Raviyani, a full moon celebration in honor of the goddess Ravi, was coming up in three days. For more than a week, the entire kha'gan had been busy with preparations for the event. Life in the White Desert revolved around Ravi and Raviyani, and every chore and activity were carefully scheduled to avoid interfering with prayer time when the moon rises. Resources were put on reserve for Raviyani every month. Here, it wasn't uncommon for families to starve themselves for weeks to make sure they had enough food to go around on this single night.

Having been taken away from the White Desert as a child, Hasheem couldn't remember a single moment of how it had been celebrated in his own kha'gan, and he found himself watching the scale of preparation involved for the event in complete awe and bewilderment. The kha'a and Nazir had been bombarded with so many requests and questions that they were being forced to make decisions even at meal times, and on a busy day, the lines of people waiting to see them wrapped themselves twice over around their tents.

The main camp, usually well spaced and quiet, was now tightly packed with supplies and people preparing for the feast and the entertainment. Women occupied themselves with making food and new clothes for the special evening while the men worked on setting up the fighting pit and clearing the space for the entire kha'gan to come together. On the training ground, warriors in gray gathered in the largest number Hasheem had ever seen to prepare for the duels and games that would be the main events of the celebration. New White Warriors, he'd been told, were given their zikhs on this night, and marriages were proposed and accepted—or declined—only on Raviyani.

But the heart of the evening, the event that made it the busiest, most exciting and highly anticipated celebration in the White Desert were the games. There would be competitions in (but not limited to) archery, wrestling, swordsmanship, horseback riding, hand to hand combat, and other forms of fighting that differed from kha'gan to kha'gan. The zikh-clad champions with the most wins for each year were then sent to compete in the Dyal—the biggest annual competition held in Citara. To the Shakshis, being a Dyal champion was the highest honor a White Warrior could ever have. It could make one a khumar, a council member, or for the very least elevate one's family to elite status in the kha'gan. The warriors, both White and Grays, trained for these competitions like their lives depended on it, and practice duels ran nonstop for the whole day on the week leading to Raviyani.

Which was, unfortunately, one reason why Hasheem found himself in the ring later that day, crossing swords with the one man he'd been trying his best to avoid for the past three weeks.

Zozi izr Zahan, firstborn son of the chief of the southern camp and right hand man of the kha'a, was considered one of the most promising young men in the kha'gan. Just one year older than Hasheem, Zozi had been an undefeated champion in most duels held on Raviyani among the Gray Warriors for two seasons to date and had even been allowed to join the kha'a's council when possible. His father, Zahan izr Abari, being one of the most influential figures on the council, had not been subtle about securing the future of his son as soon as he had a chance to be trained in kha'gan politics. From everyone's unspoken understanding, Zozi was the best candidate for the position of khumar should Nazir fail to father a son, or should an untimely death find him before he could. Becoming the next khumar, however, required both the votes from the chiefs and for Nazir to name him his successor. In short, he desperately needed to be in Nazir's favor and hadn't been shy in its acquisition.

All this shouldn't have had anything to do with Hasheem had Zozi considered the fact that he was an orphan with no family they could execute and therefore excluded from the possibility of ever earning a zikh, which, in turn, made him no competition in any way one chose to look at it. But the fact that he dined at the kha'a's table at every meal and shared every lesson with Djari seemed to draw enough attention to launch him as a pebble in Zozi's shoe, which resulted in a number of unfortunate, life-threatening events finding their ways into Hasheem's schedule for the past three weeks.

While having his saddle strap cut half way just before a race or his quiver replaced with defective arrows were considered child play compared to what he'd been through in the Tower and Sabha, one thing history had taught him was that petty insults could always escalate into being stabbed in the heart while one was asleep. Consequently, Hasheem had made it a priority to avoid Zozi like his life depended on it, including removing himself from all the places where they might meet and rearranging his plans to make sure they didn't run into each other.

That morning, thanks to Nazir who'd decided out of the blue to express an interest in seeing him engage in a duel with Zozi, Hasheem had been given no choice but to comply. One didn't say no to a khumar, not in front of his people, not here in the White Desert and expect to walk out with one's tongue intact.

And so Hasheem stood watching Zozi izr Zahan draw his double blades out of their scabbards, wondering whether he would actually live to experience his first Raviyani as an adult if he so much as gave the man a scratch.

Luckily for him, giving his opponent a scratch happened to be more of a challenge than not to.

Zozi izr Zahan was a remarkable fighter, more so and on an entirely different level than the impeccably trained highborns and princes of the Black Tower. His footwork was ridiculously light, his offense well-placed and proficient, and the tactics were considered difficult to read and evade. Zozi trained with two blades, and they moved at the speed that was twice as quick as the other Grays wielding just one.

Those blades weren't light either, Hasheem realized, wincing at the bone-shattering impact climbing up his forearm every time he had to block an attack. In less than ten engagements, his right shoulder was beginning to feel numb from receiving so many consecutive blows. Hasheem knew it wouldn't be long before he got himself cut by one or both of those blades, and from the looks of it, he was pretty sure Zozi had intended every wound he might cause to be embarrassingly deep and possibly fatal. He was going to have to do something soon before he found himself being stitched up by Djari again, which wasn't a pleasant thought given past experience.

Taking a few steps back to give himself room, Hasheem gripped harder on the hilt of his sword and decided to launch his own attack for the first time that morning. In response, Zozi's fluid and precisely calculated footwork allowed him to slip away from the path of his blade so brilliantly that he had to inwardly commend the man. Soon after, and with no surprise, he was knocked off his feet and lying on his back, staring at the tip of Zozi's blade from the ground.

