AN: An early update this week, because I won't be available to do it tomorrow.
o.o.o
Things are a little tense between them as they make camp that night. Dastan watches Tamina like a hawk, wondering if she's going to run off on a suicide mission at some point, until she grumbles "I am sorry I told you anything!" and he forces himself to behave normally. He has not given up on talking her out of this idea, but it can wait until they have the dagger back in hand and he's come up with a convincing alternative for keeping it safe.
In the morning they ride hard until midday, finally catching sight of the rear sentry of the princes' troops. The soldier recognizes Dastan and Tamina and waves them on past, and in a moment they have caught up with the group, currently watering their horses at an oasis. Tus looks up and smiles bright and relieved as Dastan dismounts and a groom leads his horse away.
"Brother!" he exclaims, pulling Dastan into a tight embrace. "We'd gotten quite worried about you," he confesses. "Two whole days to find us again? We thought of sending out a search party, but, well . . ."
"Reaching Father was more important," Dastan says firmly, glancing over to confirm that a groom is helping Tamina off her horse.
Tus's sharp eyes catch the edge of the bandage peeking out from the sleeve of Dastan's coat. "Some misadventure on the journey?" he guesses.
"Hassansins," Dastan confirms grimly. "Ambushed us while we slept. We barely escaped with our lives."
Tus appears to accept that as the reason it took them so long to catch up. "And my new sister-in-law!" he says kindly as Tamina approaches them. "I am pleased to see you have come through the Hassansin attack unharmed."
Dastan looks over and is surprised to see the Tamina he has come to know over the last few days completely vanished; in her place is the Tamina he met first, with her mouth set in a grim line and disdain flashing in her eyes. "Prince Tus," she says flatly, just on the near side of politeness, and Tus shoots an apprehensive glance at Dastan, clearly wondering at the reason behind the cold reception.
Dastan stares at her, then winces as the memory comes back to him. "Tamina has spies all over Alamut," he murmurs to Tus when his wife is distracted by a groom approaching her with a full water skin. "She . . . knows you told me to kill her if you couldn't marry her."
Tus flinches, looking appropriately embarrassed. "Princess Tamina," he says formally, "I believe I owe you an apology. What I told Dastan—that was when you were an enemy of Persia—"
"That was when you suspected me of being an enemy of Persia," she reminds him, her voice tight, and it is amazing how commanding and regal she can appear even when her face is sweaty and dirty and she's dressed in tattered traveler's clothing. "A suspicion that had little real evidence behind it and has since been proven entirely false. A wise prince would have waited to have undeniable proof before he proposed the drastic step of assassinating a fellow monarch." She stares him down a moment, and Dastan is fiercely grateful not to be on the receiving end of that implacable, disapproving look. "If this is a preview of the kind of king you will prove to be, I fear the future awaiting all of us connected to the Persian empire."
She turns on her heel and makes her way to the spring to wash up, and Tus looks over at Dastan, looking as thoroughly chastised as Dastan has ever seen him. Dastan can only shrug awkwardly, because he has to admit, Tamina's right. They were all hasty in their judgment of her, and of Alamut, and he's ashamed now to look back on their behavior.
Luckily Garsiv appears then to distract the both of them from their embarrassment. "Little brother!" he says, cheerfully punching Dastan in the shoulder. "I'd begun to think you were dead. Nice to see you're not; I'm not in the mood to get dressed up for a funeral just now."
Dastan's answering smile is prompted partly by the joke and partly by the pleasure of being greeted so warmly by his brother. "You think I couldn't handle a few Hassansins?" he chuckles.
Garsiv shrugs. "I was actually afraid that woman would try to kill you."
"Who says I didn't?" comes Tamina's voice, and Dastan can't help grinning as he turns to her, remembering their wedding night when she tried to do that very thing.
Immediately Tus looks uncomfortable again. "Princess, I do apologize for my brother—"
"Don't," she says, taking her place in the circle of princes. "He's honest about how he feels. It's refreshing, really." Garsiv examines her through narrowed eyes, clearly trying to decide what she means by that. She ignores him.
