What use were divination arrows or flying birds when an old woman's intuition, ofttimes, saw things others did not?

Zakia had seen it, she was certain. She slipped out of her daughter's old tent after showing Reyhanna to her assigned cot and equipping her with amenities for her ablutions. She spotted Masshay where he sat crouched beneath a young palm off the marketplace. It was a matter of explaining her certainty to him now, wispy etherial flow as it was—too vague to put in words when he was too profane and too unmarried to understand. Her medicinal salve in hand, she slogged over to him with comfortable determination.

But Masshay was adamant.

'By Allah, no knight of mine will get embroiled in any tribe's internal politics. Reyhanna must return to Yaqqut come morning—the sooner Al Ramad's lie of her parentage is forgotten, the better.'

Zakia reined in her vexation as she doctored his wounds.

'She has a strong spirit.' Zakia persisted. 'I felt that she could sway that man. I feel that she still can.'

'That man is chasing ghosts.' Masshay replied quietly, under his breath. 'It is but an idle presentiment that you speak.' He said louder. Zakia heard him both times.

'And what about you, my son?' Zakia asked. 'We were not aware that you had made the chieftain of Al Sawad the man he is.'

'I have—not.' Masshay shook his head. 'Therein lies my deepest regret, but Reyhanna needs not pay the price, neither for my shortcomings nor for those of this tribe.'

'The die are cast.' Zakia said sinisterly. 'The chieftain's succession was the only thing that stood to be derailed in the case of his heir's death. Now the stakes are higher. A tribe of merchants deprived of its clients will be ripped from within with hunger and strife.' She huffed a long-suffering sigh and paused, letting her case sink in her interlocutor's mind with oratory savvy before pushing her solution forth. 'Tell Reyhanna about him, ya Masshay, since you know of him what we do not. Help her suit his needs that he may accept a marriage alliance with Al Ramad.'

'I cannot do what you ask of me.' Masshay rasped, flinching as the healer began to sow together the ripped flesh at his thigh. 'For ten years, I have watched that girl devote her every effort to—' he winced, 'to carve her path as a white knight. I will not see her reduced to a lowly pawn in the hands of her foster tribe.'

'Rather than a pawn, we shall elevate your white knight to be our white queen. The chieftain's daughter. She will conquer against the black king of Al Sawad, and it is my impression that he might...let her. Come, surely you have seen it too? He had no qualms slicing you up, but he was nearly gentle with her.'

'A god-fearing man would not hurt a woman, that is all you have seen.' Masshay said, growing irked by the conversation.

'I have seen in their confrontation what comforts me in the hope that, should they meet again, with less swords and more qadar, this alliance might come to pass, the one god willing. Don't you see this, o Masshay?'

'All I see is that wishful thinking runs deep in this tribe.' Masshay said.

'As expected from a bachelor.' Zakia jeered. 'You refuse to see it.'

'What do you—ah, slowly,' he groused, grimacing at her rough-handed ministrations.

'I am old enough to be your mother.' Zakia declared off-handedly. 'Now hear me, my son, for this is my motherly plight. We must allow Reyhanna to take on her white queen guise, then let her have an audience with Al Sawad.'

'She is not your white queen.' Masshay said impatiently.

'Your black king does not know that.' Zakia retorted.

Masshay shook his head. 'I do. The whole of Al Ramad knows. The one god knows. And Binyamin will find out. Since this is a merchant tribe, you must be aware of the proverb that says to never pay for the truth or the moon, as they are both revealed in due time.' He watched the gash in his arm meditatively.

'Binyamin and I are more alike than he would care to admit.' He added. 'Men like us cannot risk the binding responsibility of a mighty covenant like marriage. We would fail it miserably.'

'You cannot judge what you have not tried, and you cannot know another's heart.' Zakia said wisely.

'It is settled, o Healer. My white knight will not do Al Ramad's bidding.' He stated decisively.

'At least let her make her decision. It is her right.' Zakia reminded.

'Indeed it is, but if she joins Al Sawad, she ceases to be my knight.' Masshay groaned. 'Do not guilt her into this, or I will boycott this tribe myself.'

Zakia quieted, deciding that whatever was maktoob shall come to pass regardless of their disparate feelings in the matter.

'Very well.' She relented. 'I will not say another word about it.'

