A silver moon hung low on the Arabian Desert.

As the news of Al Sawad's grief continued to spread, nosy winds came vagabonding over the tribe of Al Ramad like whistling vultures.

Outside the community tent, an undaunted old woman sat sectioning a large slab of meat with austere precision. A girl worked rigidly by her side, digging up the soft sand and fanning the burning wood inside the pit to make a zarb—an underground oven.

Usually, the preparation of the evening feast was a well-liked ritual. Children tired from forced readings and energetic play often crouched down to watch the supper being buried into the zarb, no help and all giggles.

There were no giggles tonight. The girl's stomach knotted in protest at the smell of food, and her head snapped up feverishly toward every sound.

'Stop jittering, child.' The old woman chided. 'Check on the lentil soup, add a bit of water.'

The girl obeyed before she looked up, finally asking the question that burned her tongue.

'Are we going to have war?'

The old woman worked silently, a near petulant look on her wizened face.

'Why do you ask me?' She huffed. 'You youth want to know everything. Go call Ruqqaya, Zakia and I must see her before supper.'

Supper was shared in thick silence.

Inside the community tent, Masshay and his white knights ate at the men's row while Reyhanna sat at the women's, huddled between the healer and the cook. It was unusual, to be sitting among rich merchant wives and daughters, their decorated shawls elegantly concealing while her travel shemagh hung unassumingly slack underneath her jaw, her knight daywear frayed and wrinkled midst dresses of noble fabrics that rustled like butterfly wings and gold bracelets that chimed like music as the women reached for things.

She looked down at the weathered, sun-freckled hand landing a gentle tap on hers.

'Eat.' Zakia said. 'You are too thin.'

'How can you tell?' Reyhanna asked. 'I wear a cape.'

'I can tell.' Zakia bobbed her head.

The cook gave an opening grunt.

'Nothing fattens a young woman like peace of mind.' She said, infiltrating the conversation with entitled wisdom. 'Her nerves are sure to keep her thin as a nail before she's been had by a man.'

Reyhanna went paler than the wool rugs beneath her feet, the piece of bread she'd picked up to please her elders suspended mid-air.

'You've startled the poor girl, Faiza.'

'It is the truth.' Faiza groused. 'After this dire business is past us, see a Ramadi in need of a wife and tie the knot. It'll put meat on her bones surer than my finest meal.'

'I have dedicated myself to knighthood.' Reyhanna intervened, her voice cracking with embarrassment. 'I do not plan to—'

'Yes, yes. You plan and the one god plans.' Faiza dismissed. 'The one god is the best of planners.'

Reyhanna stuck her face in her bowl of soup, hiding her wince. She regretted not having snuck to the back of the tent and eaten with the tots. Beside her, the conversation flowed, unabridged by her displeasure.

'—so that I can introduce her to my nephew's son,' trailed Faiza.

'Majid? He's not mature enough yet.' Zakia opined. 'Why not Suffyan—'

'N-no.' Reyhanna stammered, belatedly realizing that the bizarre talk on marriage and nutritional values had segued into solid matchmaking. 'Elders, I would rather you did not discuss this.'

'Why not?' Faiza asked. 'You are an orphan, my daughter, and we have not seen you in a long time. Now that you've waxed nubile, it is our duty to see you settled with a man from Al Ramad.'

'I had imagined the chieftain's late wife would have wanted you to marry her son,' Zakia said wistfully, 'but as it stands the misguided boy no longer has a guarantee to his name.'

'Forgive me,' Reyhanna began, her voice shaking slightly. A decade of grueling physical instruction at Yaqqut had done little to prepare her for two old matrimonial warhorses that the prospect of bloody reckoning did not defer from matchmaking. 'But this is not a bride-finding fair. I am on a mission to protect this tribe from what is to come, that I am an unmarried girl of age does not change a thing.'

'Of course, but you are here, and you are ours.' Zakia smiled.

Reyhanna's hand stilled over her cup.

Ours. Ours.

The part of Reyhanna that constantly yearned for a place to belong reared its head at the word. She could steel her body and mind all she wanted, her heart was the unguarded sort—it flittered at the smallest attentions.

But the context quickly caught up with her.

'Early marriage is purchased with gold, the Tuaregs of Africa say.' Zakia said. 'How old are you?' She asked.

