Kalima was dead set against my undertaking this journey.  The years have not managed to rob her of the fierce will that so frustrated me when we were children.  After my wife died in her second birthing bed, my sister made it her mission to save me from myself.  She told me that she was moving back to our ruined estate—she did not ask.  She brought with along her growing brood and her husband, who was fleeing the shambles of an ill-conceived tailoring business in town.  She came for Ayman, who was then only five years old, and for my daughter, whom the midwife pulled alive from my wife’s lifeless body.

Mostly, though, she came for me.  It was Kali who named the baby Ayishah—“alive.”  It was Kali who stubbornly refused to let me sink into despair.

She got her way.  She usually does.

But, when her son fell, bleeding, into his father’s arms, a fear awoke in Kali where before she had seemed immune to such failings.  For days, she sat by Tawil’s bedside while I tended his arrow wound.  When he, at last, began to mend, her fear did not dissipate.  Rather, it fluttered like a homeless bird, looking for a new place to alight.

She loves Ayman like her own, but she would not have had me follow him to Gondor—too great is her fear for me.

She covered it with other words.  She said that Tawil’s condition was too grave for me to leave, though we both knew that he was recovering and that my eldest niece now knows nearly as much healing as I.  She said it was too great a risk for me, the landowner, to leave the estate.  That, too, was folly; Mordor has fallen.  No one is now coming to inspect our herds, collect our taxes, and ensure our loyalty.  In the end, I would not be gainsaid.  Not when there was a chance my son still lived.

In desperation, she tried to send my brother-in-law with me.  He, at least, had served briefly in the Grand Army as a youth, and had been part of a raiding party in Ithilien—he knew the land better than I.

Still, I refused.  This is something I must do alone.

A parent’s love, I’ve found, is a powerful, fearsome thing.  Still, I fear that it, like my empty purse, may not be enough.

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“Sand,” Kali said, scuffing her sandal on the loose ground demonstratively.  “Sa-and.”

“Sand,” Dakheel repeated dutifully, his tongue barely stumbling over the Haradric vowel.  “Lith,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

“Liss?”

“Li-th,” he exaggerated the final sound.

“Li-thuh.”

The half-smile tugging at Dakheel’s lips grew by inches.  “Near enough,” he murmured in Westron.

At least one of us was amused.  Kalima was indefatigable as always, and as the three of us were checking the perimeter of our grazing lands together, there was little to do but listen to her prattle.  She had not given up on her quest to “educate” the Gondorian, and Dakheel was responding with good grace, gamely repeating the simple words for “sun,” “rock,” and “sandal” and teaching her a few new ones in some strange tongue.  I’d worried, at first, about him teaching her Westron in violation of Father’s wishes—while I, as his heir, was expected to learn “the enemy tongue,” my parents considered that kind of education improper for a young lady—but I recognized none of the words he was telling her.  Rusty as my Westron is, even I can remember the word for “sand.”  This tongue was clearly different.  So, I simply warned Kali that this was to be our secret language and she could never ever teach it to Father or Mother.  My sister is remarkably good at keeping secrets, for one so talkative.

“Cave,” Kali said, pointing to a small hillock that, I knew from experience, concealed an abandoned wolf den.

“Cave,” Dakheel repeated absently, “Tund.”

Kali made only a cursory attempt to repeat the foreign word before skipping off to inspect the den, no doubt hoping to find old fossils or animal tracks within.  “Sorry about her,” I said to Dakheel quietly, “I can make her stop if you want.  Or,” I hesitated, “I can try.”

Dakheel’s eyes crinkled.  “It is no hardship, truly.  It has been a long time since I’ve enjoyed the company of one so . . . enthused.”  He looked away, his sharp eyes scanning the herd as they grazed nearby.  “That goat is ill,” he remarked, pointing at a doe that stood a bit apart from the rest, her head low, her muzzle dotted with scabs.

“Yes,” I agreed, privately surprised that he had noticed, “She has a common ailment.  We call it . . . “sore-mouth” I guess would be the word.  It will resolve soon.”

“Nevertheless, we should keep a close eye.  A sick animal is oftentimes a target for predators.”

I wondered how a man who carries a sword and a silver ring had learned so much about herding.  I opened my mouth to ask . . . and shut it again, still silent.  The stray thought had reminded me that I was relying on Dakheel’s good grace for more than just patience with my sister.