The news of Al Sawad's call to spurn all trade with Al Ramad and its client tribes spread to the farther reaches of the desert, sensationalized by catastophizing bedouins into the story of a berserk, hulking chieftain promising to wage war on any people that ventured inside the boycotted tribe. In fear, the fate of Al Ramad was sealed.

Two weeks passed and the merchants of Al Ramad stood behind their stalls of finery and their pots of pulses and their baskets of coveted herbs and their flavorful spices, wasting in the sun. The few clients that braved their border were travelers from the large Arabian cities, envoys from kingdoms crossing through, or wandering men—parched strangers to the desert, recognizable by their unfocused eyes and the smell of their perspiration, and not bedouins, whose desert-carved bodies no longer knew the stench of sweat. The pure sand filtered through their well-ventilated garments and performed a lifelong cleanse on their skin, for where the desert was a juggernaut for a stranger unlearned in its ways, it cherished its people and polished them like gems.

Within a month, Al Ramad's flourishing marketplace had turned into half-vacated, pitiful stacks of goods left unredeemed. Expectedly, tensions flared and petty crimes grew, hungry mouths sought charity from neighboring tribes, some deserted Al Ramad altogether, and a secret cabal formed, rallying people against the sheikh's rule, and rejecting the succession of his son.

One morning, the tribe woke up to find their chieftain severely injured in his resting place, two men dead at his feet, and his son—the instigator of his tribe's misery—mysteriously vanished.

Reyhanna mounted her horse as soon as the messenger had reached Yaqqut with the news. Unlike her, Masshay was unsurprised, and unimpressed, that her old tribe was going up in flames.

'You cannot save a tribe from itself.' He reminded her.

In spite of this, Reyhanna could not chase the bitter clutch of guilt from her throat. Not because she could have saved Al Ramad under the aegis of the chieftain's lie—the Sawadi had made his dismissal of a political marriage clear—but for the indolent fugue state she had fallen into, the all-consuming distraction of flashes from their face-off, her sharp voice against his low gravel, his disarming her with cold precision then stepping back when she was at her strength's end, his implacable questioning of her knighthood, then his praise of her upbringing.

She loathed it, but she could think of nothing else. How many times had she stood in her training camp, imagining the Sawadi watch her train, grudgingly wondering what he would think of her performance, how he would correct her where she erred, if he had been her trainer, and whether he would praise her—

It was these moments of loathsome revery that came throttling her with roping guilt and sharp self-betrayal. It was clear to her now, as she journeyed the three-hour path to Al Ramad, the hooves of her mare tossing the hot sand. She had always desired control, a definite answer to the puzzle of her existence, and the Sawadi had been the master of himself, and she had envied him for it—nothing more.

Nothing more, she said to the dry air, as though the desert had not witnessed it all.

Al Ramad looked like a shriveled garment when Reyhanna entered it.

Where camels and cattle and horsemen and pedestrians generally jostled with heavy loads, and merchants rounded up clients as they lauded their items with exciting epics and promises of the lowest fares in the desert, now the wind blew over nothing. Gone were the floating platters of gold and silver that shone like magic under the sun, the tribe's light had been extinguished, the few polished brass wares reflecting a dull, sickly glint—like a demystified dream. Everything looked small from her perch up her white horse, when it had seemed so big and so secret when she was a child looking up at the alacritous symphony that made Al Ramad, she had believed, the best tribe in the desert.

As she neared the chieftain's tent, grieving people were gathered and laments rose, pealing morosely in the air.

'You cannot cheat death.' Someone crowed glumly. 'The poison of Al Sawad's vengeance has festered and completed its due. The heir is gone, and the chieftain is bedridden! Woe is us!'

With a tight stomach, she dismounted and tied her horse and made her way through the gathering. A stiff hand grabbed her arm. Reyhanna whipped around to find Faiza's doleful eyes peering up at her.

'You're here.' Said the cook. 'Zakia is inside, nursing our chieftain. She will be glad to see you. But take care, you will not like what you see.'

'What happened?' Reyhanna blurted. 'Is it true, Rashed is gone? Is the chieftain dying?'

Faiza grimaced and nodded at the tent. 'Look for yourself.'

Reyhanna offered a polite nod before she pulled the tent's flap aside and squeezed inside.

'Asalamu Aleykum.' She greeted softly, her eyes adjusting to the soft lamplight at the back of the large tent, otherwise plunged in darkness.

'Who is this?' Zakia's voice rose.

