Obsidian: Retribution (Book 2)

Twenty Five: A Price to Pay

Rhani stood watching the former Salar of Rasharwi clutch the body of his wife against his chest, wondering if she should let the woman die or offer some kind of assistance. The dagger was poisoned, he had said. She would need a healer, and quickly. There was someone nearby. Rhani knew the man. She also knew the way. She was from this side of Samarra.

She could tell him, or she could stay silent. Death would get the woman out of the way, give her a chance to get close to the Salar. Her life could turn in a better direction. Someone's cousin had done that with her life (she remembered that gossip from a while ago). You could be raped by the neighbor, get pregnant, birth the child, and still find a rich husband somewhere far away, live out the rest of your life in silk and gold. Girls sent to temples always came back used. They, too, turned out all right. Rashar blessed those who persevere and resurrect themselves, like sunrise every morning, she'd been taught. She would be forgiven for this, wouldn't she?

She knew what she had to do with her life next, and she must do it quickly. 'No time to sit and cry about it,' Father had said to Mother when her youngest brother had passed away. 'Crops need to be tended, the animals taken care of. You want to stay here and weep you'd better weep silver or we all die with him.'

No time for her here either, and she had already wept for three days. Sooner or later you woke up and realized there were other things to do besides crying. She might already be pregnant, for all she knew. She would never be sure who the father was. Not that it mattered. They would discard her or kill her child once her belly became noticeable, maybe leave her somewhere to die here in the forest. Her brother, Raoul, wouldn't last long without her. He was young, weak, and had problems breathing when he ran. They would get rid of him as soon as they knew him to be useless for hard labor. 'Take care of your brother,' Mother had said before the bandits killed her.  She must find a man to take care of them all quickly, someone who could offer protection, someone strong. Every girl in the village did that. It was normal, necessary. Love and independence was a dream for the privileged who didn't have to take care of anyone, her father had said that too.

She had considered the leader, Qasim, who had been the first to take her––the only one among them who hadn't made her scream on purpose. He had been quick and practical, had seemed to gain no more pleasure from it than getting a quick drink from a hard day's work. Her father had bedded her mother that way. He'd bedded her aunt differently, however (she'd seen him do both as a child, hiding in the barn). 'Sex and love rarely marry each other when you're poor,' Mother had said when she told her to marry Assan, whom she didn't love. 'As long as the man isn't cruel, you can live a decent enough life, and find pleasure somewhere else.' Qasim could also protect her, she'd figured. He might even turn out to be kind, if she made herself a good wife. Men tend to be kind to good wives, her mother had said.

But now that she knew who Ranveer Borkhan was, now that he had taken control of them all, she believed Rashar had given her a bigger blessing. He was old enough to be her father, but still strong and well in his prime. He was handsome too, more handsome than Yashi's boyfriend every girl had wanted to marry and by far. She wouldn't mind bedding him, if that was required. She must get him to like her, quickly, if she were to survive.

And the only one in her way was this woman, Zahara.

The woman who had been poisoned and would die if left untreated.

The woman who might live because of me.

Rhani made a decision.

She stepped up to the former Salar and touched his forearm. She said, "What would you give, my lord, to save your woman?"

***

What would I give to save her?

Muradi sat by the bed, asking himself that question a hundred times in his mind as he watched the healer clean and bandage Zahara's wound. 'What wouldn't I give?' was the real question. He had no answer for that one, not in the past hour he had been sitting here. There had to be a line somewhere, only he couldn't seem to find it.