Jinkiri

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Issmaran

“Please try and smile.”

Issmaran would do no such thing as she sat silently in her chair, fuming. Every so often, her hands would quickly cross and uncross in a fit of rage. Her brows were knit, and the scowl on her beauteous face deepened the more she thought about her situation.

“It won’t be so bad, at least you’re going to marry a prince!” Brinat said, trying to remain positive, but Issmaran was in no mood for her optimism. Her elder sister swiveled in the chair and shot her a glare that was as sharp as any dagger.

“Oh, for the love of Tesua, will you please shut up? You’re not the one who has to do it!” Issmaran’s yell echoed across the spacious but rather empty tent. Brinat’s fool-hearted words wouldn’t save her from what was to come.

Issmaran rarely spoke in such a heated tone. Perhaps it was the damp, sticky heat of the Raahas desert that was getting to her, or long hidden animosity was finally boiling over? Still, whatever it was, Brinat decided it was best to remain silent. The slender girl quietly returned to brushing her sister's long, lustrous, straight hair. Brinat had always been jealous of it.

It grew with an ease that her own hair couldn’t mimic. It was the first thing anyone noticed about Issmaran besides her beauty, which their father often compared to a gleaming jewel. Like a lush waterfall, it descended from Issmaran’s scalp and cascaded well past her shoulders. In the sunlight, it shone like a crystal and attracted lustful compliments from many a man. The men would never dare blurt their thoughts aloud in Issmaran’s presence, but Brinat heard their chatterings when she strolled through town.

“Brinat I’m - ” Issmaran started to say after a long period of silence, but was cut off as her sister suddenly stopped brushing.

“It’s okay,” Brinat said simply. She knew Issmaran’s words before she even spoke them. “What you said was true; I’m not the one who has to do it.” Her tone was solemn, sadness filling her heart as she placed a comforting hand on her elder sister’s shoulder.

Issmaran placed her hand over hers. “I still shouldn’t have snapped at you like that,” she sighed. Brinat was her closest friend and one of the few people she could truly trust. “I’m just so frustrated by everything.”

“If anyone understands your frustration, it's me. I’m sure you remember all those late-night talks we used to have by the fireside.”

Issmaran’s cheeks flushed at the mention of those talks. When they were children, late at night, they would often sneak out of their parent's tent and bathe under the starlight gossiping about things that were well beyond their years until the sun breached the sky. Issmaran didn’t expect her sister to remember those childish conversations from ages ago.

“Before you could even mount a calf, you thought about marriage.” Brinat let loose a hearty laugh as she began brushing once more. “And every night, the prince you would someday wed would change.”

Issmaran joined in her sister’s laughter as she thought back to those times. Everything had seemed so simple when they were little. At first, an Adwene man had been her ideal choice. Their regal cloth and legendary wealth were enough to make any young girl's heart flutter, but once she’d learned of their betrothal rights, she’d blanched at the idea.

An Otjina man would have been an exotic choice. They were renowned for their hard work and loyalty, but they were a lesser tribe, and her father would not dare allow her to sully his bloodline in such a manner. A Yaadu man could’ve been her equal in beauty, but the whispers of their hedonism and promiscuity from her servants were offputting. Reirei men were said to be masterful musicians, but they were more aloof than an oasis in the desert, according to her mother. But never in her wildest dreams had Issmaran envisioned marrying an Ukuduma man.

“I imagined marrying someone charming and handsome, not brutish and repulsive.” Issmaran cupped her cheeks and sighed longingly; it was just her luck. She was about to express her displeasure once more when Brinat suddenly grabbed a clump of her hair and tugged on it so hard that Issmaran could feel the onset of a headache.

“Ouch!” Was the only word Issmaran could muster as the pain rang through her crown.

“Don’t talk like that. Though we may appear to be alone, wandering ears are never too far from reach, and we both know this from experience. Our brother will not take too kindly to the words you’re speaking.” Brinat slowly loosened her grip and returned to brushing as if nothing had just happened.

Issmaran clenched her teeth angrily but knew her sister was right. Their brother, who had done nothing in his miserable life to deserve that term, had spies everywhere, watching them constantly. Words spoken in their camp, even in the privacy of their individual tents, weren’t truly private. True solitude could only be found deep in the desert, and even then, her brother requested that armed guards follow her. She despised him more and more every day.

