Hasheem's nightmare came almost every night for the past three weeks he'd been accepted into the kha'gan. She could hear it from the proximity of their tents—the muffled groans and whimpers of someone running from or seeing something too terrifying to imagine. Most of those nights she had stayed awake, tossing and turning on her own bed as she listened. It would take someone without a heart to sleep through something like that, especially for someone like her who had been through the same ordeal at night, no matter how long ago it had been.

It had been awful, those dreams of her mother being tortured, hurt, left to die in the desert like a worthless carcass waiting to be picked by vultures and eaten by foxes. Her mother, the sweetest, kindest soul whose hand had been gentle when she'd braided her daughter's hair or dressed her husband for battle. Those careful, thoughtful words she'd used around people to move and bend them to her cause, to calm and comfort even her father during his most impossible fit of rage. A delicate being, a beautiful face, a bharavi, won and loved by Za'in izr Husari, by her children and people, dragged over behind a rock by Rashai soldiers, made to weep and scream.

Soldiers, the survivors had said. No one would tell her the details of what they'd done to the kha'ri of Visarya. She had been given no opportunity to see her mother's face before they buried her. But she had seen her father's when he brought his kha'ri home that day.

It had been enough.

So had what Za'in izr Husari decided to do afterward to villagers, to the men, women and children along the outskirts of Sabha been enough to tell Djari what the Rashais had done to his kha'ari.

Some approved of his choices, others didn't. Everyone had, however, learned that there were lines one couldn't cross with people and things one couldn't take away from a man—or a woman—without consequences, sometimes to those who deserved it, other times to those who didn't. Life wasn't fair. It didn't last long if one expected it to be. Some wounds didn't close until one sought some kind of retribution. The scars remained though, so did the nightmares. Djari had some for the death of her mother, and others for what her father had done to the Rashais.

The desert had been painted red. There was blood in the sand, on her father's swords, in the crease of his skin just below his eyes, running down towards the scar that had turned crimson on one side, and dripping off his chin on the other. The white of his zikh had disappeared, soaked almost completely by blood, its excess dripping endlessly onto the already drenched shoulders of his horse. At the horizon, the flame rose high above the wooden roofs, reaching up in unison with the cries of babies and the shrieks of mothers toward the clouds as the day bled into nightfall, staining the sky deep red the same way the dead had stained her father's zikh.

Red was what she saw in her dreams. She hated the sunset, hated it for the memories it threatened to bring and for the future it promised. Za'in izr Husari had brought both his son and daughter along to witness his retribution, to remember, to etch into their memories and carve on their hearts a scar that would dictate every action in their lives and every decision they made afterward. She remembered her father's face that day, how tight his jaw had seemed, how much sorrow had been painted so clearly on it. Za'in izr Husari had never been a monster, but that day he decided to become one. It was a seal made from the blood of innocents, a promise that from then on there would be no line between him and his retribution, even if it meant breaking the world and his children along with it.

It did break her, and probably Nazir. That nightmare repeated itself often, sometimes with her in her father's place, in his garment, covered in blood she'd drawn or ordered drawn. There was no guarantee that she won't make the same mistakes. She was her father's daughter, after all.

Tonight she might also be making one, Dajri realized as she stood by her sworn sword's bed looking down at him. She'd come into his tent on half a thought. She did that a lot—putting things into action before she finished thinking. A terrible habit that was going to get her killed one day—or her sworn sword, now that she had one.

On the bed, Hasheem lay tangled in his sheets, his fists wound tight around the blanket as he screamed a sound that barely made it past his throat.

She reached out to wake him from that agony. Hasheem's eyes flew open the moment she touched his shoulder. Through the dark, his hand shot up to grab her throat, slamming her down on the bed before she could make a sound. Panic rushed through her as his grip tightened, closing her windpipe while the other hand held a dagger over her eye, ready to drive it through the socket in a heartbeat.

She whimpered and clawed at his arm, trying to make a sound that would tell him who she was. It took several attempts to bring him back to his senses. Hasheenm stiffened upon the realization, jerked his hand free as he backed away toward the far end of the bed, panting heavily from what could only be called a panic.

