Winter Joys and Sacrifices

Zahir was so swept up in the emotional turmoil that Joren's trial entailed that, before he was aware of what was happening, the golden, bronze, russet, orange, yellow, and crimson leaves of autumn had fallen from their trees, so that the abandoned, barren tree limbs stretched toward the pewter sky like the imploring arms of emaciated corpses after the sacking of an opulent city.

The air outside became steadily chillier, and the palace draftier. As a result, Zahir was immensely grateful for the roaring fires blazing in the hearths throughout the royal quarters. Every morning, as December's frigidity overtook the milder cold of November, a frost coated the windows and the grounds. Then, a week into December, the castle awoke after a dark, freezing night to find its turrets dripping with icicles, its practice courts blanketed with snow, and the stone paths crisscrossing its grounds shimmering with a fresh, treacherous layer of ice.

Following that first snow storm, Corus was battered with a series of blizzards. This fact delighted northerners, who were quite prone to exclaiming to one another during polite small talk about the weather that it would be lovely to have a white week for Midwinter.

Unfortunately, Zahir did not share the enthusiasm of the northerners. The icy weather made his skin break out in goosebumps, caused his teeth to shatter, and made his bones ache as though he were a tribe elder rather than a young man. As far as he was concerned, the snow might look beautiful when it first fell and had yet to be tainted by dirt or animal droppings, but it wasn't worth the biting cold, vicious winds, and slippery ice.

No wonder northerners were forced to build such hideous castles to live in, Zahir grumbled inwardly as he skidded up a stone pathway coated with black ice on his way back up to the palace from a visit to the stables to tend to Sufia on the first morning of Midwinter. Being a nomad in this sort of climate would have been impossible, given all the horrible snow and ice that had to be contended with during the winter months.

Traveling to and from the stables was an arduous journey for him, and he was in the prime of his youth. That meant that moving long distances on horseback across the realm would be practically unfathomable until spring, when the snow and ice obstructing the roads would melt into mud, which was just a tad easier to travel through. This, in turn, meant that Zahir could safely bet that he wouldn't be receiving any letters on how his tribe was faring until springtime.

He was astonished, therefore, when, as he returned to his bedroom, his knightmaster called to him, "I have a note for you from your brother-in-law."

"You have a letter for me from Hassan, Your Majesty?" repeated Zahir, his eyes widening as he stepped into the parlor, where the king was reading a mountain of greeting cards that had been sent to him in honor of the holiday.

"That's what I said." Grinning, King Jonathan tucked a somewhat wrinkled envelope into his squire's hand. "The messenger who delivered it must have been busy enough to confuse it with a greeting card for me, as if my wife and I needed more greeting cards. We could fuel all the fires in the palace for a month with all these greeting cards, but, naturally, that would be in poor taste, so we will never do so. We will just continue to have wistful daydreams about doing so."

Utterly unconcerned about his knightmaster's greeting card woes, Zahir remarked, as he slit open the envelope containing Hassan's note, "Apparently, sire, you weren't bewildered, though, because the envelope hadn't been opened before you gave the letter to me."

"Well, I checked the address before opening." The king chuckled. "Truth be told, I'm eager for any excuse not to read all these greeting cards, which, really, are nothing more than opportunities for nobles and merchants to toady up to the Crown. Your brother-in-law's note will probably have more substance than all of these greeting cards combined."

"It would be logical if messengers could read addresses, so that they could deliver letters to the right people," muttered Zahir. "Of course, since it is sensible, Your Majesty, that is exactly why it will never be done."

"A right little ray of sunshine, you are," King Jonathan observed dryly, but Zahir, who was too preoccupied with reading Hassan's report, ignored him.

"Hassan says that the sheep slaughter went well this year, sire. As usual, several marriages took place before the slaughter, when there are plenty of rams to serve as part of dowries. Jasim ibn Noori was wed to Sairah bint Ihsan, Qani ibn Kasim married Nafla bint Jahfar, and Bashaar ibn Maqil married Khudra bint Umayr," Zahir updated his knightmaster as he scanned Hassan's letter. "Other than that, not much has changed since I left the desert."

As Zahir returned the note to the envelope, a smaller piece of parchment fell out of it. His forehead knotting in mild puzzlement, he unfolded the parchment to read in his older sister's neat, careful script:

My dear brother,

I hope that this letter finds you well. I have the most wonderful news, and Hassan agrees that I should be the one to tell you it. As you know, when you last visited the desert, I was pregnant. Yesterday, I gave birth. Hassan and I are now the happy parents of a twin boy and girl. Your nephew came into the world first, bawling and crimson-faced. An hour later, his sister followed silently, and she didn't cry until Mother slapped her bottom to drive out the birth fluids clogging her lungs.