“I…I don’t want you to end up like our mother.” Brinat’s voice cracked at the mention of their mother. She rarely spoke of her, and tears swelled in her emerald eyes whenever she did.

“I won’t,” Issmaran said with firm conviction, but deep inside, fear rippled through her heart. “Let’s…try not to think of her.”

“I hear the Ukuduma are bringing one hundred men to the gathering,” Brinat spoke after a while, hoping a change in topic would lighten the mood.

“One hundred men? How can we afford to feed that many people?” Issmaran uttered in disbelief. Had her brother gone mad? “Our food stocks are already low, and we haven’t been able to find an oasis in weeks.”

“Umotan has to make a good impression on your betrothed. The other tribes, as well as our own people, would speak ill of our brother if he limited the numbers of attendees.” Brinat detested Umotan as much as her sister, but he was their ruler now, and an illusion of power had to be maintained.

“After all the feasting and the celebrations are finished, our people will starve.” Gathering food in the desert was already hard enough for her tribe; extra mouths would set them back for months.

“That won’t happen if your engagement is successful. Remember the reason why you have to do this; you’re our tribe’s most valuable commodity right now.” Brinat hated talking about her sister like her brother did, as if she were crop to be haggled over, but it was true.

The Suki tribe was renowned for their beauty, but even amongst the sea of gorgeous faces that their tribe produced, Issmaran stood out. She was the spitting image of her mother in her youth. She shared her mother’s umber skin tone and her high cheekbones but had a flirtatious smile that could ensnare any man. Her dimples were as deep as a well, and her eyes were the color of copper. From a passing glance, no one would assume that Issmaran and Brinat were related, much less sisters.

Brinat’s skin was like honey but was speckled with white patches that, with no rhyme or reason, covered her entire body. Her body was discolored, and her brother took sickening pleasure in reminding her of that. He had so many cruel names for her, and he always made sure to make her the butt of every joke when he was around. Umotan’s favorite joke was that she would one day turn completely white like the ghosts of the fallen, and the Goddess would no longer be able to see her. Maybe one day, it would actually happen, but Brinat preferred not to dwell on things that were out of her control.

“I’m not a commodity,” Issmaran refuted fiercely. “I’m a person and if father was alive – ”

“But he’s not.” Brinat chided. “Our father is dead and gone.” She made sure to emphasize the finality of his passing.

Issmaran didn’t understand how Brinat could be so dispassionate as she spoke the words. Their father, Dankjanam, had been a wonderful king. Warriors from all the lands had attended his burial, and even his most hated enemies had sent their condolences. Sure, things had changed once he’d taken a second wife, but Issmaran still held her father in high esteem.

“You seem to have gotten over his death rather quickly.” Issmaran huffed as she reclined into the colorful wooden chair. It was twice her size and took two men to carry. It was as comfortable as a thornbush, but it was one of the last remaining relics of her father that she had.

It had been months since Dankjanam had passed. For forty tumultuous years, their father had reigned as the Amenokal of the Suki tribe. He had been their supreme leader and their tribe’s guiding light through wars, droughts, and rebellions. In his younger years, he’d been a great and mighty warrior, with the tales of his exploits spreading across the lands even far beyond Jarin. That’s why his sudden illness had come as a surprise to everyone.

The man who had once ended the Erythrina war almost single-handedly, had withered in a moon cycle. One day he was the vibrant, lively soul that he normally was, and the next, he was bedridden and dependant on his children and servants for everything. The disease robbed him of his joy, and his final moments were spent in excruciating pain. Till this day, Issmaran believed that his death wasn’t natural, but nothing to the contrary could be proven.

“I’m not over father’s death, but what do you want me to do? I can’t sit here and sulk about it; nothing will bring him back. All we can do now is move forward; it’s what he would want.” If there was anything Brinat had learned from her father, it was the impermanence of life.

“I don’t want you to sulk; I want you to act like you give a damn!” Issmaran shouted so loudly that it caused Brinat to wince. “One minute you’re on the verge of tears about mother and the next your acting like father’s passing means nothing. If he were still alive, none of this would’ve happened to us.”

“Neither of us knows that. Father always placed our tribe’s needs ahead of us. Maybe he wouldn’t have done it now, but at some point, he would’ve surely married you off to the suitor with the biggest sack of gold to offer. Unlike you, I’m not a revisionist about what he had become later on in life.” Brinat said bitterly. She clutched the brush in her hand so tight that it would’ve snapped had it not been made of metal.