'I am around nineteen.' Reyhanna replied. 'But if I may, I would like to redirect your attention to the imminent arrival of Sawadi knights into Al Ramad—'

'See how tense she is.' Faiza said to Zakia, sharing in their elderly understanding. 'You could gather up all her tension and cut through it with a knife.'

Reyhanna sighed deeply.

'And hear how she sighs.' Faiza continued, shaking her head. 'Celibacy is treating our youth miserably.'

Zakia gave a contented nod.

'I am tense because I know what battle brings.' Reyhanna rectified, her hand clenching over her cup. 'I have seen men die, and I have wounded many. I understand the fallibility of the flesh, and the state of mind Masshay teaches—'

'Masshay is unmarried.' Faiza clucked her tongue with finality.

Frustration thrummed in Reyhanna's blood.

'Dignified Elders, please understand that nobody's marriage will save Al Ramad from Al Sawad tonight.' She stated decisively. 'Let us—'

'What makes you certain of that?' Faiza interrupted. As Reyhanna paused, stumbling over her own breath, her gaze fell on the quiet young woman whose head hung low in either shame or displeasure at Faiza's right. Her beautiful dark traits were dimly arranged in a sallow face, her eyes flickering fearfully over her beaded skirt. It was too heavy an expression for mere secondhand embarrassment, Reyhanna decided.

'Do you play chess, Reyhanna?' Zakia asked, diverting the knight's attention from the sullen girl.

'What?' Reyhanna asked, momentarily stumped by the new turn of their exchange. 'Oh. Chess. Yes, sometimes.'

'What is the most important chess piece?'

'...The queen?'

'Right. To win a game of chess, you corner your opponent's king and set your queen upon him. Politics is no different, and the queen is the bride, my dear.'

'I don't understand.' Reyhanna said, trying to parse out the fresh entry of mental gymnastics linking marriage to everything. She saw the young woman flinch, dragging her bottom lip underneath her teeth, and something told Reyhanna that that girl understood perfectly.

'The chieftain of Al Sawad is unmarried. I never heard why, perhaps he is lame or a widower.' Zakia mulled. 'Indeed, intertribal marriage is our best bet. For centuries it has been how bedouin tribes weaved unity and brought forth life instead of mutual destruction. Two tribes bound by blood are bound forever.'

Reyhanna frowned. 'But who will you—'

Before she could finish her question, her eyes landed on the girl crouched demurely beside Zakia, and the answer was like light filtering through crystal. She was looking at the sacrificial lamb.

'This is Ruqqayah.' Zakia introduced. 'She will pass for our chieftain's daughter. Stand by her and protect her from harm tonight.'

'The chieftain's—it is a lie.' Reyhanna heard herself say while her mind still grappled with assigning meaning to things. 'You want to lie.'

'Lies are wretched creatures of the tongue,' Faiza nodded. 'But this one might save our tribe.'

'Or it can backfire.' Reyhanna said soberly. 'You are a tribe of merchants, perhaps the Sawadi chieftain can be negotiated with. Whereas if he takes a bride of lying descent, if it is revealed, there will be war then. '

'Our chieftain can no longer father more sons. Our tribe bears strategic import in this large desert. Do you know how many men desire his place? With the lone heir's death will be the downfall of Al Ramad. It must be avoided at all cost.' Zakia sighed. 'I am an old healer, and she is an old cook. I deliver newborns and she feeds the tribe. We preserve life and care for the living, my daughter. Tonight, we choose life over death. Whatever happens, promise to protect this girl.'

Reyhanna looked at the girl's wide eyes and pale lips. She looked at her own hand—her knuckles had gone white from throttling her cup. Her life debt weighed her down, quieting her complaints. Finally, she gave a reluctant nod.

Outside the community tent, the chieftain had just finished leading his tribesmen in ishaa prayer when a clash of startled noises rose from the back row and traveled to the top like a tidal wave.

The women hurried outside of their prayer tent to watch the scene. Reyhanna slipped to their front, her blood beating in her temples, her body wiring up for battle.

A black-clad man knelt behind the Ramadis in their light grey thobes, a little removed as they turned to face him. From where Reyhanna stood, he looked as though he had been carved out of the night.

