CHAPTER 32
A FAMILY （REPRISE）
The sun was blazing when Touraine made it back to the Old Medina, and she was fuming. She tried to wipe the evidence of her visit from her face behind the veil as she wove through the almost-familiar streets to Djasha and Aranen’s riad. The priestess had finally deemed her wife recovered enough to move, so Djasha and the pack of strays had relocated.
Jaghotai arrived at the same time, carrying a tray of khubza, the thick rounds of bread that Qazāli ate at meals. “Where have you been?” she grunted.
“Nowhere,” Touraine grunted back. She reached out to catch one end of the tray, but Jaghotai twisted away and nodded at the door instead.
The sharp smell of pungent vegetables met them immediately, along with the sound of pleasant banter. Sa?d the bookseller was there, two books beside him while he cut the vegetables that Aranen threw into a pot already simmering.
Djasha lay in a corner, and Malika padded around her in bare feet and a casual dress—which meant it was still more elegant and sleek than anything in Balladairan high fashion. She held a cup of water for Djasha. A quick smile at Touraine and Jaghotai tugged the scar on her chin.
“She said she was fine.” Malika rolled her eyes, but Touraine heard the twist of grief in her voice.
“I lied.” Djasha winced as she pushed herself up to take a drink and tried to turn it into a scowl.
“Aranen said rest.” Malika pulled the thin blanket up Djasha’s stomach.
“I am. We are,” Djasha said, teeth gritted. With a start, Touraine noticed the tribal priest’s giant cat, its head resting at Djasha’s side. Their golden eyes matched. “It just hurts so Shāl-damned much.” She shoved the blanket off. “And it’s too damned hot in this place.”
“Can I bring anything?” Touraine directed the words more to Malika, who looked grimly at their patient, but Djasha answered.
“Both of you. Stop hovering over me like a nest of mosquitoes. Go bother my nurse.”
The doctor-priestess snorted from her side of the single room. “It is time you learned how to make a proper Qazāli dinner. Even Niwai is… helping.”
The tribal priest was poking at something in the tajine while Jaghotai peered suspiciously over their shoulder.
“Ya, Touraine!” Sa?d threw his arms wide, knife included, which made Aranen squawk indignantly before swearing at him.
Touraine greeted him back in her awkward Shālan. Though Luca had been teaching Touraine the stiff scholar’s version of the tongue, being surrounded by the rebels’ liquid syllables was rubbing off on her. She braved the vegetable knife to kiss the man on both cheeks. Of all of them, he was still the warmest toward her.
“Watch yourself, Sa?d,” Aranen said. “If you lose your lips—or anything else—I can’t promise to heal you.” Aranen twirled her own knife through the air, smiling down at her vegetables.
“What? The Mulāzim wouldn’t hurt me. I gave her the gift of poetry.”
They spoke a combination of Shālan and Balladairan, heavy on the Balladairan, that Touraine could sometimes follow. Their nickname for her stayed the same—the lieutenant.
They cooked a small feast in the happy chaos, and Touraine let thoughts of Luca, thoughts of Pruett, and even thoughts of Tibeau fade just a little.
Warmth.
Djasha was right. It was sweltering. Sweat on Sa?d’s brow, soaking the broad back of his shirt, making patches under Jaghotai’s arms. There was more than that, though, and Touraine could feel it between them.
There was something like family here, even if it was the familiarity of desperation, scrounged from necessity and danger. Just like the Sands had become her family.
Touraine and Malika carried the food to the low table, where Aranen helped Djasha sit. The sick woman clung to her wife’s arm. Despite their laughter, Djasha’s cheeks and eyes were hollow. She’d lost weight. When Touraine first met Djasha months ago, the rebel leader’s presence had been forceful, even terrifying. Her rapid decline was even scarier.
“A blessing from Shāl,” Aranen said after everyone sat down.
“A blessing from Shāl,” the other Shālans murmured. Niwai said their own whispered thanks. Djasha the Apostate said nothing. Touraine stayed quietly self-conscious.
They ate.
Touraine still didn’t know if she believed in Shāl. Not like Aranen, with her unshakable faith. Why would a god direct her life to this moment, this side of the rebellion? No adequate weapons, no actual soldiers, and it was a lot harder to dig out an entrenched army than to rout a marching one. This looked like the losing side. It even felt like the losing side.