Sandstorm (42 page)

"Callen!" Rook bellowed after him, wanting to yank his hair out. He turned back to Noor, who was still frowning. "I'm sorry. He means no harm...merely mischievous and impulsive..."

Noor shook his head. "And much like the wind, as you said. Why did he give this to me?"

"He thinks he's being funny," Rook muttered, mortified. "It's harmless enough, I'm sure, and if he gave it to you he genuinely wanted you to have it. Do not ask me why, though. The man is my friend, but his own mother never understood his mind."

Noor said nothing, but with a puzzled frown opened the box and pulled out the contents.

Rook groaned and buried his face in his hands. "I'm going to kill him."

"What in the name of the Lady..." Noor asked, confusion deepening as he looked at the long, wide strip of heavy black cloth, embroidered with gold and silver stars.

Feeling his cheeks burn, Rook barely kept from snatching the strip of cloth away. "Nothing,"

he hissed. "Shall we go find that wine?"

"As you like," Noor said, something like amusement flickering briefly across his face before he obediently followed Rook to the café.

*~*~*

Noor absently stroked the strip of black fabric, lost in thought as he stared out over the distant city. Over the past few days, the embroidered length of cloth had become a talisman of sorts. It was as much a mystery to him as the world around him. Lady of the Sands, may he never leave the Desert again.

The evening was surprisingly cool, always a pleasant change from the heat. It was also remarkably quiet, the lull between the end of the day and the start of the evening meal.

Though life in Tavamara did not appeal to him, he could see why Lord Ikram liked it.

Unfortunately, the calm left him alone with his thoughts, and Noor had never favored avoiding his own mind for too long.

He had never considered himself a blind man, but he had also never considered himself a fool. Recent events were forcing him to reconsider both points.

Because he had always noted the Princess's cousin, but never really noticed him. It would be hard not to take note of one of only three heathens in the palace, especially when of the other two one was female and the Princess, the other a concubine with brilliant red hair.

His beauty, too, Noor had noted. Odd features and coloring, heathens were nothing if not unusual...but the gold hair and skin were beautiful in their own exotic way. A lifetime of habit, however, had always kept him noting such things from a respectful distance.

Then that kiss.

Intimacy was an extremely private thing in the Sands, where privacy was a hard thing to come by living in close knit camps who lived in tents. A kiss or an embrace might be seen, but only light, simple things.

That kiss Rook had exchanged with his old friend was the sort of thing to be kept strictly to the confines of a tent. Noor felt guilty for having seen it, confused that the heathens had acted so casually about it. Remembering it felt illicit.

Since their arrival in Tavamara, Rook had been more...alive was the first word that came to mind. But though Noor had made note of it, he was not sure he would have ever truly noticed if not for that confounded kiss.

Never had he been witness to so intimate a kiss; only party to one, which was not the same thing at all.

Though watching had felt wrong, Noor had not been able to look away.

Now he could not stop looking. He was noticing a thousand things he never had...like how soft those gold curls looked, the way they clung to Rook's neck and cheeks.

The way Rook smelled like sunshine and sweet wine.

That he looked much better when he was happy, and that he seldom had looked happy back in the palace.

The impossible blue of those eyes, how sharp and clear they were.

And how he always looked slightly strained.

Noor wondered if that strained look had anything to do with the way Rook seemed to notice everything. More than once in the past week he had seen Rook dodge people or catch objects a moment before anyone realized they were going to trip or drop something.

He'd done the same thing in that madness-filled market, fighting the crowd with a skill no others there had seemed to exhibit.

With that kiss still prevalent in his thoughts, he could not help but wonder if Rook used his skills even in intimacy. If he could help it. If he always paid such close attention to his surroundings...

Staying a step ahead of one's opponent was the only way to stay alive. Anyone trained to fight learned to pay attention. It was inevitable.

Rook, though, was never a step ahead of anyone.

He was always several.

In most people, body moved faster than mind. People simply reacted; this was especially true in the heat of battle, where there was no chance to stop and think. Instinct guided all the best warriors.