She trained her eyes on his profile as he rose leisurely from prayer and it was like a tower unfolding, tall and broad. He moved his hand to adjust his black shemagh around his face before anyone could register his features.

Reyhanna quickly scanned around for other lurking shadows, but he was alone. And it ought to have been a relief, for this was not the marauding fleet she had imagined—standing out like a night wraith, the Sawadi was as outnumbered as one man could be.

Except he was bigger than any one man she'd ever seen.

Her eyes fell on the long saber sheath secured to his belt. A deep feeling of unsettlement curled around her stomach.

She rooted her feet firmly to the ground and glanced over at Masshay, whose narrowed eyes told her to lay low.

'Ahlan ya Sawadi,' The chieftain greeted, walking to him. 'I am glad to see you have joined our ranks in prayer.'

Reyhanna listened to the womenfolk whisper in astonishment behind her. Some dared to hope that the coming of only one Sawadi, who had deigned to pray behind their own chieftain, was a gesture of good will from Al Sawad.

'In prayer we are one,' the Sawadi replied, his voice so low it would have been diffident if not for its commanding depth. 'But our unity ends there. You know why I am here.'

'Yes, I do.' The chieftain said, all hope draining from his face. 'You have come to seek justice for your knight.'

'Correct.' The Sawadi said.

And so it began. The merchant chieftain now had to haggle for his son's life.

'My son has made a terrible mistake,' The chieftain began, the weight of everyone's fear slowing his speech. 'We will discipline him accordingly.'

'I do not think you will.' the Sawadi said, balefully quiet.

'I give you my word. He will never be allowed to carry a sword again. And I do not ask you to show uninterested mercy. In order to atone for my son's sin, I offer the chieftain of Al Sawad my daughter's hand in marriage.'

Reyhanna felt her arm being grasped from behind with a small, shaky hand. She knew it was Ruqqayah.

Do not worry, I am with you, Reyhanna wanted to whisper, but the breath of her lungs snagged in her throat as she waited, like everyone else, for the Sawadi's response.

'The chieftain of Al Sawad,' he said, his words measured and slow, 'has not come for this.'

The chieftain of Al Ramad's eyes widened in silence.

'Forgive me, I did not pay you the right respects.' He said, placing his hand over his heart and tilting his head politely. 'It speaks to your character that you have come personally, o Chieftain, and to your humility that you have come alone. Those are good traits that commend you to my good opinion.'

'By the one god, I have little use for your good opinion.' The Sawadi said. 'Call your son forth.'

'You have not considered my offer.' The chieftain of Al Ramad contested. 'I urge you to.'

'You have spoiled your son rotten if you always speak in his stead.' The Sawadi said. 'Let him speak for himself.'

Reyhanna sharpened her eyes on the chieftain's son, who clung to a white knight's back very much like Ruqqayah held onto hers. In his rich robes, Al Ramad's chieftain, whose wife had often visited her and gifted her with dates to eat and saw that she was schooled like the other children, looked like a frail old bird. For all their gold and pretty trinkets, Reyhanna thought, for all the riches she had been a spectator of but never a participant in, Al Ramad were weak. Remorse stirred in her chest as she chased the uncharitable thought.

'Come forward, o Rashed.' The chieftain called, his face stoic. 'The Sawadi speaks the truth. I have spoiled you. Now come and face him, my son.'

Rashed stepped forward, his head hanging low in shame and fear.

'Look at me.' The Sawadi demanded, impelling Rashed's bloodshot eyes on him. 'Do you know what you have done?'

'I have slain one of your knights.' Rashed said, his voice jagged from misuse.

'Were you inebriated?'

'No.' Rashed shook his head weakly.

'My other knight saw what happened. You plunged your sword into his brother's side as soon as he had his back turned. Do you confirm this?'

'I-I do.'

I knew it, Reyhanna thought.

The Sawadi paused.

'I had ordered my knights not to harm a single soul before they left for Al Ramad.' He said. 'When you killed the first knight, the other knight couldn't avenge his brother because he had sworn this to me. He could only fasten his body to his steed and come to me with his vow unbroken.'

Rashed shifted fretfully.

'I am sorry for what I have done.'

'Are you? The man you killed was named Faisal. He was born a bastard and raised a thief. He was exiled to Al Sawad at 16. He repented and earned his keep honestly. He became one of my knights.' He paused, appraising the boyish panic written on Rashed's face. 'How old are you?'