Gathering herself up on the other side, she watched him from a distance as she willed her heart to slow, giving him the space he needed.

It took him a while to settle down. His shoulders slumped as his breathing evened out. Still shaken from the dream, or maybe for what he'd almost done, Hasheem covered his face with a hand, shielding his expression from her entirely. "I could have killed you," he said. An anger there, directed at himself more than at her.

"You didn't," she said the first thing that came to mind and bit her lip. A thoughtless answer. Nazir would have said and done better.

He drew a long breath and exhaled as if to steel himself against a thought. "You can't be here, Djari."

He was right. She couldn't be here. Her father would ground her for a month if she was caught and then kill him—or kill him first, and then ground her. She was a bharavi, and as such wasn't given the same freedom as other women to go to a man's tent for pleasure except for the khumar or the kha'a she was to marry. It was too much of a risk. A child conceived from a lesser man would destroy their chance of gaining a powerful alliance through her marriage. She could find bitterness in that (there would always be bitterness in the world), but there were things bigger than one's desires, than one's right to seek personal pleasures and goals when the lives of thousands depended on it. She knew this and had always abided by all the rules and warnings set for her, but this was Hasheem, her sworn sword and blood. She had to be able to trust him. She did trust him.

"I heard you," Djari said. "Almost every night. Your nightmares." She paused, considered her question to be somewhat intrusive, and asked it anyway. "What did you see?"

He looked up at her but didn't answer. Hasheem did that a lot—responded to unwelcome questions with deliberate silence, holding on to thoughts and secrets with a clear determination to never let her touch them. She wondered if anyone would ever bring down that wall.

She wanted to bring down that wall.

Will you ever tell me? She wanted to ask but didn't. Had a feeling he wouldn't answer that either, not now anyway. They were still somewhat tip-toeing around each other, learning limits and boundaries, with her constantly pushing them, and him standing his ground, never allowing himself to cross the line. Hasheem was always careful, unassuming, and gentle with her, the same way he was gentle with horses. She liked how he handled horses.

"It helps to talk about it with someone." It wouldn't work, she knew, but said it in any case. She was also impossible in her own way. "I had them too when my mother died."

"I'm sorry," was all he said. Hasheem wouldn't find it appropriate to ask, but he was always listening. Her sworn sword was a good listener.

"It went on for months," she told him, "until nan'ya took me to her tent and gave me this." The charm bracelet made a small sound when she raised her arm to show him. "My mother used to wear these on her ankle. I would hear her coming from far away. It reminds me of her presence. Calms me down." A memory returned to her as she spoke, and Djari found herself smiling a little.

"Whenever we got into trouble, Nazir used to say that rescue was coming the moment we heard her charms jingle. At that point, my father just gave up whatever he'd been saying and left." It only took a smile, a gentle touch on his arm from his kha'ari to settle Za'in izr Husari. She missed her father in those moments. They would never come again, those moments. "I guess that's why it helps me sleep. Do you have anything like that? Something that calms you down? Makes you happy?"

Hasheem scowled as if he was suddenly being attacked. Djari realized she might have pushed her boundaries a bit too far and chastised herself. She'd come to offer comfort and ended up putting more stress on him. "I'm sorry," she sighed and rose from the bed. "I didn't mean to pry. I'll go now."

He reached for her arm and held her back. She stiffened at the contact. It was rare for him to touch her that way. Hasheem was careful with women. He stood at a calculated distance, took great care to observe people's boundaries, and respected them. And tonight he'd reached for her, his large hand closed gently around her wrist, making it seem childishly small and fragile.

"That bone arrow you shot me with," he said, "do you still have it?"

She sat back down on the bed and nodded, looking down at his hand. His fingers, she realized, were very long. "I do."

"May I have it?" he asked gently, quietly.

A small pause in her heart, then a beat resumed, picked up in acceleration. "Why?"

He smiled at her then, though only with his eyes. She could see why the girls around camp blushed over him. Her sworn sword was devastatingly handsome, that much everyone would agree, but it was the way he looked at people that made them feel like the only one in the room—in the world—that could always stop a heart and leave a mark.