The crowd cheered as he pushed himself up, and Zozi turned a full circle to take in his accomplishment. His gaze swept over the crowd, noting and remembering every face that failed to acknowledge his achievement, coming to a pause at Nazir who stood there with his usual, unimpressed, I-know-something-you-don't expression. To make the matter worse, the khumar, who happened to be the one man Zozi needed to impress the most, was looking, instead, not at him, but at his sister's overprivileged sworn sword. It definitely didn't go unnoticed, judging from the way Zozi was already staring daggers at him when Nazir offered a hand to pull him up from the ground.

"Thank you," Hasheem said, brushing the sand off his tunic before turning to Zozi and inclined his head in a show of respect. It wasn't acknowledged, not in the way he traditionally did with other opponents. His eyes were fixed on Nazir in the same way a jealous wife would have glared at a cheating husband, and Hasheem, being the center of the khumar's attention, had a vision of himself as the mistress that got stuck in the middle. Fucking marvelous.

"It was a good effort." Nazir smiled and nodded, not bothering to take even a glance at Zozi who was still waiting to be noticed. "But you just cost me two silvers."

Hasheem sighed at that. One of these days, he was going to die from Nazir's choice of placing bets. "He's too good a fighter. I could have told you before you put coins on it."

"Is that so?" The grin on Nazir's face was an unsettling one, and the tone he used had so many hidden meanings that Hasheem didn't even want to start guessing. He hadn't engaged in many conversations with the khumar since the night he'd sworn his oath. Nazir had been keeping his distance, watching him from the corner of his eyes as if he hadn't decided yet what to do with this new addition to the kha'gan.

Or had simply been taking time to measure him for something. It was possible. Anything was possible with Nazir izr Za'in.

"Come," Nazir's eyes flickered past his shoulder as he said, "before Nakia brings you water. She's already halfway here. That girl will cause more problems for you than winning a duel."

Resisting the urge to turn around and look, Hasheem took the advice and let Nazir lead him out of the training ground. "Why her?" he asked when they were out of earshot of the crowd.

"She's the Chief of Treasury's daughter. Her father's vote is the most influential among my father's council members. Long story short, Zozi needs to marry her if he wants to be named the next khumar," Nazir explained without slowing down the pace, as if to make sure no one would overhear them talking about the subject, "and she intends to bed you before this Raviyani is over."

That, Hasheem swore inwardly, would be a problem. A big problem. He parted his lips to ask how Nazir had found out about her rather personal motives, and decided it could be seen as overstepping his boundary and closed them.

That much, apparently, had been enough to draw attention from the khumar.

"You want to know how I came by that information."

Hasheem sighed. Fucking oracles. "If you don't mind me asking."

Nazir gave him a sidelong glance, one that ventured a little too deep than he was comfortable with. "You're not the only one with access to the woman's circle," he said, "and had you been more involved with things around here, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

The chastising of his ignorance had been subtle, but obvious. "I wasn't aware my involvement was required." The only reason he'd survived Sabha and the Black Tower had been because of a deliberate decision to not get involved beyond what had been deemed necessary. Invisibility had its uses when it came to self-preservation, that much was common knowledge in Rasharwi.

It didn't sit well with the khumar, however. "You are Djari's sworn sword. What you do reflect on her reputation, mine and my father's who've put you here, and subsequently the wellbeing of this kha'gan. Which brings me to the question," he said, turning to face Hasheem, "What happened last night?"

Hunting down oracles, Hasheem thought, had to be the most intelligent decision Salar Muradi had ever made in his life if this was the extent of their awareness. "I don't —"

Nazir raised a hand to stop him. "Before you insult me with your ignorance, understand that I've been taking care of Djari since she was ten. Something has changed. What did you do?"

For all his subtlety, Nazir could be damningly blunt when he wanted to be. It occurred to Hasheem then, why he'd been singled out that morning, and also the fact that he wouldn't be able to get away with denying it or by changing the subject.

Then again, one couldn't survive the Black Tower without acquiring certain skills to escape from a pit full of vipers. "With all due respect, Nazir khumar," he said formally, lowering his head a little, "I am, as you say, Djari's sworn sword and blood, and as such my position demands discretion when it comes to her. It isn't a question I can answer without her permission, as much as I want to. "

The smile that came from Nazir wasn't one from a man who'd been pleasantly surprised, but one from someone who'd been right and was enjoying it immensely. "An answer befitting an apprentice of Deo di Amarra," he said. "A pity for someone who insists on being invisible. Do give my regards to your mentor when you see him again."

Hasheem swallowed at that name. A man of Dee's reputation was widely known in the peninsula, but the fact that he'd been an apprentice couldn't be common knowledge or he would have been dead already. How much exactly did this man know about his past?

Or the future?

"If," Hasheem replied, watching Nazir's reaction carefully, "I see him again."

Nazir smiled, made a point to not offer an opinion on that. "Meet me at the stable before dusk. I'm having dinner with the chief of the northern camp. You're coming with me," said Nazir before turning to walk away.

Hasheem sighed heavily at that. It didn't leave a lot of room for objection, not that one could say no to a khumar's direct command, especially if said khumar happened to know all your secrets. He'd given up trying to think about what Nazir was planning to do with him for some time. You couldn't do that and hope to be right, unless you knew what he knew.

Go west, Dee had said. He might have pissed off his mentor one too many times, but surely this was going a bit far where payback was concerned.