'Twenty-two.' Rashed rasped.

'Faisal was nineteen.' The Sawadi said. 'His young bride is with child, she fell in stupor at the news. Who will feed and clothe them now? You?'

'I see the amplitude of what I have done.' Rashed stammered. 'I see it now.'

'Good. For killing a man who did not deserve to die, you, Ramadi princeling, deserve to die. That is why I am here.'

As the wind carried the exchange to where Reyhanna stood, transfixed by what she was seeing, she began to think that the Sawadi chieftain did not speak like a vengeful warlord. He spoke like the angel of death.

'I—I am my father's only son. He needs me, ya sheikh.'

The Sawadi unsheathed his saber with practiced ease, and though the women gasped and the men started, there was nothing boastful about it. The angel of death was mourning too.

'I will be swift.' He said as he extended his blade. Reyhanna watched the way the moonlight splashed on it. It was decadent.

She saw the chieftain's eyes grow wet with unshed tears, his arms locked helplessly behind his back.

It was happening. Rashed was going to die. Her heart thrummed fast, her body tingling with pent up action.

No one dared to move—a whole tribe whipped to stillness by the sharp glint of one man's sword—and Reyhanna closed her eyes. Her nostrils flared in disgust behind her white shemagh as she pictured what she would see once she had opened them. She had seen death before, but she did not miss it.

'Wait.'

She frowned in recognition at the voice that rose as her eyes snapped open to an entirely different scene. The leader of the white knights had stepped forward, and was now standing, against all reason, in front of a still-breathing Rashed.

'Binyamin.' Masshay said, and at that word, Reyhanna watched the Sawadi's composure crack at the seams, then burst, like a hundred bats breaking free. Before she'd time to blink, the tip of the Sawadi's saber was leveled to Masshay's throat. 'Do not stand before me.' He growled lowly. 'And do not speak my name.'

Masshay moved back, swiftly drawing his own sword from its scabbard.

'Please,' Masshay pleaded. 'You have dressed your case, and you are in your right, but I do not wish to see you like this. Forgive this boy. The tribe of Al Ramad will offer monetary compensation to his grieving family. The sheikh is ready to consider any alternative arrangement. Isn't that so, sheikh?'

The chieftain of Al Ramad bowed his head, saying nothing.

'As you very well know,' the Sawadi said, disdain ringing clear in his voice. 'I am not good at forgiving.'

Reyhanna frowned deeply. From the Sawadi's cryptic barb, he and Masshay knew each other well.

'Safhan jameela. The one god has beautified forgiveness.' Masshay urged, his voice unlike anything Reyhanna had ever heard come out of her leader. It was pleading, regretful. 'He rewards those who, after being wronged, choose to forgive.'

The Sawadi stepped forward, his blade whispering against Masshay's jugular vein. Reyhanna stiffened with dread. 'If you have said your piece, I have a funeral to attend.' He turned to Rashed, who cowed back, weeping and shaking like a brittle leaf. 'So does the chieftain of Al Ramad.'

'Your blood has grown colder.' Masshay said. 'I do not recognize you.'

The Sawadi lowered his blade like a man releasing a stag from his net. 'You never did.' Reyhanna heard him whisper.

Rashed used his borrowed time to kneel at his father's feet, begging for forgiveness and asking him to pray for him. The chieftain of Al Ramad nodded vigorously, tight-lipped as tears leaked down his hardened face, and the tribe of Al Ramad had never born its name better—the people of the ashes. Ashes. Reyhanna frowned, convinced that within those ashes was her eternal gratitude, that she should act now or regret it forever. She casted about for something to do. What chance did she stand against this bulk of a man? She, who was of average height for a woman, who was strong and able, as Masshay said, but also too thin, as Zakia appositely remarked.

'Show me.' Masshay said, facing the Sawadi with a bravado that Reyhanna thought was ill-meditated. 'You may do as you wish with Al Ramad's princeling if you can defeat me in battle.'

Reyhanna gritted her teeth, and it was all she could do not to shout at her leader. Why was he interfering so recklessly?

She looked at the Sawadi. The abrupt challenge seemed to give him pause.

'Come.' Masshay pressed. 'Don't you want to show your old master what you've learned?'

