Disclaimer: Stephen Sommers and Universal Pictures own the character of Ardeth Bay. I do not profit from this work.
It was fortunate that the coffee chose that precise moment to boil. My uncle looked at the pot, watching me as I poured the thick brew into a silver cup, breaking the deadly contest. My father grimaced as he crossed the tent to take the cup into his own hands. He drank only a sip or two before handing it back. "Tie him there," he directed curtly. My uncle and the other two warriors obeyed immediately; as commander of the ghazu he was in charge of any prisoners taken. I could not watch as they untied the stranger's hands and bound him against one of the tent poles, retying his wrists behind it. I was certain that he still glared at them. The strength of his frame was as clearly visible as if I was next to him. The thought of the power in those darkly tanned hands almost made me shiver. My mind seethed. Why had this man been chosen as my sign? Why had Allah made him the bearer of my omen? Perhaps I could convince my father to give the pendant to me---no, not when he could trade it for silver. Perhaps I could steal it from the slave---but suppose he cried out---
My father dismissed the warriors. My uncle lingered for a moment, still watching the stranger.
"What do you wait for, Ibrahim?" said my father irritably. "Hafasa misses you, I am certain."
"He is strong and cunning," murmured Ibrahim. "Perhaps I will check the knots one more time." With expert fingers he carefully tested the bonds as the Druze stared dispassionately at him. Ibrahim straightened and returned the gaze. "For the murder of my son," whispered the older man with venom, "you will die like the ill-gotten son of a pig that you are." I sucked in a breath. So this man had killed my cousin, Ibrahim's only son. My heart leapt---he had been well-known for his cruelty, and I had been the recipient more times than I cared to remember. With a ferocity that made me wince Ibrahim punched the dark-haired stranger, who doubled over as far as his bonds would allow, grunting in pain.
"Until tomorrow," said Ibrahim, bowing stiffly to my father and walking out of the ten, a single glance back at the Druze promising much more pain.
My father doused most of the small oil lamps and prepared to sleep, even though I could still hear the younger warriors celebrating outside. He settled his old bones onto the sleeping pallet, mumbling a prayer to Allah. The harsh ride of a ghazu taxed even the strongest.
The coffee I poured for myself was strong. I could not help looking at the stranger. He had straightened up, leaning his head back against the pole, his eyes closed, a faint grimace still visible on his lips. The pendant rose and fell with his ragged breathing, and I was transfixed by it. The rough carving, the black sheen of it, brought back the dream-vision and the immense voice of the angel with eyes of fire that had shown it to me. Before I even finished drinking the bitter liquid I made up my mind. I would leave tonight. It would be as Allah willed. The pendant would lead me away from my father's tent forever.
The measured breathing assured me of my father's slumber, and I doused the only remaining lamp, leaving the fire pit to illuminate the tent's interior. Rising, I went outside to unsaddle my father's camel, as would be expected; most of the warriors were now entertaining their women, glad to have them back after the long absence. Making sure that no eyes were watching, I loosened the ties at the back of the tent to make my later departure easier. I brought my father's heavy saddle in with his gear. With a light touch I ascertained that my father was truly asleep, and set about packing as clandestinely as possible. Once I finished my preparations I laid down to wait for the proper time. I thought I could feel the stranger's eyes upon me.
Once the celebrations had faded away into silence I rose quickly and pulled the packs to the back of the tent. I was ready to steal away into the cold night, to follow the will of Allah. Then my thoughts recalled the pendant. I looked across the tent to his long, lean form, and I was suddenly seized with worry. I had to follow the pendant---I could not leave it behind. I unsheathed my khanjar and walked around to face him. His eyes snapped open and I was afraid he would call out. I swiftly covered his mouth with my hand, feeling the prickle of stubble beneath my fingers, his warm lips upon my palm, his eyes boring into my own. With my other hand---still holding the dagger---I pantomimed that he should be quiet, and he nodded once, fiercely. Taking my hand away was difficult---I was very afraid that he would shout and wake my father.
What to do? If I stole the pendant he would wake the camp; likewise if I attempted to gag him. How was I to follow the pendant? I bit my lip in frustration.
His dark, expressive eyes were watching me with veiled hope, and I again felt sympathy for him, for what they would do to him tomorrow, and suddenly I count not bear to think of him humbled and degraded. His face, so exquisite, silently begged me. Still I hesitated. This would be worse, far worse than simply running away. I could still try to gag him---