Page 77 of The Moon's Fury
“I named him after Zarian, and now he’s probably dead,” she blurted out.
He furrowed his brows “I—what?”
“Zar,” she explained, worried brown eyes meeting his. “He was Zarian’s namesake. Do you think it’s an ill omen?”
“I’m sorry about Zar,” he murmured, berating himself for not saying something earlier—he knew she had grown attached to the temperamental horse. “And don’t worry about Zarian. It would take more than an arrow to take him down. We covered a lot of ground today. We’ll meet them in Sendouk.” He offered her a smile, hoping it might ease some of her worries.
She smiled back, soft and tentative.
His heart missed a beat.
The fire crackled loudly. “Er, I think the rabbit’s done.” He removed the meat from the skewer and portioned it between them, giving her the tender cuts and keeping the tougher, sinewy pieces for himself.
Soraya frowned at her meal, eyes darting to his plate. With pursed lips, she slid half her portion onto his plate. Grease-slicked fingers brushed against his as she handed it back. His skin tingled where she touched him.
“I’m not some big, muscled warrior. You need the protein more than me,” she said with a playful smile. He could’ve sworn a faint blush warmed her cheeks.
He swallowed, his heart as full as his plate.
They ate their meal in silence. He struggled to string together a sentence and start a conversation, but he closed his mouth each time. He had never been good with words, not like Zarian.
But he needn’t have worried; Soraya had more than enough for both of them.
“How did you join the Medjai?” she asked, blotting grease from her lips. “And don’t say it’s a long story. We have nothing but time.”
He debated evading her question, but stubborn Soraya would only double down.
“My family was from the Oasis. Maybe a thirty-minute walk to the palace. My father was a middle-class blacksmith. We were happy.” Something dark and cold squeezed his heart, and his gaze found his lap. “I was eight when it happened. I went to playghommemahwith my friends. I was the best at seeking. When I came home, my parents were dead. Murdered.”
Soraya gasped.
He inhaled sharply, forcing himself to continue. “It all happened quickly after that. Debt collectors came and sold our belongings. I stayed with a friend’s family for a short while, but I always felt like a burden. And his father…”
He swallowed. “Anyway, I left. There were plenty other orphans like me in the streets. We survived together, shared our food. Took odd jobs when we could. Begged when we couldn’t.” The words were harder to say now, less willing to leave his lips. He’d buried his past so deep inside himself, it protested at being unearthed.
He didn’t dare meet Soraya’s eyes.
Her pity would break him.
“I don’t remember how long I was on the streets—six months? A year? One night, after a shit day of begging, I headed back to our alley. I was still hungry, and my lip was split from wheresome man had backhanded me. Then another man approached, and right away, I knew he was different. His clothes looked expensive, and his turban was pristine. But more than that, his face was kind. Without a word, he bought me food from a street vendor.
“He asked if I wanted a roof over my head and as much food as I could eat. Of course, I said yes. He said he’d take me to the palace, and I would live there from now on. With other boys. But we needed to go right away, otherwise there wouldn’t be any more space for me.”
Jamil took a shuddering breath. “I’m sure you can guess my answer.” From his periphery, he saw Soraya nod.
“What happened next?” she asked, her voice hoarse.
He looked at her, then. Tears shimmered in her large eyes, a few slipping free to trace silent, wet paths down her cheeks. His fingers itched to brush them away, to pull her into his arms and murmur soothing words in her ear.
To tell her not to waste her tears on him.
“He kept his word. Took me to the palace, where I could eat until my belly was bursting. There’s a barracks of sorts within the palace complex for the Medjai. I was with other boys my age. Some I recognized from the streets, some I had never seen before.”
He paused. “I can’t say I was mistreated. The boys fought among themselves now and then, but the instructors were not heavy-handed. As long as I followed the rules and trained hard, I had nothing to fear. In many ways, it felt like a school. We rose at dawn, meditated, ate breakfast, then attended classes—geography, history, mathematics, languages. I suppose they didn’t want their weapons to be dull in any sense.”
He cracked a smile at his joke, but Soraya didn’t.
“After classes, we had training. It was grueling. Theyhadto feed us so much, or else we would’ve fainted daily. Strengthtraining, running, combat. It became more intensive as I grew older.”
