plan to deal with either, his hatred of Dassai and disgust for Jannat fueling his determination.
On the road he expected to encounter riders—mostly couriers ferrying information between the misal’ayn and Oranin. Few would challenge him directly, but there were rewards for relaying Sarn’s whereabouts, as well as personal satisfaction. Sarn would study their riding styles, the better to spot those who paid too much attention to him as they passed.
It mattered little to him. There was a good chance Jannat was gone for good. If not, she wasn’t clever enough to hire new messengers to hunt for him, and he knew most of those she employed.
Sarn stopped to give his horse a short reprieve, taking refuge at a berkeh surrounded by wild oats. There were better places farther along, but the horse was tired, and though the place was exposed, he could not afford to push his mount.
Sarn heard the two riders approach. With no time to seek cover, he held his ground, watching as they dismounted on the far side of the pond, conspicuous not only because of the timing—arriving shortly after him—but because of the superb condition of their horses. Not couriers . For Sarn, there was no such thing as being too cautious. He checked his weapons and his options.
The riders removed nothing from their saddles and packs, further arousing his suspicions—they were not planning to be here long.
“Six seconds,” he whispered under his breath: the time it would take to reach the saddle, grab the reins, and wheel back onto the road.
“Ten seconds,” he whispered again, for it would take that long to assault the two before they could respond.
He chose the first option, clicking softly to his horse. Her ears pricked and she turned immediately, knowing what was needed.
They’d been in this situation before.
Sarn ticked off the seconds in his mind as he jumped up, slapped the reins on her flanks and disappeared into the night.
“Nine seconds,” he whispered to her. “Not bad at all.”
The riders followed, their purpose unclear, their employer uncertain. But he was definitely the target. Was he to be robbed? Killed? Followed?
None of these suited him. Sarn would either elude or slay them. Nothing else was acceptable. Nothing would prevent him from facing Dassai on his own terms.
The pursuers kept their distance. Not thieves or assassins, then. These were trackers—paid to trail, not confront him. His familiarity with the terrain and his riding skill soon separated him from his pursuers.
Sarn mouthed thanks to them, as any small part of him that had been willing to relax was gone. No man escapes his own deeds, and his were darkest of all. He would always be hunted. The two riders were just the beginning. There would be more once he arrived at the riad .
Dawn broke as he drew near a stone spire that rose into the pale morning sky. He gazed at the tower crowned with a massive jewel, shimmering in the first moments of sunlight, windowless save for slits ringing the uppermost level.
The misal’ayn was perched on a ridge in the foothills to the west of the twin cities that comprised the sheikdoms of Oranin and Havar. It provided a sufi—a mystic seer—with a commanding view for at least a dozen farsangs in all directions. From the tower he could see west to the Haffal Mountains, east to the sea, north to Marjeeh and the sheikdom of Tanith, and south to Pashail and distant lands beyond.
The ashen-hued obelisk of Burj al-Halij had long been in the service of Qatana, one of many scattered throughout Mir’aj. It was said to have been carved by stone-jinn ages ago. Sarn had seen only nine such towers in all of his travels, though he’d heard rumors of many more.
It was a majestic site; one less encumbered would pause to enjoy it.
Sarn did not stop.
And no one followed.
H IS path took him through deep valleys down to the sea, then up a steep, rocky path nearly washed out by recent storms, forcing him to dismount until the trail
On the road he expected to encounter riders—mostly couriers ferrying information between the misal’ayn and Oranin. Few would challenge him directly, but there were rewards for relaying Sarn’s whereabouts, as well as personal satisfaction. Sarn would study their riding styles, the better to spot those who paid too much attention to him as they passed.
It mattered little to him. There was a good chance Jannat was gone for good. If not, she wasn’t clever enough to hire new messengers to hunt for him, and he knew most of those she employed.
Sarn stopped to give his horse a short reprieve, taking refuge at a berkeh surrounded by wild oats. There were better places farther along, but the horse was tired, and though the place was exposed, he could not afford to push his mount.
Sarn heard the two riders approach. With no time to seek cover, he held his ground, watching as they dismounted on the far side of the pond, conspicuous not only because of the timing—arriving shortly after him—but because of the superb condition of their horses. Not couriers . For Sarn, there was no such thing as being too cautious. He checked his weapons and his options.
The riders removed nothing from their saddles and packs, further arousing his suspicions—they were not planning to be here long.
“Six seconds,” he whispered under his breath: the time it would take to reach the saddle, grab the reins, and wheel back onto the road.
“Ten seconds,” he whispered again, for it would take that long to assault the two before they could respond.
He chose the first option, clicking softly to his horse. Her ears pricked and she turned immediately, knowing what was needed.
They’d been in this situation before.
Sarn ticked off the seconds in his mind as he jumped up, slapped the reins on her flanks and disappeared into the night.
“Nine seconds,” he whispered to her. “Not bad at all.”
The riders followed, their purpose unclear, their employer uncertain. But he was definitely the target. Was he to be robbed? Killed? Followed?
None of these suited him. Sarn would either elude or slay them. Nothing else was acceptable. Nothing would prevent him from facing Dassai on his own terms.
The pursuers kept their distance. Not thieves or assassins, then. These were trackers—paid to trail, not confront him. His familiarity with the terrain and his riding skill soon separated him from his pursuers.
Sarn mouthed thanks to them, as any small part of him that had been willing to relax was gone. No man escapes his own deeds, and his were darkest of all. He would always be hunted. The two riders were just the beginning. There would be more once he arrived at the riad .
Dawn broke as he drew near a stone spire that rose into the pale morning sky. He gazed at the tower crowned with a massive jewel, shimmering in the first moments of sunlight, windowless save for slits ringing the uppermost level.
The misal’ayn was perched on a ridge in the foothills to the west of the twin cities that comprised the sheikdoms of Oranin and Havar. It provided a sufi—a mystic seer—with a commanding view for at least a dozen farsangs in all directions. From the tower he could see west to the Haffal Mountains, east to the sea, north to Marjeeh and the sheikdom of Tanith, and south to Pashail and distant lands beyond.
The ashen-hued obelisk of Burj al-Halij had long been in the service of Qatana, one of many scattered throughout Mir’aj. It was said to have been carved by stone-jinn ages ago. Sarn had seen only nine such towers in all of his travels, though he’d heard rumors of many more.
It was a majestic site; one less encumbered would pause to enjoy it.
Sarn did not stop.
And no one followed.
H IS path took him through deep valleys down to the sea, then up a steep, rocky path nearly washed out by recent storms, forcing him to dismount until the trail
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