My parents had left that morning, making for the markets of a town four leagues away.  There, they would purchase a few necessities, try to extend our credit line with a wealthy merchant, and arrange to lease a team of donkeys or camels to haul our seed crop when planting season came.  They would likely not be back until tomorrow ‘round midday, and the two were in firm agreement that Dakheel could not be allowed the run of the house and grounds while they were gone.  I’m not sure what they expected him to do—raid Mother’s jewelry box and disappear into the Haradwaith?  commit random acts of arson?—but Father insisted that if I had to watch the herds, Dakheel would watch them with me.

I wouldn’t have minded in the slightest—herding can be lonely work, and one of Dakheel’s stories can liven up the most dull of days—but Father also insisted that, in the name of “security,” I carry Dakheel’s own sword on my belt.

This was not how I’d imagined taking up arms.  I felt ridiculous.  The weapon was almost too heavy for my simple belt.  It kept bumping against the ground as I walked, and it was so long I doubted I’d even be able to draw it.  I couldn’t look Dakheel in the eyes—couldn’t enjoy the easy camaraderie we usually shared.  The tacit insult of wearing his sword made me cringe with shame.  It was like I was holding something over him.

Power.  The word drifted through my mind, like a whisper in Westron accented in Dakheel’s bemused tones.  That was ridiculous, of course—sword or no sword, I held no illusions as to who would win if Dakheel and I ever came to blows—but, there it was all the same.  I felt a guilty kind of gratitude that Dakheel had not commented on the sword.  I thought I saw him half-arch an eyebrow when he saw me bearing it, but he treated me just as he always had.

I tried to push dark thoughts from my mind by watching Kalima play a rough game of tag with one of the goats.  The kid had waylaid her on her way to the little cave, and now she was leading it on a merry chase, laughing as it trotted after her and tried to lip at the edge of her robe, and squealing with delight.  The pair rounded the little hill and disappeared from sight.

I looked out over the herd, trying to think about anything besides the sword on my hip.  There wasn’t much to see—just a few dead trees and skinny goats wandering across the browning grass.

When Kalima’s delighted cries turned to screams of panic, it took me a moment to realize what was happening.  An instant later, Kali came tearing around the side of the hill, the kid a few paces behind her, both of them fleeing the abandoned den as fast as their feet would carry them.

Because it wasn’t abandoned anymore.

Barreling after my sister came three wild dogs—vicious brutes, all dust-colored and rail-thin with inch-long teeth.  In the space of two heartbeats, the nearest caught up with the kid, seized it by the back of the neck, and began to shake the young animal as it brayed at the top of its lungs.

And my sister—my fierce, kind-hearted, fool of a sister—heard the goat’s cries and turned around.  Snatching a little stick off the ground, she brandished it wildly at the dogs.  The creatures fell back a half-step, more out of confusion than any real fear.  A mere second later, one of the beasts gathered itself and sprang, bowling Kali over like she was made of twigs.

I had frozen at the first sound of screams.  Dakheel had not.  He bounded towards Kali like an antelope, his long legs eating up the ground.  Even as I struggled to remember how to make my feet work, he snatched up a rock and sent it sailing with pinpoint accuracy to catch the beast on the side of the head.  It yowled and fell back even as a second rock connected with its hindquarters.  In the next moment, the dog was running.

But, it was not enough.

Even as Kali struggled to her feet, the third beast—the largest and fiercest of the three—fell upon her, seizing her leg and shaking it, with a sickening ripping sound.  She screamed and fell once more.  I didn’t remember moving, but suddenly I was stumbling towards them, struggling to keep my feet under me and tug the sword free of its scabbard.  Dakheel hurled another stone, but carefully for fear of hitting Kalima.  It sailed a foot over the largest dog’s back and struck the lower leg of the one that still held the goat.  The creature yelped and dropped the kid which galloped away in search of its mother, and a fourth rock sent the dog fleeing in the opposite direction.

That left only the largest beast . . . but having tasted my sister’s blood, it would be no easy prey.  As Dakheel drew near, it released her leg and stepped forward to plant itself, snarling, between the man and the girl.  Kali seemed to have run out of screams, but I could still hear her whimpering weakly.  I forced more speed out of legs that trembled with fear.  Dakheel dropped into a half crouch, a particularly large rock held before him like a cudgel.  As the dog advanced, he feinted an attack and then dropped back two steps, drawing the beast away . . . a step nearer to Dakheel . . . two steps farther from Kalima . . . The dog snarled and I half-expected the man to snarl back; he seemed almost feral in his intensity.

