The Parched Sea Read Online Free PDF

slide down the dune, she croaked, “Worthy Ajaman, I should have known better than to doubt you, but I am a frail woman and thirst affects my judgment. Please forgive my nagging and don’t send any blights to punish me:’
    When her feet touched the rocky desert floor, she checked to see that her veil was still in place, then staggered toward the man.
    Upon seeing her condition, the rider unfastened his waterskin and slid off his saddle. He thrust his lance into the closest dune, then wrapped his lead camel’s reins around the shaft. Without actually running, for a wise man never ran in the heat of the day, he rushed toward Ruha.
    The widow’s first impression was that he was a herdboy, for his face lacked even the hint of whiskers: His features were proud and strong, like Ajaman’s, but his skin looked as soft as a pup’s fur, and he did not stand even as tall as she did: He could have been no more than thirteen or fourteen. Still, Ruha stopped short of asking him to fetch his master. If the Qahtani customs bore any similarity to those of most Bedine, a herdboy would not carry a lance. That privilege belonged only to a warrior.
    Instead, as the boy approached, she managed to gasp a question. “Whose fine camels are those?”
    The youth showed a smile of pearly teeth. “They once belonged to a sheikh of the Bordjias,” he answered, straightening his shoulders as if donning an aba.
    The answer explained the lack of saddles and halters. What the youth had left unspoken was that now the camels belonged to him. He had stolen them on a raid. If, as he claimed, the animals had belonged to a sheikh, the pasture had undoubtedly been a well-guarded one. Ruha was glad she had not insulted the young man by asking after his master.
    The youth stopped a pace away from Ruha and passed the waterskin to her. Observing that he self-consciously kept one hand close to the hilt of his jambiya, Ruha said, “A The boy nodded, then answered, “My father says it is honorable to help a stranger, but to remember that no friend is ever a stranger.”
    “Your father is right;” Ruha answered, lifting the skin to her mouth.
    Though the water was hot and tasted of several days in the skin, to her it seemed as if it had just come from a cool spring. Still, she stopped herself after three swallows, for drinking too much too quickly would make her feel worse than she did now. Besides, when a stranger shared his water, one never knew how much he had to spare. She offered the skin back to the youth.
    The boy shook his head. “Drink. I have another.” He spoke with an exaggerated tone of authority.
    Ruha allowed herself two more swallows. “Your water is sweeter than honeyed milk;” she said. Though she meant what she said, the words were weighted with exhaustion. They sounded insincere even to the young widow.
    The youth smiled and shook his head. “That water’s been in the skin for five days. You’ve been out here watching my khowwan too long:’
    “It’s my khowwan, too;’ Ruha answered. “Or at least it was:’
    The boy’s smile faded. “What do you mean?”
    Ruha pointed at the vultures hanging over the oasis. “Surely you’ve seen N’asr’s children?”
    The young warrior nodded. “That’s why I hid my approach behind the dunes, but I meant to ask why you claim to be Qahtani. If you were a member of the tribe, I would know you. There aren’t that many of us:’
    “I’m Ruha, Ajaman’s wife,” she answered.
    The youth’s hand drifted back toward his dagger. “Ajaman has no wife,” he said suspiciously.
    Shrugging aside his skeptical tone, Ruha lifted the waterskin to her lips again. She still felt weak and dizzy, but with an ample supply of water at hand, she would soon be better. After a few swallows, she lowered the skin and said, “I came to the Qahtan three days ago:’
    “Forgive me;’ the boy said, flustered. As an afterthought, the boy offered, “I was on el a’sarad.”
    Ah, Ruha thought, that explains