Issmaran’s portrait of their father was a mirage, and like any mirage, in the desert, it was a dangerous obfuscation of reality. Issmaran clung onto fond youthful memories of their father, memories that Brinat just didn’t have. She was born after Dankjanam had married his second wife, Osasasum. By that point, his male heir, Umotan, had already been born, and Brinat became an afterthought just like his first wife. Brinat wasn’t treated maliciously by her father, but he spent almost no time with her and even less with her mother, Lekaye, unless the Amenokal needed to relieve himself.

“It wasn’t all his fault.” Issmaran said in a voice so low that it was barely above a whisper. Their father had been a complicated man, but there were numerous factors that contributed to his behavior. “That second marriage forced him to change.”

“Our father was not some mere child; he was complicit in everything!” Brinat was indignant. Whenever their father was discussed, Issmaran always seemed to absolve his actions.

“Things aren’t as black and white as you’re making it seem.” Unlike her younger sister, Issamaran had witnessed firsthand how a sense of duty had bound their father’s hands. “If things were different, he would’ve never married Osasasum, but he needed a male heir desperately.”

“And you’re okay with that? You could’ve been a capable queen…..someday.” Admittedly, her elder sister was a bit impulsive, but with proper training and guidance, Isssmaran could’ve been an excellent monarch in the future. But even in a worst-case scenario, she would’ve still been a better ruler than their mercurial half-brother.

“Earlier, you spoke of things being dead and gone and then bring this up?” Issmaran asked incredulously. “You know as well as I do, that a woman can never be the Amenokal again.” Their father would rise from the grave before the Imegharan would allow that.

“ I know the tale,” Brinat grumbled in annoyance. Their mother would recite it to her children every time they got in trouble, warning them of what they might become if left unchecked. “But it’s been five hundred years since Amenokal Tumsilt reigned. How is it fair that one woman ruined the line of succession forever?”

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

In truth, Issmaran had to admit that it wasn’t fair or just. There had been numerous unfit men that had led the tribe as the Amenokal. The avaricious Amenokal, Udad, had hoarded wealth and starved his people for decades until an uprising finally disposed of him. Amenokal Meddur was fond of bedding other’s men’s wives and did so publicly until one of his generals finally had enough and killed him. Her grandfather Amenokal Wagguten II had been a warmonger whose reign had been called the harvest of souls due to the number of Suki tribesmen and women who died during his era.

But their poor leadership wasn’t viewed as a reflection of all men; however, what Tumsilt had done was inconceivable.

“It’s one thing to maltreat a mortal, but to aggrieve our Goddess is blasphemy.” Issmaran closed her eyes and silently muttered a prayer, using her thumbs and index fingers to form the triangle of Tesua, which was said to ward off evil. “Tumsilt attempted to turn us away from our Goddess, a sin which is unforgivable.”

Five hundred years ago, Tumsilt had taken the throne as the Amenokal. From time immemorial, the Suki tribe had been lead by women. Deep in the heart of the Raahas desert, the desert which the Suki still roamed till this day, the legendary queen Zegiga founded their tribe. The Goddess Tesua took Zegiga and her people under her wing, creating a pact that was signed in perpetuity. Zegiga and her people agreed to follow, worship, and serve Tesua for all time, and in exchange, the Goddess gifted them with her Nyama. For thousands of years, the covenant was meticulously followed until Tumsilt was born.

Legend stated that on the night Tumsilt entered the world, the moon bleed. At the time, it was viewed auspiciously, but in hindsight, the moon should have been a foreboding omen. When she came of age, Tumsilt inherited the throne from her mother, Fadhma. Fadhma had reigned prosperously and ushered her people into a golden age of abundance. But Tumsilt undermined all her mother’s achievements and, in a single decade, brought immense ruin to her people.

During her reign, Tumsilt disbanded the Imegharan and stripped them of their power. The men who were supposed to be her advisors were furious and pitched a rebellion that was shortlived. One by one, Tumsilt tore down the seats of power until she was the only voice with authority in the tribe. She upturned society and even went as far as destroying the structures and homes that her mother had built. But her final and most grievous act was attempting to turn her people away from their Goddess.