A mark that was being left on hers at the moment.

"You want to know what calms me down. What makes me happy," he said, the hand that held hers loosened and shifted. She could feel the roughness of his thumb on her palm, tracing the lines on it. "I am happy and calm, Djari," he told her. "Right here, right now."

She could feel it so clearly then, the weight of his presence settling itself on a newly discovered part of her, claiming a place in it.

"Because of me?"

He nodded. Smiled. "Because of you."

The room grew quiet and still. In the silence of the night, she could hear nothing but the sound of her breathing, falling into rhythm with his. His fingers stopped moving on her hand and stayed there. They sat staring at each other, at the discovery of something new that had materialized in the small distance between them, waiting to be addressed. A question. A revelation. A risk.

A risk she wanted to take.

"Is this when you'd kiss a girl?"

He drew a long breath. His eyes never left hers, didn't waver when he said, "Sometimes."

And there it was, an opening, an unlocking of a door that tempted her to peek inside. She drew herself up, caught his eyes. "And this time?"

An unfair question, a step in the direction she shouldn't go. She knew and went in any case.

He hesitated, but not letting go of her hand. "It isn't my choice to make, Djari."

It wasn't, she knew. The choice was hers. "And if it were?"

A moment of pause from him. Then the hand around hers shook a little. "Yes," he said, almost wincing at his own answer. "I think I would."

The door was wide open in front of her now, and she had only to step inside. She would take this risk, but not before addressing another. "You know who I am."

"I do."

"I will marry a khumar of my father's choosing."

A breath drawn, and exhaled. "I know."

"You know the line." It couldn't be crossed, not for anything, at any time, now or ever.

He smiled then, a little ruefully. "I know the line."

She nodded, made her decision, and took the offered gift that would be the first and possibly the last that was her choice, her desire to take, not her father's.

"Kiss me."

***

Later that night, lying on her bed, staring up at the roof of her tent, Djari wound her hand around the string on her neck as she thought about what had happened. She could still feel his hand around her wrist, the lightness of his touch, the breaking of something inside of her caused by the simplest contact that only lasted a few seconds.

Kiss me, she'd told him, had demanded it of him to offer her this, despite all the risks they would have to take.

And he had given it to her. A brief, careful, and gentle kiss. A casual and delicate gesture that sealed and carved something permanent she would bring with her to her new kha'gan, through her new life with the man she would call husband, to her grave.

She was turning sixteen in a month, and there had already been letters from other kha'gans asking her father for her hand in marriage. Before she turned seventeen her father would make the decision, and by eighteen she would be old enough to marry. Her husband would be whomever he chose, from whichever kha'gan that benefited them the most. The chosen khumar or kha'a would claim her then, as soon as possible, to seal the deal and make sure the goods didn't change hands. When they had enough force, her father would go to war. She would be expected to give her husband a son—another oracle—as soon as it could be done.

She might die from that, or she might live. Her freedom would die the day he claimed her, along with any choice she could make on her own, that much was inevitable. Her obedience would be expected, demanded, and she would obey. She would do that, for the lives of thousands that depended on her to play that role.

But the kiss she would keep, in a place where no one could take it away from her. It was a choice she'd made, on her own, no matter how unfair, how cruel it had been.

Cruel, because he was in love with her. He'd let that slip tonight, on his face, in his eyes, in the kiss he'd given her.

It would stay with him too, for as long as he was by her side, no matter how many times he would bed another woman. There had been many in the past few weeks that had come to his tent, and there would be more. She would have to learn to live with these things, and so would he.

But the kiss would stay.

The bone arrowhead on her necklace dug into her palm when she closed her hand around it. She'd hoped to keep it as a reminder for when she married into another kha'gan. But she had him now, as her sworn sword and blood, and he would be wherever she went, just two steps behind her, always, as he had promised to be. Hasheem was a choice she'd made. A companion for life she'd chosen. It was enough. It had to be enough.

She smiled at that thought, and decided she would give him the necklace in the morning.