Your niece has been named Amaya. When Hassan first suggested the name, I admit that I thought it unusual, but I have come to love the sound of it. It has a soothing, rhythmic quality like the night rain that patters against our tent after a sweltering day, and so conjures images in my mind of the blessed rain her name refers to.

As for your nephew, he has been named Taymur after Hassan's father. I only hope that Taymur can live up to his name by being as brave and as strong as his grandfather before him was.

Both Amaya and Taymur are simply adorable. The two of them were born with soft tufts of jet black hair on their heads and smooth olive skin. Right now, their eyes are a dark blue, but Mother says that their eyes will turn obsidian once they are a little older, and that all babies are born with blue eyes. Taymur has a strong, proud nose that reminds me of yours and Father's, but Amaya has a cute button nose that looks just like Mother's.

They can only suckle and cry now, but I imagine that by the time that you receive this letter, they will be able to coo and hold onto my finger or Hassan's.

Every time I look at Amaya, I can picture myself laughing with her as I teach her how to sew, to cook, and to keep a tent clean. My heart swells with joy as I imagine myself witnessing the thousands of little triumphs that will be milestones on her journey to womanhood.

Whenever I hold Taymur, I can't help but think about for how short a time he will be in my arms. Soon, he will be learning to walk, clinging onto my fingertips as he waddles along. Then, he will be learning how to ride, fight, and herd sheep with his father. Tears fill my eyes as I envision him developing into a man as strong and as noble as Hassan or you.

I know that your duties keep you busy in the north, brother, and I would never want you to abandon any of your responsibilities for my sake, but I would be overjoyed if you could find the time to visit us in the desert. It would be wonderful if Amaya and Taymur had their uncle around to make funny faces at them when they are babies, and to tell them stories and jokes when they are older. I am sure that they will love you, and that you will be just as fond of them. Children grow so quickly, and I really do hope that your duties don't force you to miss too much of watching your niece and nephew develop.

Rest assured that you are forever in my heart, in my thoughts, and in my prayers.

Love always,

Laila

"Laila gave birth to twins—a boy named Taymur and a girl called Amaya." Zahir broke into the wide beam of a man whose greatest dream had come true at last. "I'll be able to hold them and bounce them on my knee when they are little. When they're bigger, I'll help teach them to ride and sneak them treats. They'll love me, and I'll love them, Your Majesty."

"It's a pity, Squire, that you are probably convinced that raising children is a woman's work." The king smiled, as well, his cerulean eyes sparkling. "You seem to love children more than you realize, and I don't doubt that you would make a great father."

"Raising children isn't just a woman's work, sire," scoffed Zahir, flushing to the roots of his black hair. "A man who neglects his children is at least as much of a scumbag as the man who abandons his wife. Fathers, who are naturally sterner, are needed to discipline children when they are naughty, just as mothers, who are by nature more sympathetic, are needed to comfort them when they are hurt. Sons, in particular, need their fathers to teach them how to ride, how to herd, how to fight, and how to be a man. I'll always be indebted to my father for teaching me those things."

"Of course." His knightmaster nodded, even though Zahir could see that the man disagreed with this assessment. "Anyway, Zahir, it is fortunate that your uncle sent you a letter, because now there is a note for me to give you with my Midwinter gift. I thought that I might be reduced to giving you one of the holiday greeting cards I have sticking out of my ears."

"That would be foolish, Your Majesty, since, as I told you before, Bazhir don't celebrate Midwinter." Zahir's nostrils flared. "As such, Bazhir have no need for Midwinter greeting cards or Midwinter presents."

"Ah, indeed." The king's smile broadened as he thrust a wrapped gift into Zahir's arms. "Fortunately, the present is technically for your horse, not for you."

"My mare doesn't celebrate Midwinter, either," grunted Zahir, but his surliness faded when he opened the gift and stared down at the horse-brush his knightmaster had given him. The handle was carved from mahogany, and the bristles were the perfect melding of firmness and tenderness. He could imagine stroking out all the tangles from Sufia's mane and making her hair gleam like silver with this brush. Awed, he whispered, "It's beautiful, sire. I thank you."

"I'm glad you like it, Squire." King Jonathan patted his shoulder, locking eyes with him. "I want you to understand that I really do appreciate how much I am asking of you and that I only expect so much of you because you are one of those truly exceptional beings capable of sacrificing everything for others."