Before Reyhanna's blood could freeze at the revelation, the provocation bore its fruits.

Masshay barely had time to block the first swinging strike before another hissed past his ear.

The bedouins watched on tenterhooks as the Sawadi's blade, as though galvanized by a force of its own, lashed and clanged against Masshay's long knife, the sound ringing between Reyhanna's ears as a searing panic snaked around her heart, tightening with each passing moment. Every thrust of the Sawadi's saber sang for his opponent's blood, and it wasn't long before it found it.

First splitting a gash at Masshay's forearm, then a deeper one in his thigh. Reyhanna's heart jolted when she heard her leader's pained cry.

The sight of dark blood marring white fabric under the veil of night terrorized the attendance and with rage and disbelief, Reyhanna watched the Sawadi relent. He held back, recoiling from his offensive posture, and watched Masshay heave a labored breath.

'Why have you stopped?' Masshay asked, breathless. 'I was just adjusting to your new footwork. Did you learn it in Al Sawad?' He asked, a budding smile stirring his lips. 'You are not the boy who hesitates anymore.'

'Move, Masshay.' The Sawadi said. Weariness cracked through the gelid timber of his voice. 'I have not come for you tonight.'

Masshay redressed and bent his knees, raising his sword above his head.

'Come, Binyamin. We are not done yet.'

Reyhanna quickly understood that speaking the Sawadi's name was a very effective act of provocation—because the Sawadi growled, and what happened next was a blur of sparring swords.

Masshay grazed the Sawadi's chest, slicing a superficial nick. The Sawadi didn't flinch away, he seemed to welcome it, moving closer into the fight.

Then, as Masshay began to tire, and the fight drew to a close, the Sawadi locked Mashay's sword arm mid-air and tipped his saber at his midriff.

Reyhanna's brain blanked out as she felt her limbs leap beneath her, the world melting into her own ragged breath and the pulse drumming in her neck as her arms drew out her sword.

Unalarmed, the Sawadi turned to gauge her as she skidded to a halt by Masshay's side. His eyes were a roiling black sea.

'Stand back.' Masshay said.

Reyhanna shook her head, her hand nearly shaking as she leveled her sword with the Sawadi's large chest, where a thin trickle of blood had seeped out.

The Sawadi turned his disinterested gaze back onto the man he gripped under his sword.

'Who is your valiant savior, ya Masshay?'

'She is one of my knights.' Masshay groaned. 'Do not harm her.'

'She?' The Sawadi asked. 'You took a female among your precious knights?'

'Yes. I took a female knight; who should not be doing this,' Masshay said, glaring at Reyhanna while he struggled to free his arm in vain.

'Our leader's heart is not into the fight.' Reyhanna declared. 'Fight me instead.'

The sound of her voice drew the Sawadi's flittering attention.

'I do not fight little girls.'

His dismissal incensed Reyhanna. How dare he call her that? How dare he fan her rage when this would be a losing fight? How dare Al Ramad look at her with hope, tacitly reminding her of her undying debt toward this tribe?

'Too bad. I do fight big men.' She said. Their eyes sparred first as he turned with reticent curiosity to look at her shemagh-covered face, and she moved fast, lunging for his unguarded side.

Masshay cried in protest as the Sawadi tore his blade from his grip while sliding around him, Reyhanna's saber slicing the empty air in front of them. Equipped with both swords, he advanced upon Reyhanna, who now saw the mistake of her act.

It was not in her habit to be so rash, in fact it went against every teaching she'd ever received, but something in the nightly man made her unreasonably bellicose. It was as though she had heard death's spellbinding call—and, never thinking twice, had answered.

'Take it.' He said, offering her Masshay's sword. Reyhanna blinked, unmoving, as the Sawadi hovered over her. She smelled foreign musk, and her muscles twitched in disbelief.

She had felt rather secure in the theory that the Sawadis had poor hygiene, she thought stupidly. How ironic for her to stand corrected now, when her opponent, the Sawadi chieftain himself, pitied her to the point of offering her an extra sword.

'I don't fight with two swords.' She heard herself say with her usual blunt tongue. 'One is enough.'

The Sawadi dropped the second sword at Masshay's feet, who had knelt down, watching his intrepid, foolish knight steady herself for battle while absently tying a strip of cloth around his bleeding thigh.

What had he done?