Obsidian: Retribution (Book 2)

Thirty-Three: Two Oruguitas

There were times, when Djari thought she knew the man who called himself Rhykal izr Zoren. She knew the sharp edges that slipped through Hasheem's voice on occasions, the quiet, simmering rage in his gray eyes when they turned almost white, and the cold, dark void he deliberately left between them whenever she crossed the line. In some ways, a part of her had always been aware of the other side of Hasheem that existed underneath the gentle mask he wore, locked up, lost, and screaming for release.

'There is a monster in that boy,' Deo di Amarra had said.

That monster was here, now, and for all that he should feel like a stranger, the familiarity she felt with this man called Rhykal bothered her. Had she always seen it in Hasheem and turned a blind eye? Or had she always known and decided it was all right? One made her a coward, the other made her a beast.

What am I?

She was, after all, a daughter of Za'in izr Husari, and he had burned people alive. And Nazir had only said that she would end the war, never how.

But Hasheem did believe in her, so did the Prince, so did everyone who knew that prophecy. That mattered, didn't it?

It didn't. Deep down, she knew it with the same certainty as knowing the man sitting before her was not her sworn sword. She had believed in Hasheem, too, and trusted him. She'd trusted herself, her judgement, and her willingness to sacrifice for her Kha'gan. But here they were, two monsters sitting by the fire––one di Amarra had warned her would come to life, the other someone who would let him live. She knew what she had done when she'd said what she'd said to Akai izr Imami. Her conscience had been clear, that was the problem.

'I will decide if he lives or dies,' she'd said.

A lie she knew for certain. A decision she wasn't prepared––or willing—to make. Not now anyway. Not for the future she could see. Maybe not ever.

No, it didn't matter what her or anyone believed. A festering wound would always burst open one day, one way or another, no matter how well it was concealed. Now that it had, she was staring at the mess she'd created, smelling the rotten flesh and the puss she'd left unattended for the sake of preserving her own heart, and trying to find a cure that might not exist.

Across the fire, the man who looked like Hasheem was concentrating on skinning the squirrel he'd caught earlier that night, ignoring the hostage he'd secured by the wrists with a rope tethered to his own. He hadn't spoken a word to her since they left izr Imami's home at the top of the mountain, hadn't answered a single question she'd asked. Instead, he'd dragged her along like a goat to be sacrificed, yanking the rope every time her steps had faltered, and grunting irritably when she'd failed to get up fast enough. They'd stopped halfway down Al-Sana late at night to camp and make fire, and by then she was bleeding from a dozen scrapes and scratches he'd decided was none of his concern. Whoever this man was, and however familiar he seemed to her, he was not Hasheem. Which meant that she had put herself––and therefore her entire Kha'gan––in danger again by sneaking out of camp and getting herself taken hostage once more, this time by someone Akai izr Imami had called a monster bigger than Za'in izr Husari. On top of everything that had happened, she'd also learned that her sworn sword had killed the Khumar of another Kha'gan. How she was going to fix this mess was beyond––

"Do you need to shit?" Rhykal said all of the sudden and without looking up from the squirrel.

"What?"

"You look like you need to shit."

Djari felt the heat on her cheeks and knew it didn't come from the fire. Still, she had a hard time figuring out if she was embarrassed, confused, or angry. She decided only the last was acceptable given the circumstance. "Four hours of silence and that's the first thing you say to me?" She ought to have been more careful of what she said to a cold-blooded murderer who was not Hasheem, but she was too tired, too stressed, and too hungry to care.