"So what's our next move?" Dastan asks, and Tus responds by calling over a few captains for an impromptu war council.
The small group sits on a rug that's been spread under the shade of a tree, and Dastan notices with amusement that Tamina doesn't wait to be invited; she simply sits next to him as though she's always been a part of their inner circle.
"How far to Alamut, would you say?" she begins.
"Three hours with fresh horses," says Tus promptly.
Garsiv adds, "With our horses, more like four."
She nods, her brow furrowed in thought. "Dastan and I will not be able to just walk into the city, being fugitives as we are," she points out. "And we won't get anywhere near the king; Tus and Garsiv must be the ones to approach him. And Dastan and I shall need to disguise ourselves."
Dastan nods, but even as he does he notices some of the captains exchanging looks and muttering to each other. "Something to say, Dalir?" he asks pointedly.
Dalir is a great officer, but there's a reason he'll never be a diplomat. "Just wondering why she's here," he says bluntly. "And why you lot are taking orders from a woman."
Garsiv smirks, Tus grimaces, Tamina glares, but it's Dastan who speaks first. "Because she's the monarch of Alamut, and this concerns her as closely as it does us," he says firmly. "And you will afford her the same respect you'd give any allied foreign king, if you expect to keep your post."
That shuts Dalir up. Garsiv looks between Tamina and Dastan a few times, then exchanges a knowing look with Tus.
Tamina, on the other hand, takes it all in stride and continues as though there'd never been an interruption. "I have an idea for sneaking us in. Persian soldiers will no doubt be watching all the gates and examining all incoming travelers," she points out. "So we can't look like just any travelers."
"What is your suggestion, princess?" asks Tus earnestly, and Dastan smothers a smile at how hard his brother is trying to get into Tamina's good graces.
She smiles. "No one will be checking on your cavalry," she says. "Can anyone spare their armor?" And the three princess, seeing the cleverness of her plan, exchange grins.
It's decided that two cavalry riders will give up their armor—including their face-obscuring helmets—to Dastan and Tamina; those two soldiers will pose as grooms as the cavalry enters Alamut, and the fugitive prince and princess will ride in disguise. "Then we'll find Nizam," Dastan says. "If he's with our father, we'll all go to confront them, Tamina and I still disguised. If he's not, Tus and Garsiv will find him to warn him, and Tamina and I will seek out our uncle."
"Nizam may be dangerous," Garsiv points out. "I should be with you."
"You should be with the king," Tamina responds. "Of your brothers, you are the superior warrior, and should be used for your most important task, defending King Sharaman." Garsiv looks surprised and gratified, and says no more, clearly not seeing that Tamina has just manipulated his vanity to achieve her own ends.
"And since Tamina and I will have a harder time getting near Father, it makes sense that we be the ones to go after Nizam," says Dastan. "Besides, she knows the city better than any of us, and she'll have friends and spies in the palace who can give us information."
"True," concedes Garsiv.
Dastan continues, "Our uncle isn't much of a fighter anymore; I'll subdue him and bring him to our father."
"But you'll take some soldiers," says Tus firmly. "In case those Hassansins show up."
Dastan and Tamina exchange a look, and he knows exactly what she's thinking: they'll have to ditch those soldiers before they confront Nizam. But they can't say anything of the sort, so Tamina simply says, "Very wise."
Their plan in place, the council disperses to take advantage of the rest of their break. One of the captains undertakes the task of finding two soldiers whose armor will fit Dastan and Tamina, and Tamina herself goes to try to catch a few minutes of sleep. Dastan uses the time to go to the spring to drink and wash his arms and face a little. He's soon interrupted by the approach of his brothers and a medic they've brought along. "We thought you might like to have that arm properly looked at," Tus says.
Dastan agrees, and the medic unwraps Tamina's makeshift bandage and starts examining the wounds arrayed up and down his arm; there are more of them than Dastan realized, and he makes a face as he looks at it.