The Goddess Tesua promptly killed Tumsilt and, thereafter, cursed the title of Amenokal for women.

“What will it take for the Goddess to forgive that misdeed?” Brinat finally asked after some time. Issmaran was leagues more pious than her. Brinat did her nightly prayers and thanked Tesua before and after every meal, but Issmaran would pray with fervor into the wee hours of the night.

“I…I don’t know,” Issmaran answered honestly. “The Goddess rarely speaks to us anymore. Not to the Amenokal, not to the priests, not to the scribes – no one. I pray to her with all the faith in my heart, and rarely does it feel like she answers.”

Brinat was shocked by the confession. Issmaran’s reverence for Tesua was unmatched, and if not her, then who would their Goddess respond to?

“She’ll have to say something, or at the very least, give her blessing when you are wed,” Brinat pointed out. The last time the scribes had documented Tesua speaking was on their father’s wedding day. “You will be marrying into another tribe, and the Goddess must relinquish you.”

Issmaran groaned as Brinat finally finished brushing her hair. All this time, she hadn’t considered the fact that she would be forced to abandon Tesua. “I can’t even imagine serving another God.” She said as the realization began to sink in.

“Which God do they serve again?” Brinat asked as she grabbed the calabash bowl beside her feet and began applying crushed tajalalt flowers to her sister’s hair.

“Dossunnu,” Issmaran replied quickly. “And it would serve you well to remember that name. If you embarrass us in front of the Ukuduma tonight, there will be hell to pay. I need not mention what Umotan will do to you if you do.”

Brinat shuddered as she continued to dab her sister’s hair with the powder. The scars on her back were still fresh from the last time she had affronted her elder brother. Umotan was more prideful than any man she’d ever known. His ego knew no bounds, and even things said in jest were taken to heart. When their father had been alive, he’d kept Umotan in check, but since his passing, the newly crowned Amenokal wasted no opportunity to showcase his power.

“I’ll be careful tonight,” Brinat reassured. It wasn’t like Umotan would allow her to sit at the Amenokal’s table anyways. “But what we really need to be worried about is you and this hair of yours. I’m halfway through with your hair, and I’m already out of tajalalt flowers.” Brinat chuckled as she looked at the suddenly empty calabash bowl in her palm.

Issmaran rolled her eyes at her sister’s silliness but smiled. “It’s no problem; I’ll have the guards fetch us some more of it.” She put her fingers in her mouth, whistled, and as always, her ever-present guards came to her call.

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Hours later, Brinat finally finished applying the powder to Issmaran’s hair. Tajalalt flowers had been scarce at the market today, and when they finally had been found, grinding them into a fine powder had taken laborious work. But, the task was eventually completed, thanks in large part to her guards, who watched her sit idly by as they did it. Brinat had thanked them for their efforts and sent them on their way, returning to finish what she had started. It hadn’t taken her sister long, and before a new conversation could be sparked, Brinat had drenched her hair in the powder.

Tajalalt flowers were a delicacy amongst the women of the Suki tribe. Like most forms of vegetation, tajalalt flowers were rarely found in the desert. Traders from the Garikas made a killing every time they strode into town with new stock. In a crushed, powdery form, women loved to apply tajalalt flowers to scent their hair. The sublime fragrance spiced nostrils and drew lauding remarks wherever it was inhaled.

Brinat had since left, returning to her tent to finish with her own preparations for tonight’s festivities. She’d been less than enthused when she’d pulled back the tent’s large curtains to leave. Rare silence had followed her sister’s absence until two of Issmaran’s guards had suddenly come bursting into her tent, lugging a brand new bathtub. Her old one sat in the far corner of her tent, almost unnoticeable unless one looked for it. Her guards had then handed her a scroll, which she’d scowled at when she’d read it.

The tub was a gift from her betrothed, a symbol of their future union. That’s all she’d read before she’d crumpled the letter and irritatedly stuffed it in her pocket. Romantic words were sweet, but not from a man she’d never love, much less be able to tolerate. Her servants had then shuffled into the tent, and run her a bath, quickly heating the water to a moderate temperature with their Nyama. After discarding her clothes, her servants had helped lower her into the large tub, and until now, it was there that she lay, washing her body.

