly, had spirit, courage, and determination been enough.

Such things never were, however.

***

Kaal saw the first misplaced step, could see the change in Rafa izr Zakai's expression as he noticed it. The old man was panting and had been on the receiving end of the attack, but his focus had never wavered once from the path of that axe. There was a glitch in that perfection of youth now, as strength burned out from those muscles, as precision suffered from the result. It appeared Baaku Kha'a had strained his right ankle during a bad landing from that first misstep, and a mistake like that could kill yo––

The loud clang of Rafa's sword against the axe's steel handle slapped the crowd awake from its stupor, the two weapons screeched as they slid against each other, coming apart before the deception worked its magic, throwing the opponent off balance. The glint of steel was flashing in the blinding light of the sun, and swallowed whole as it buried into flesh.

***

The blade got him somewhere in the gut, didn't stay there long enough for him to pinpoint where. He didn't even feel it, didn't know it went in until he saw the blood on the dagger. Pain always came late in the middle of combat. Sometimes it never did if you died soon enough.

The thought came to Baaku as Rafa's elbow slammed into his jaw and sent him flying a few steps away before landing on his back. The old man could have ended the fight with another jab of that dagger under his chin, and Baaku wondered why he hadn't. Perhaps there was a part of Rafa that thought of him as a son? Perhaps there had been some hesitation? A silly thought to be asking at the time, Baaku thought, trying to push himself up.

The wound on his stomach was warm to the touch. Blood gushed out through his fingers as he tried to press on it. His axe had been knocked out of his grip and landed somewhere behind, too far to reach without getting back on his feet. His head was still spinning from the last hit, and crawling toward it was the only thing he could do at the moment. Get to it. Get the fuck up and fight.

He made it to the axe, felt the cold of the steel handle on his fingers, and tried to lift it up. Couldn't. Looked forward to see why it was stuck and saw Rafa's foot on the axe head, didn't have time to figure out what to do about it when the other foot slammed into his temple and threw him back where he started. In the back of his mind he saw Nazir crying. Might be a memory from when they were young. Might be a sign he was about to die in that pit. Most likely a hallucination from being kicked in the head. Nazir wouldn't do that. He wouldn't cry in front of all these people.

Rafa's boot appeared in front of him in the middle of that thought. He looked up and saw his uncle standing with his sword held high, caught a glimpse of blood dripping from Rafa's arm and leg, and congratulated himself for having bled the man at least.

Rafa stared down at him, face covered in blood, sweat, and sand, his expression dead as a cheap statue sold at flea markets. He said, "Get up."

Did he say My son? Or was that a hallucination too? Did he want to hear it that badly? Even now, he thought of saying it again. 'You are the father I should have had.' Appropriate, he supposed, for how many times his uncle had beaten him up for even thinking such thoughts. Must have brought back memories.

"Get up, Baaku," he repeated, not holding out a hand. Not that he expected it. Rafa never helped him get up. Not once. 'A helping hand never comes in battle,' he'd said. 'It's a waste of time to help someone who's gonna die anyway.'

"Get up and I will give you an honorable death. It is time."

Baaku drew a breath, pushed himself one last time off the sand, and knelt in front of Rafa. It's all right. Nothing would change. Nazir wouldn't cry. I am getting to die young on the sand of the 'amsala, after all.

***

Djamal pressed a hand over his mouth as he watched Baaku Kha'a sank his knees into the sand. It was really his eyes he wanted to cover, but the death of such a man needed to be observed, witnessed, remembered. A waste of a remarkable youth, a useless execution of a hero who could have been another legend. He didn't know the Kha'a in person, but the loss of a great man was always going to leave a splinter in his heart.

He looked at the Ma'adevi who still sat there like a marble statue and decided he would have to do something about the rage and hate that was beginning to accumulate toward his superior. It needn't be sanctioned by Citara. This duel didn't need to happen from the start. People were dying in the desert from the raids set upon them by the Salasar, and here we all are, watching our own people kill each other like it's some kind of sport.

Djamal gritted his teeth on that thought as he watched, heart heavy as the beat of the drums that had begun the duel, as tight as Rafa izr Zakai's two-handed grip of his sword as he raised it above his head.

***

'You can talk to me about taking our people to war...when you have decided to place the fate of this land you call yours above your family, your Kha'gan, and whatever it is you don't want to lose.'

The words were ringing in Nazir's ears, circling his mind like a nagging child trying to get his attention. They tore at something at the core of his foundation, dug their claws into the one thing that had been keeping him standing. The significance of the letter in his hand was screaming in his head as he watched the sword in Rafa's hand catch the sun light. I have to decide where my loyalty lies. To place the fate of this land I call mine above my family, my Kha'gan...

Above what it is I don't want to lose.

Nazir closed his eyes. Opened them again just before the sword came down.

On the other side, in the middle of the pit next to Baaku, the little girl stood, staring at him.

***

The glare of the sword was in his eyes. Kaal raised his hand to block out the light. It took some time for his vision to adjust, but the dark silhouettes on the pit were already moving. The crowd seemed to hold their breath as they watched. Not a sound slipped through, no one gasped for air, no prayers spoken. The Birkramsala held their breaths to see the death of another warrior this morning...and the death of something else in the man who stood before him.

I am, he thought, closing his eyes as Rafa brought down the blade, going to be chasing this man's shadow all my life, from this moment onward.

There was a thud, the sound of a blade as it bit into flesh, loud enough to sever a bone. And then another, similar one of something human that fell upon the sand.

***

Baaku closed his eyes as Rafa swung the sword down. He could hear the whisper of the blade as it cut through air, the sound of it going through flesh, through bone. It didn't hurt. Pain always come late in battle. Sometimes it never comes if you died soon enough.

He thought he saw Nazir before the lights went out. Perhaps an old image that still lingered in his mind somewhere. Perhaps it was the last picture of Nazir he had when everything was all right. Perhaps it was simply what he wanted to see.

It was all right. Nothing changes. I am, after all, dying without regrets.

***