"May I go see Joren?" asked Zahir abruptly. "It's been awhile since I spoke with him."

"Very well." The king waved a dismissive hand. "I suppose that I can't expect someone as stubborn as you to ever give up on your friend. Midwinter luck, Zahir. Maybe that is what it will take to get through to the pigheaded Joren of Stone Mountain."

Bowing, Zahir disappeared into his bedroom, where he put away his new horse-brush and took off his cloak, which was damp from the snow and the ice. Then, he bustled out of the royal quarters and down the hallways and staircases to Joren's chamber.

"Come in," shouted Joren in his typical languid tone when Zahir knocked on the door of his bedroom.

"Happy Midwinter, Joren," Zahir said, as he stepped into his friend's bedchamber and seated himself on the desk chair opposite the mattress Joren was lounging upon.

"The same to you, Zahir," Joren responded, flicking a lazy glance over at Zahir. "Oh, wait, the Bazhir don't celebrate Midwinter. I guess I can only wish you a good day."

"That would be nice of you." Zahir's lips twitched for a minute before he went on more seriously, "You know, Joren, the new year is a time for new beginnings."

"This is fun." Joren smirked. "I will now be treated to a lecture on northern customs from a Bazhir. This might be the greatest comedy I will see all Midwinter. That will certainly devastate the players."

"Across the world, new years are regarded as a time for new beginnings," retorted Zahir, his lips thinning. "Anyhow, I thought you might take advantage of the fresh chance to redeem yourself for kidnapping Mindelan's maid."

"Mithros, please tell me you aren't still gnawing at that old, dry bone." Exasperated, Joren rolled his eyes. "Haven't you bothered me enough about that ridiculous subject?"

"I haven't mentioned it to you at all since the day after your trial," Zahir snapped. "Some might accuse me of not confronting you about it enough."

"Truthfully, I don't know why you think it necessary to keep nagging me about what I did to some whorish maid." Idly, Joren inspected his fingernails, as though they were infinitely more fascinating than the conversation he was currently engaging in with Zahir. "Surely, you have more pressing concerns on your mind. I know that I do. Perhaps your training isn't as intense as mine, though. Maybe that is why you have time to worry about serving wenches."

"None of us should ever be so busy that we don't have time to think about the ethics of our behavior." Zahir's jaw clenched. "I came to see you, Joren, because my father always said that dying in a state of impenitence was a terrible fate for any man. Maybe he is right. I don't know. What I do know is that living in a state of impenitence is worse. I don't understand why you want to cut yourself off from mercy and redemption when all you would need to do to start heading down the path of righteousness again would be to act sorry."

"Why should I act sorry when I'm not?" sneered Joren. "That seems like a pointless waste of time and energy."

"I don't see why you shouldn't be sorry," Zahir hissed. "You violated every code of honor protecting women and commoners."

"I did what I had to in order to preserve my honor." Joren shrugged.

"You had an innocent woman abducted." Zahir shook his head. "Nothing you say could ever make that right."

"I acted according to my principles, which are far more important than some dumb commoner woman." Joren bristled. "Yet again, I grow tired of talking to you. Why don't you go do something useful for once in your life and dress yourself properly for serving at tonight's party?"

"Fine." Understanding that he couldn't force someone whose ears were closed to hear the truth, Zahir shoved himself to his feet and crossed over to the door. "Just promise me that you'll think about what I said."

"If anything you said is worthy of consideration, I'll think about it," Joren reassured him wryly.

Recognizing that this was the best concession he would get out of his friend today, Zahir left the room, shutting the door quietly in his wake, and then returned to his room to don his uniform in the royal colors that clashed with his hair and skin tone for the party.

That evening, musicians played lilting tunes in the Crystal Room, a gilded jewel box of a chamber where the largest of the Midwinter First Night Parties was held. Garlands of winter flowers and ivy hung on the walls. Heavy logs burned in the two grand hearths, releasing piney aromas. Candles flickered in every window and in the crystal chandelier.

As he roamed around the room, carrying a tray loaded with tarts and marzipan figures, Zahir's gaze often came to rest enviously upon Prince Roald, who was the only squire who wasn't walking around offering trays full of food and beverages to guests. The prince, who was sitting with Princess Shinkokami appeared as politely stilted as ever in his interaction with his fiancée.