'It is me, Reyhanna—'

'Ah, ya binti,' Zakia soughed plaintively, 'come, come quick, let me see you.'

Reyhanna approached the ill-lit figures, Zakia's hand beckoning to her, and the chieftain's inert form lying down, asleep or moribund.

'O Zakia,' Reyhanna said, 'tell me what happened.'

Zakia closed her hand on Reyhanna's wrist. She was crying.

'Sit, my daughter, sit beside me. I will tell you everything. I am glad you are here. My poor heart cannot bear all of this. Come, let me kiss your forehead.'

Reyhanna quickly loosened her shemagh and bowed down for the healer. She felt Zakia's trembling hand hold onto her shoulder for support.

'Please do not grieve,' Reyhanna pleaded, her heart tearing up at the elder's pain. 'Tell me what I can do, by Allah, I will help you.'

'There was an insurgency. Two men attacked the chieftain, tore up a nasty gash at his side, and he lost consciousness, he says. The last thing he saw was his son rushing in with his sword. As you know the chieftain always leads the men in fajr prayer, but today the men waited and he wasn't there—and they found him emptying of his blood in this very tent! It was close, so close, a miracle that he has survived, I was able to stop the bleeding, praise be to Allah, but he is now in a fitful sleep, fighting his injury, and there is nothing left to do but pray for his recovery.'

'O Merciful One,' Reyhanna whispered. 'How did it come to this? Is it because of Al Sawad's vile boycott?'

'It was a forgone conclusion that this would happen,' Zakia shook her head, 'it was only a matter of when. I have told you that some of us were displeased with the chieftain's rule or wanted his advantageous place—the boycott only expedited what was bound to happen.'

'And Rashed?'

'He hasn't left a trace, that boy. Some men have gone looking for him. His horse is still here, so is his sword.' Zakia hiccuped. 'He couldn't have gone far.'

Reyhanna gave a heavy sigh, struggling to triage through her thoughts.

'You ought to go, my dear. Go back to Yaqqut before nightfall. We have nothing but dried dates to offer you—'

'I am not leaving.' Reyhanna said. 'I am not leaving you alone again.'

Zakia sniffed and dug into the pocket of her skirt. She took out a thin grey cloth wrapping a undefined, small trinket.

'My husband carved it for me on our wedding night.' She said, handing her the parcel. 'Take it, for it reminds me of you.'

Reyhanna unfolded the cloth to find a small wooden sculpture. She turned it around in her palm, trying to catch the brittle light on its time-softened edges, then finally realized what it was.

'A chess piece.' Reyhanna muttered. She looked up at Zakia uncertainly. 'Is it—?'

'Yes, my dear.' Zakia nodded. 'It is the queen.'

Reyhanna drew impulsively to her feet.

'How far is Al Sawad?'

'No, ya binti, it is too late, now, do not risk going there alone—'

'How far ya Zakia?'

'Seven hours from here, heading north toward the mountains. It will be night before you can reach it.'

'That far?'

'This is why it is called Al Sawad, it is usually dark before anyone can reach it, and the skies there are overcast with frequent rain.'

'I am leaving,' Reyhanna said. 'Do not send word to Masshay, he may come after me.'

'No ya binti, be reasonable, it is useless to imperil yourself.'

'My decision is made.' Reyhanna said, quietly, calmly, feeling a grounding energy flood her being. She too would be the mistress of herself. The Sawadi could only dream of impressing her now.

'Salaam.' She said and turned to leave, her strength of will nearly lighting up the tent a little brighter.

Zakia watched her exit, a silent prayer on her tongue.

She dared to hope.

Allah: the name of god in Arabic (Arab christians and jews use it as well—in Islam "he" is genderless and non-personified). It literally means 'the one god.' There are 99 names of Allah in Islam. For example, The Merciful, as used by Reyhanna.

Qadar: Destiny. Literally means "power."

Maktoob: Literally means "written"—qualifies a divine decree.

Sawad: Literally means blackness. Not black, which in Arabic is aswad.

Al is added before a tribe's name to signify 'the people of' said tribe— Al Sawad: The People of Blackness. Al Ramad: The People of the Ashes—such nifty names, I know.

Salaam: Peace, short for assalamu aleykum, which means "may peace be upon you."

Yes, Reyhanna is the Arabic origin of the name Rihanna, as no one asked.

Posted from Ao3.