A wide tract of thick grass poked through thinning sand, spanning a small portion of the desert. In the middle of it, small tents and large marquees draped in bright red fabric pillowed and flapped in a blustery breeze. Crimson flags slashed the sky. Caravan wagons bordered the encampment, as did camels, some standing still while others lay with legs neatly tucked beneath them.

Through the firelight, the large dark silhouette shimmered as it moved in the breeze, and Ule made out what it was—a dense cluster of bare, bowed trunks supporting a rippling canopy of dark feathery leaves.

At the edge of the camp, two figures stood side by side peering into the darkness. Farther along the perimeter, another two figures stood. All wore white cloth tightly wrapped about their legs, torsos, and heads.

Ule suspected they might be guards, and she focused on the two closest to her, trying to remember what the old man had told her about the nomads. What had he said, something about them not being kind to strangers?

She gulped. The movement aggravated the raw burn in her throat. Exhaustion and hunger urged her toward the camp as though she had no other option.

“I always have a choice,” she mumbled.

Two options came to mind: return to the desert to sleep a little while and face whatever lurked in the shadows, or trust the nomads to show some kindness. She chose to meet the unkind nomads.

Nearing the camp, she leaned against a wagon to catch her breath. As she called out to the two guards, a faint croak stuck in her throat.

Helplessness overcame her. Even worse, she felt naked even though she wore a dress that snapped frantically, twisting and untwisting about her legs. Vulnerability spurred the desire to build a wall around her so thick nothing could penetrate.

She resumed walking, the last of her energy slipping away. She reached for the guards, tried calling to them again.

They must have heard something, perhaps even seen her, for both stiffened, reached behind their heads, and withdrew swords from sheaths strung across the backs of their shoulders.

“Please!” Ule forced the sound through her dry throat. She stumbled and managed to stay upright, her left heel throbbing.

Riveted to their posts, the guards raised their swords and peered into the darkness. Firelight reflected in their white clothes, creating the illusion of flame flickering auras.

The beginning of rough grass pricked her soles. The guards advanced. One grabbed her by the arm with a tight grip; the other hastened to sheath the sword, leaned into her, and spoke in a low tone.

“You na look well, young bes.”

Strong arms pulled Ule along. Her vision faded in and out, yet she saw the glint in the guards’ eyes and their soft curves nearly hidden beneath white tunics. They kept her upright, guiding her toward the inner camp and calling out to others.

She eased into the warmth of a nearby fire. She would have slipped into unconsciousness if not for the cold water that trickled over her lips and chin. She reached out for the source and clutched a clay vessel, tipping the water into her mouth.

She gulped it down, let it soothe her cracked lips and parched tongue. When it hit her stomach with an icy fist, she doubled up, clutching her belly. She groaned to keep the water from coming up. The cramp released slowly.

If it weren’t for feet padding along the ground nearby or being prodded in the flesh by warm hands, she might have succumbed to sleep.

The pulse of pain in her heel increased sharply then subsided. Something wet and sticky soothed the burn in her cheeks and arms. Why that old man would think the nomads unkind to strangers, she couldn’t understand.

Gentle fingers continued prodding her body. She gave into the weariness and her head lolled to one side. For a brief  moment, she lifted heavy lids and glimpsed a figure emerge from between the tents and glided over the ground.

Ule fixated on the tall, graceful woman, her strides long and fluid. Her small, round face jutted from an elongated head, which swept upward much longer than a skull should. Her legs tapered from full thighs down to narrow feet, every muscle firm and chiselled, breasts small, hips narrow. Her glistening black eyes and charred wood complexion nearly blended into the night.

“That’s a kokum,” Ule mumbled.

She blinked at the strange woman, felt the last of her strength slip away, as questions poured into her mind. Who were these people? What business did they have in the desert? What did the word bes mean? But most importantly,  where did the strange woman hide her arms?

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The Forgotten Gemstone, Book One in A Xiinisi Trilogy

© Kit Daven & Eager Eye Books, 2013.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any matter whatsoever  without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review or critical article.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, situations, and references portrayed in this story either fictitious or are used fictitiously.

Cover art by Sean Chappell, RedFracture .com.