Her servant Izlan held her hair as she leaned against the rim of the wooden tub. Issmaran could ill afford to get it wet and sully the earlier efforts of her sister. Izlan’s grip was soft and tender as her hair draped over the tub’s lip.

“Are you nervous about tonight?” Izlan asked. Unpleasant silence was gnawing at her bones, and she was never one to hold a question that was burning in her mind.

“No,” Issmaran quickly replied. The tub’s warm water had drifted her thoughts far away from the Raahas desert until Izlan had, unfortunately, snapped her back to reality.

“Of course not, you’re just like your father in that regard.” Izlan smiled, though Issmaran couldn’t see it. The princess hoped that would be the end of the discussion, but again Izlan opened her mouth. “Have you given thought to what your actual wedding day will be like?”

Issmaran dipped her head beneath the water. For better or worse, Izlan was a chatterbox. Rarely did her mouth close, and if it did, it was only for the chewing of food. When they were younger, Umotan had often threatened to put a muzzle on her.

“What woman doesn’t think about her wedding day?” Issmaran scoffed. She tried to keep her responses cut and dry, but still, Izlan persisted.

“I’m sure there will be lots of food, dancing, and of course, gifts.” Izlan’s eyes lit up as she spoke of presents that were sure to be in abundance, and Issamaran had to stifle a groan. It would be impossible to get her to hush now.

Izlan came from a disgraced clan within the Suki tribe. Her father had been an Imegharan who’d attempted to spark a civil war. Even before Dankjanam had fallen ill, there were some members of the ruling council who had questioned his mental state. Izlan’s father had been the most vocal of them, and together with two other Imegharan, they had conspired to overthrow the Amenokal. The plot had ultimately failed, her father had been killed, and his children had been enslaved thereafter.

Izlan’s life had been one of poverty and hardship, and the slightest bit of charity would make her grow wide-eyed.

“An overflow of gifts is one thing we can most definitely be sure of.” The Ukuduma were many vile things, but being cheap wasn’t one of them. “I doubt I’ll want them all. Maybe I’ll let you or Jidji have the ones that I find unappealing.” Issmaran mused, and by this point, she had given up trying to suppress the conversation.

“Oh, I can’t wait for that day!” Izlan was now grinning from ear to ear. “Did you hear that, Jidji?”

Issmaran’s other servant, who was seated on the right side of the tub, looked up and groggily rubbed her eyes. “Yes, of course, that would be wonderful.” Jidji had been as quiet as a mouse since she’d assisted Issmaran into the tub. She smiled, but it was clear that her mind was somewhere else.

Issmaran’s eyes narrowed as she paused to observe the girl. As soon as Jidji had spoken her peace, her head had dropped back down. The tub’s walls were too high for Issmaran to see what she was doing, but from the back and forth swaying of Jidji’s hair, it became apparent what was going on.

“You’re reading?” It was phrased as a question, but Issmaran was stating what she already knew was true.

Jidji looked up and nodded meekly. “I…I’ve been trying to practice what you’ve been teaching me.”

Issmaran couldn’t contain her smile. “That’s wonderful. Are you making progress?”

Jidji chose her words carefully before responding. “Not as much as I would like. It’s hard when the time I can devote to reading is so short.”

Only a few moon cycles ago had Issmaran begun teaching Jidji how to read. They used the shadow of the night to cover their deeds. When Dankjanaman had been alive, he’d wanted to keep the slaves in his house dumb and docile, and Umotan had shared his sentiments. However, Issmaran didn’t view her servants as slaves; they were were kin. So in secret, she taught them how to read, as well as other useful skills that were far above their caste.

But constantly prodding eyes made it almost impossible for lengthy reading sessions.

“Don’t worry, when tonight’s gathering is over; I’ll give you another lesson. My brother won’t be able to refuse anything I ask for tonight. You will be at my bedside.” Besides her guards, Umotan didn’t like anyone being inside or near her tent after nightfall. Issmaran and Izlan had to sneak out into the desert for their lessons. But tonight, Issmaran would invoke her rights in front of the Imegharan, and her brother would have to acquiesce her demands.

“Do you think it will really be that easy?” Jidji asked with a hint of concern. Her brother was as stubborn as a mule.

“Don’t worry yourself about it; if Issmaran says she will do it, she will do it.” Izlan swiftly cut in, chastising Jidji. Issmaran was a woman of her word, and even if she wasn’t, as slaves, they were in no position to challenge the woman who held their fates in the palm of her hand.