Rook, he was realizing, was faster in mind than body. He thought too quickly, too far ahead, to stay with a fight. Training him in combat would have slowed down his mind.

The realization made Noor wince, as he thought of how condescending they all had been of the heathen who could not wield a sword. Now that he was noticing, stopping and thinking, it seemed so obvious.

What was it like to be constantly at work? Even as a General, he had moments of calm. He did not constantly wield his sword, fight unending battles. When the Sands were stained with blood not so long ago, even then there were peaceful days where they could all stop and rest.

Noor could not imagine swinging his sword unendingly, and surely that must be the rough equivalent of what Rook endured, the way he was always watching, noting, predicting. As though it were impossible to stop.

If that were true, the only real chance his mind had to rest was when he clo-His thoughts broke off as a new realization struck him.

He looked at the strip of fabric in his hands, recalling the way the heathen had smirked, Rook's embarrassment. That kiss.

He smiled as the pieces all fell into place.

A knock at the door broke into his thoughts, and he knew by the familiar rhythm of it that Rook was on the opposite side, fetching him for dinner.

Swiftly Noor folded up the black strip of fabric and tucked it into his robes before striding across the room to open the door. "Rook, good evening."

Rook smiled, and Noor once more called himself a fool for seeing but never noticing. Now that his eyes were open...how long had Rook been looking so at him? "Ready for dinner?"

"No," Noor answered honestly. He hated the massive scale of it. His Sandstorm Prince tended to eat privately whenever he could, with only his closest circle to join him. Those Noor liked very much indeed. He avoided the larger dinners whenever possible. The massive banquets hosted by his Majesty...

And now that he had solved the riddle of the heathen's gift, he wanted badly to put his theory to the test. For months he had barely noticed this man, and now he struggled very much to keep his thoughts proper.

"Are you all right?" Rook asked, frowning. "You look...unsettled."

Noor shook his head, reminding himself sternly that he was not exempt from Rook's attention and ability. "I am fine. Merely hoping I do not cause offense." He smiled. "Being a savage and all."

Rook gave a soft snort. "You have not seen savage until you see the ambassadors pretend to be nice to each other, all the while deciding where best to stick their knives. They have no right to be calling anyone else savage."

"That is merely cowardice," Noor replied. "Lead the way, heathen."

"This way, savage," Rook said with a laugh.

Noor was amazed at the changes in Rook since their arrival in Tavamara, and wondered what kept him so silent back home.

Perhaps he did not, could not, consider the Sands home. Or, he realized with an inward grimace, perhaps the sons of the Lady had given him every reason to dislike the Sands.

Well, he would begin to change that upon their return.

Or sooner, though he wondered if seduction was cheating. Not that it would stop him. He had been blind this entire time, but now that he could see he intended to waste no more time.

They reached the banquet hall and he tried not to cringe. The King's table was crowded with special guests, foreign dignitaries. Noor was deeply grateful they would be sitting at a smaller table, though when the King arrived a few minutes later he smiled and nodded at them.

He and Rook sat at a table filled with ambassadors and their companions. What seemed a dozen languages flew about before they all slowly settled on the dialect of Tavamara, only slightly different in accent to that which they spoke in the Sands.

"So," said a man with a gruff voice, a thick, rough accent. He seemed a mass of fat and thick black hair. "It has been a long time, Prince Ryder."

Beside him, Rook stiffened. "I am no prince, Lord Gorky. Gollen stripped me of all titles when I gave my loyalty to the Great Desert."

Noor could not help but note he did not say Tavamara and the Great Desert, which would have been more proper, as the Desert was now only part of Tavamara. So perhaps he and his brothers in the Sands had not driven their heathen completely away. "He is Lord Rook, cousin and dearest friend to her Highness Princess Cordelia of Tavamara and the Great Desert."

The men all chuckled, and he saw the wince Rook only just hid.

"My apologies," he said quietly, for only Rook's ears. "Did I speak wrongly?"