"Did you bandage that yourself?" Tus asks. "You never had much interest in battlefield medicine. More inclined to just keep fighting and hope for the best."
"Tamina insisted," Dastan says, a little distracted by the pain of the medic prodding at his arm—but not so distracted as to not notice his brothers exchanging looks again. "What?"
"Nothing!" Tus says with a smile. "It's just nice to see you so . . . content. You know, domestically."
Garsiv is more blunt. "I never thought I'd see the Lion of Persia reduced to a little kitty cat," he smirks.
"I am not—"
"Please, Dastan, we all saw you two together back there—exchanging meaningful looks and practically finishing each other's sentences. I was right; Tamina has you wrapped around her finger."
"Garsiv's just jealous that neither of his wives have the mind or the inclination to join him in a war council," Tus chuckles, and Garsiv rolls his eyes in agreement.
"Can you imagine?" he groans.
Tus ignores him. "You have something wonderful and uncommon: an arranged marriage with the potential to turn to genuine affection. It's a blessing to be thankful for, not an embarrassment. No matter what this idiot thinks." And he affectionately punches Garsiv in the shoulder.
Dastan stares at his brothers a long time. He wants to say they have it wrong, that his behavior to her has only been what a man of honor ought to do in his situation, but he's not quite sure that's true. And then he wants to say that it doesn't matter, because Tamina only married him to further her own ends, but that will lead to questions he can't answer. So he simply grumbles, "You're both idiots."
"But we're right," says Tus with a smile.
"You don't even like her," Dastan points out to Garsiv. "Or trust her."
"But I trust you," Garsiv says, "and you clearly trust her. So I'm willing to put judgment on hold for a little while." Then he leans in close. "I hope your good sense hasn't been chased away by her womanly wiles. I know what it's like to be newly married, Dastan, but don't let your head be overcome by other—"
"That's enough," says Dastan loudly, rising to his feet. "I am not having this conversation with you." And he leaves to the sound of his brothers' laughter behind him.
o.o.o
Thirty minutes later they are getting ready to leave again. Two sets of armor have been procured, their owners dressed in the simple clothing of the grooms and their horses standing ready for the prince and princess. Dastan puts his on quickly—it's not what he normally wears, but he's familiar enough with it that it's no trick getting all the pieces in place—but Tamina, unused to wearing armor, struggles with hers.
"Need some help?" he grins after watching her turn the breastplate around three or four times, clearly trying to figure out which is the front.
She examines him a long moment, then shrugs. "I suppose I might enjoy having a prince of Persia as my personal servant," she concedes.
He rolls his eyes and smirks as he takes the breastplate from her hands. "You just can't let a chance to put Persia down pass you by, can you?"
"You're right," she says solemnly as he slips the piece over her shoulders. "Choosing such an easy target is beneath me."
He snorts and she smiles, and they're silent a moment as he adjusts how it sits; it's not designed for a woman, and it hangs a little oddly, but it probably won't be noticeable once she has all the other pieces on. And then she adds, "But in the spirit of fairness, I have to admit that certain of you Persians are less deserving of my scorn than others."
"High praise indeed. People will think you've gone soft."
She laughs quietly at that, and his hands grow still against her side, where he's doing up the clasps, as the thought of what the rest of the day might bring fills his mind.
"Dastan?" she prompts quietly, after a few moments of him simply standing there and staring down at the breastplate.
He lifts his gaze to hers. "Depending on how things go, we could have my uncle in chains and the dagger back in your hands by the end of the day," he points out.
"I am earnestly praying that this happens," she agrees.
He hesitates, worrying, wondering, unaccustomed to showing this kind of vulnerability. And then he takes a fortifying breath. "Just promise me something?" he asks.
She tilts her head inquisitively.
"When you get your hands on the dagger—just promise me you'll talk to me before you do anything rash."
She is surprised, he can see by the lift of her eyebrows. And then her expression takes on a thoughtful, curious look. "Why?"
She needs a reason to not just run headlong into killing herself? "I'm a little young to be a widower," he says flatly. "Please?"