Jidji was suddenly flustered, quickly realizing that she had spoken out of line. Her lips quivered to form an apology, but she was waved off by Issmaran.

“Save your apologies; I don’t mind. I actually appreciate you questioning me.” Izlan and Jidji grew bug-eyed. “You are one of the few people who will openly question my words and actions.” Issmaran excluded her brother from mention for obvious reasons.

“I ….I don’t know what to say,” Jidji stated in shock. She glanced over and, for the first time in her life, saw that Izlan was at a loss for words.

“I will miss you, the both of you, dearly, when I am finally married.” Issmaran drew a long breath. She splashed her foot in the soapy water, trying to take her mind off it, but it was of no use.

“I wish I could go with you.”

“So do I.”

Issmaran could hear the despair in their voices. What would become of them without her presence? She’d asked Brinat to take custody of them, but it was doubtful that Umotan would allow that. In all likelihood, Jidji and Izlan would be sold to the highest bidder, and only Tesua knew how they would be treated. She wanted to take them with her, but like her father, tradition had bound her hand.

“All we can do is savor the time that we have left together.” Issmaran finally said. Her throat ached as the words left her mouth, but it was all she could do.

“Assuming things go well with the Ukuduma tonight, which I’m sure they will, your wedding won’t happen for at least another month.” Jidji did the calculations in her mind. Numerous invitations would have to get sent, and the preparations alone would take at least two weeks. For now, they still had time.

“But you forget one thing,” Izlan said, with a frown on her face.

“What?” Issmaran and Jidji asked in unison.

“The Nksoana, Nqobani, is an impatient young man.” Izlan’s face was wrought with worry. The slaves who had been a part of Umotan’s caravan to deliver the marriage proposal to the Ukuduma had spoken poorly about the Nkosana’s temperament.

Issmaran palmed her forehead. How could she have forgotten? She had yet to meet the prince who she was betrothed to, but all word about him was negative. She was dreading their meeting more and more by the second.

Jidji saw the anguished look on Issmaran’s face and tried to brighten her mood. “Time has proven your quality as a teacher. If you can teach us, lowly slaves, how to better ourselves, what more of a prince?” She finished her sentence with a smile.

Issmaran reciprocated Jidji’s smile. Truthfully she loathed the notion that she would have to become a blacksmith and hammer out her future husband’s bad qualities, but she bit her tongue.

“You’re right.” She said simply. Jidji's words were meant a compliment, and she would take them as such. “But enough of that. This water has gotten cold and stale. If I remain in here any longer, I will shrivel into a date.” Issmaran beckoned for her servants, and they rose quickly, lifting her out of the tub.

Izlan grabbed a towel and began wiping the dripping water off Issmaran’s body. After she was done, Jidji grabbed a calabash bowl full of palm oil from a nearby table to moisturize her skin. Jidji had barely rubbed the oil into her palm when a disturbance outside the tent drew everyone’s attention.

“I don’t care what she’s doing; call her for me….now!” An angry voice yelled from a short distance in front of Issmaran’s tent.

“Nkosana, I cannot do that. She is still making preparations for the evening, and it would be against our traditions for you to see her before it is time.” Issmaran’s ears perked up. The gruff voice sounded like her guard, Gwafa.

“I don’t care for your traditions or your rituals. I will piss on them and on you if you don’t bring her to me this immediately!” The angry voice grew even louder, practically hollering now, and Issmaran grew deeply concerned. She wrapped the towel around herself tightly and began marching towards the door.

Jidji and Izlan pleaded for Issmaran not to go, afraid of the possible threat behind her tent’s entrance, but she ignored them. She was halfway there when Gwafa suddenly came stumbling into her tent. Under normal circumstances, she would’ve berated him for rushing into her tent without knocking, and for viewing her body without its full complement of clothing, but the look in his eyes was already a fearful one. Behind his orange tagelmust, his dark brown eyes were quaking.

“What is it?” Issmaran asked, but Gwafa didn’t respond. Her guard's words seemed to be stuck in his throat, and all he could do was point towards the door. She walked towards it, disregarding Jidji and Izlan’s cries behind her, and pulled the tent’s curtains back. The frigid air of the desert night hit her, along with the sharp glare of a man who she instantly recognized.

“Nqobani.”