Rook shook his head vehemently. "No." He smiled weakly. "It is only that-"

A man beside Gorky broke in as he finally stopped laughing. He had blonde hair not nearly as fine as Rook's, but several shades darker and perfectly straight. "I did not know they still called you that, Lord Rook. Are you still defeating Kings at chess?"

Noor paused in the process of refilling his dish with a dark green wine of which he was becoming fond. It was sharp and cool, nice against the spicy foods. "Kings?" he asked, turning to Rook. "You defeated kings?"

"King," Rook said with a grimace. "Singular. One King. The father of his Majesty the King of Gollen."

"Checkmate!" Another man, who resembled nothing so much as wet sand, said with a loud laugh. "Lord Rook, I cannot believe you have kept the tale from your savage."

Rook stiffened. "He is not a savage, and I will thank you to watch your tongue."

"Of course, of course. My apologies," the man said absently. He leaned over the table, speaking to Noor as though they were sharing some great confidence. "It is quite the tale, you know. I was lucky enough to be there as a green politician."

"A...green..." Noor's brow furrowed.

"Just out of his father's tent," Rook said, glaring at the man. "Do not go telling tales which are not yours to tell."

Gorky snorted inelegantly. "We will if you do not."

"It's boring," Rook snapped.

"That is the most absurd thing I have ever heard," said the blonde man scathingly. "Lord Noor - that was your name, yes? Do not listen to him. 'Rook' was always reticent to hear the tale recounted."

The men all snickered, nudging each other. "Yes," said Gorky, entire body shaking with laughter. "Never have I seen the equal of that scene, the King's face! Of course, I think were I a King I would have looked the same, to be so easily defeated by a mere lad."

"Yes," said the sand-colored man. "It was quite the scene. The King had been playing Lord Rook's father, and when he was finished Rook asked if he might try. The King was indulgent of his grandson and said he might."

More laughter and looks exchanged, then the blond man picked up the story. "I do believe he curbed his indulgence after that night! Young Prince Ryder sat down, right there at the King's table and set the pieces up. Such a frown of concentration on his face!"

Gorky grinned and slurped his wine, absently pouring more as he spoke in turn. "The game did not last long, before Prince Ryder checkmated him neatly with a rook!"

Noor frowned. "I am afraid I am unfamiliar with the game."

"It's a strategy game, much like taaki. Only two persons play at a time, and the rules are not quite as intricate or varied...but it is just as difficult, for all that." Rook swallowed his wine in a single gulp and poured more. Something dark violet, which Noor suspected was rather strong. "A rook is one of the playing pieces...similar in nature to the tarkapiece."

"I see," Noor said, not entirely understanding but comprehending enough. "Is this story that upsetting to you?"

Rook shrugged. "Embarrassing, mostly," he said. "I should have been told no right from the start, if not beaten for my audacity." He shrugged again. "I wanted to try and play, though, and did not think past that."

A sudden silence fell.

"Try and play?" Gorky said finally. "Lord Rook...are you saying you had never played before that night?"

Rook buried his face in one hand as the table erupted into all new levels of delighted laughter. "If you gentlemen will excuse me, please," he said, voice tight, then stood up and all but bolted.

Noor did not bother being polite to men who had been rude first, but simply stood and followed Rook out of the banquet hall. He caught up with him two hallways later, latching on to a slender wrist. "I apologize," he said. "You clearly did not want the story told, I should not have so willingly listened."

"It's all right," Rook said tiredly, sighing softly. "From all viewpoints but mine, it is a fine tale. I understand why they like to recount it..."

Slowly letting go of him, Noor waited.

"People back home like to say I am not my father's son. I think sometimes even my father suspected my mother of dallying with his brother...my father is no tactician, and the present King is quite sharp of mind, as was the late King - the man I played. My grandfather. On top of that, my father has always been sickly... Everyone else sees the game which was played, that a boy of fifteen beat the King, who until then had never been defeated." He laughed bitterly. "All I remember was that my father still would not smile at me, and the rumors of who truly sired me tripled that day."

Rook turned sharply away. "I apologize. It is not fair to make you listen to me whine. Nor did I mean to ruin your dinner."