"Once the weather permits traveling, Your Highness, the progress will begin," Prince Roald told Princess Shinkokami, who immediately leaned forward to offer an attentive ear to her future husband, as Zahir extended the tray of desserts toward the couple. "We will head south, of course, because the weather will be milder. After several weeks of feasting and tournaments, we should reach the desert, where we will stay in the beautiful city of Persopolis built by the Bazhir for a few days. Then we shall turn around and start the journey north."

"That will allow us to spend the warmest part of the year in the north, and the coldest in the south," commented Princess Shinkokami, delicately selecting a tart, while her fiancé nodded as though this were the most insightful remark he had ever heard. "A wise decision on the part of those who organized the progress."

Zahir, however, had something besides climate and weather concerns on his mind as he moved off to offer his dessert tray to the mingling lords and ladies. If the progress would stop in Persopolis, that meant that, as the king's squire, he would be visiting the desert. That was wonderful. While he was there, he could ride out to see his sister, his brother-in-law, his niece, and his nephew. He could cradle Laila's twins in his arms. He could kiss the tender skin on their foreheads and rest their warm cheeks against his. He could help tuck them snugly under their blankets when it was their naptime. He could tickle their tiny toes. He could wrinkle his nose at them and contort his features into a hundred comically grotesque masks. It would be like a slice of paradise in this lifetime to spend just a couple of hours visiting his sister's tent.

The joy of imagining how it would feel to actually hold the children he was uncle to buoyed him through much of the night, and his pleasure was only increased as he watched from afar as the awkwardness between Prince Roald and Princess Shinkokami seemed to die away as they both joined in an animated conversation with Lord Raoul and Commander Buri in the book room off the main chamber.

It was only when it occurred to him that King Jonathan had made no mention of Cait joining them when they journeyed to Persopolis that the glow blazing inside him lost some of his luster.

"The progress is stopping in Persopolis," Zahir murmured to the king, as he extended the tray toward his knightmaster and Queen Thayet. "Cait will be going with us to the desert like you promised, won't she, sire?"

"I'm not certain that would be prudent, Zahir." Sighing, King Jonathan shook his head. "I wish for you to meet with many of the chiefs while we are in Persopolis, and it will be hard for you to gain their support as the candidate for being Voice after me if they see you romantically involved with a northern woman—especially one who is a warrior."

"This isn't about politics." Rebelliously, Zahir lifted his chin. "In case it slipped Your Majesty's mind, this is about a promise you made to me. Do you really want to teach me that it is perfectly fine to break my word if doing so is more convenient than keeping it?"

"Nothing good will come of you dragging Cait with you to the desert, Squire." His knightmaster's voice tightened, although his expression remained pleasant, so that anyone looking at him would only glimpse a benevolent ruler. "At best, a disaster would result, and, at worst, both you and her would be destroyed is that what you want?"

"I want what they have." The blood pounding a battle march against his eardrums, Zahir jerked his head in the direction of Prince Roald and Princess Shinkokami. "I want a happily ever after like your son. Is that so unreasonable a request?"

"Prince Roald and Princess Shinkokami are getting a happily ever after because they didn't struggle against what was expected of them." The king's azure eyes flashed dangerously. "People's happiness is often determined by how willingly they perform their duties. Fighting against what society requires of you is what tragedies, not happy endings, are made of, Zahir ibn Alhaz."

"What society asks of me is wrong." With difficulty, Zahir quelled the impulse to stomp his foot in frustration. "I won't be happy as long as I'm doing something I believe to be immoral or I'm living a lie. Besides, how can you criticize me for trying to change the world for the better when that is all you do?"

"I'm not necessarily criticizing you," his knightmaster replied in a clipped voice. "All I'm saying is that you are setting yourself up for a life of battle, not peaceful happiness, if you insist on bringing Cait to the desert as a potential mate. Anyway, while I did promise you that Cait could accompany us next time we traveled to the desert, I'm not sure that will be possible. Her commander might wish to station her elsewhere, and she cannot place her love life before her duties, just as you cannot."

"I'm confident that she can have a love life and fulfill her duties," Queen Thayet cut in briskly. "Now, I'm going to talk to Buri about stationing Cait's Rider group as a guard for our royal personages."

"You'd do that for me?" gasped Zahir, shocked that the queen would ally herself with him against her husband.

"Consider it a Midwinter present from me, Squire Zahir," the queen declared, and, although her voice was cool, her hazel eyes shone with a warmth that reminded him of the logs burning in the hearths. As she strode away to speak with Buri, her husband scowled briefly at her back before regaining his polite, meaningless social beam that charmed so many of his subjects.