She hesitates, examining him a long, quiet moment, and then she nods. "Fine," she says. "I promise."
"Promise what?" says Garsiv, approaching from behind with Tus, and Tamina turns, her face lifting so easily into a practiced smile that Dastan can't help being impressed.
"I promised not to tell his brothers how nervous he was on our wedding day," she lies smoothly, turning it into a joke. "And how he couldn't even make eye contact with me during the wedding feast. So please don't ask; I'm sworn to secrecy."
"I assumed you didn't want to look at me," Dastan grumbles, and Garsiv and Tus both laugh and the original question is forgotten.
It prompts a new one, though, as Dastan buckles on Tamina's vambraces. "You never did tell us," Garsiv points out, "why she's here." It seems he hasn't gotten out of his habit of addressing Dastan and ignoring Tamina; Dastan's not sure whether it's because she's a woman or because it's this particular woman.
Tus, however, appears to be trying harder to be polite to her. "If you don't mind us asking, princess."
Dastan can see from the subtle shift of her expression that she's noticed how Tus changed the conversation to include her, and appreciates it. "It was an Alamutian robe that would have killed your father," she points out. "I feared that I would be accused of being part of the conspiracy." She hesitates. "And I never believed in Dastan's guilt. His horror at the accusation was too heartfelt to be feigned."
He wonders if that's true; she's so determined to protect the dagger that he assumes she would have followed him into the desert even if she had believed him a murderer. The thought amuses him a little; that mix of bravery and foolhardiness makes her rather a good match for him, actually.
Soon they're on their way to Alamut, and Dastan basks in the comfort and security of traveling once again with soldiers; for the first time in a few days, he can actually relax, knowing that if something were to occur, he wouldn't have to handle it all by himself. The cavalry is trained to move quickly, and they catch sight of Alamut some five or six hours before sundown. The group stops for a moment so Garsiv can say something to his sentries, and as they wait, Dastan glances over at Tamina beside him to see that her shoulders are slumping in what he's certain is relief.
"Pleased to be home?" he grins.
"I don't know if the city has ever looked more beautiful," she says fervently.
"Ah," he says, "but you should have seen it before my hordes of camel-riding illiterates descended upon it."
She laughs aloud at that, a surprised, pleased sound, and he notices that a lock of her hair has come loose from where it's braided and tucked up under helmet. "You've got a—never mind, let me." He maneuvers his horse a little closer and carefully tucks the hair back into place. She watches him quietly, but with the helmet obscuring so much of her face, he can't read her expression.
"That's . . . done, then," he says, suddenly embarrassed to realize how cozy and intimate that must have appeared.
Tamina watches him silently a moment longer, then turns her gaze back to the city. "I don't know that I've ever thanked you," she says in that formal tone she seems to default to when she feels vulnerable. "In your decision to help me, and not to keep—" she glances around to see who may be overhearing— "a certain item for yourself, you have done Alamut a great service, and shown yourself to be a man of honor."
"Ah," he grins, "so it turns out I'm not 'brutal and without honor' after all?"
"It's very rare," she says loftily, but with amusement in her voice, "but I have been wrong once or twice in my life. It seems that was one of the occasions." Perhaps her eyes have fallen on the repair crews just visible on certain parts of the wall, because she adds, "Even if you did breach the walls of my city."
His eyes find the section of wall that he scaled in a battle that happened less than two weeks ago but feels like more like a century or two in the past. So much has happened since then; the world that he understood and relied on has been blasted apart and then slowly rebuilt, brick by brick, into something new and strange and bittersweet and strong. "Well, I'm starting to think that I'm no longer the same man who breached those walls."
She glances over at him. "That's a short time for a man to change so much." He can hear the smile in her voice.
He shrugs. "Perhaps. But I'm learning that time's a little more fluid than I realized."
She smiles at that, then falls a silent a moment. "Well, this new man you've become . . . I'm pleased he's on my side."
He smiles, but before he can respond, a shout comes from the front of the group: it's time to move on.
o.o.o