With a vicious yank, I finally pulled the sword all the way free of its sheath, and the weight of it nearly caused me to pitch forward.  Dakheel never looked behind him as I drew near, but I could tell he sensed my approach.  He retreated a half-step in my direction . . . another . . . Though I’d been half-expecting the movement, the suddenness of it caught me off-guard; one moment Dakheel was two paces ahead of me, still swinging the heavy rock, the next he was beside me, his left arm wrapping around my right and whisking the sword out of my hand before my nerveless fingers knew what was happening.  In the same moment, the dog leaped, panic in its yellowing eyes.  Dakheel swung his sword in a hard, left-handed arc that caught the dog mid-leap and sent it sprawling in a heap of fur, blood, and spittle.  The creature was back on its feet, quick as a flash, but Dakheel was quicker.  His sword flashed one more time, and then it was all over.

As the dog collapsed, blood gushing from the slash across its throat, Dakheel sprinted to the top of the hillock and scanned the horizon, no doubt making sure that the remaining beasts were still fleeing and that no more would follow.  I went straight to Kalima’s side.  Her face was as pale as chalk and her lips moved soundlessly, no longer able even to whimper.  A dark, sticky puddle was spreading under her, the blood sinking quickly into the thirsty ground.  I hitched up her over robe, pushed aside her shift, and stifled a gasp.  Blood was pouring, in a steady torrent from a series of ugly wounds

Before I could comprehend the damage or even feel my own helplessness, Dakheel was beside me, muttering angrily under his breath.  “Gathrod, not tund, addle-minded fool!  Valar, how could I be so stupid?”

His face softened, though, when he saw my sister’s wounds.  Without hesitation, he set the sword aside and knelt beside me, murmuring gently to Kalima in what I’d called their secret language.  She made a small noise in the back of her throat and swallowed weakly.  Keeping up a steady stream of what I imagined were reassurances in that strange, musical tongue, Dakheel lifted her leg, turning it carefully to locate the jagged holes along the side of her knee.

“We need to stop the bleeding,” he said, with just the smallest note of tension in his voice.  He lifted her leg to place her ankle on his shoulder and used his large hands to press down on the worst of the wounds.  “Your knife, Hakim,” he said quietly, “Take it and cut strips from my cloak—the cleanest part you can find.”

I drew my small knife, but looked doubtfully at Dakheel’s weather-beaten cloak.  “My robe might be better.”

“So long as it’s done quickly.”

Willing my hands not to fumble, I turned up the hem of my robe and wedged the blade in the seam where the outer robe met the soft inner lining.  As quickly as I could, I cut a large, ragged strip from the fabric.  Dakheel accepted it with a nod of thanks and the command “More.”  As I cut another strip with hands that were beginning to tremble, he balled up the first and pressed it against the largest wound.  I tried not to look as the undyed fabric quickly turned red.

“Talk to her,” Dakheel ordered, once the front of my robe was in tatters and he had a half-dozen decent sized cloths, “Try to get her to talk back.”

I bit my lip.  “Kalima?  Kali, can you hear me?”  Her eyelids, which had drifted shut, fluttered.  She groaned.  “Say something, Kali!”

“Hurts.”

The small word from the tiny voice broke my heart, but I pushed that aside.  “I know, Kali, but you have to keep talking.”

Dakheel was pressing cloths against as many wounds as he could reach and still murmuring in that strange tongue.  Kalima’s jaw clenched.  Sweat darkened the dust that streaked her face.  “He talks funny.”

I swallowed hard.  “Yes, yes he does.  And he wants you to know that the word for ‘cave’ is ‘gathrod,’ not ‘tund.’  Say it with me, Kali:  gathrod.”

She closed her eyes.  “Gass . . . gass-odd.”

“Ga-throd.  Say it:  the dogs were in the gathrod.”

“The . . . dogs . . . the dogs . . .”  Her head lolled to the side and she said no more.

“Kali!”  I turned to Dakheel, my face stricken.  “Is she dying?”

He slowly pulled a rag away from a wound.  It bled still, but the flow had slowed to a trickle.  He shook his head.  “It is not so bad as it appears.  I do not think she is in mortal danger.  She likely fainted from the pain.”  He replaced the rag and wrapped a longer piece of cloth around and around her leg, holding the makeshift bandages in place.  “This must be tended quickly, though; bite wounds tend to fester, and the infection can be far more dangerous than the blood loss.”  He scooped my sister up as though she weighed no more than a babe.  “These wounds must be cleaned.  You must take the herd back to the fold and then meet me at the house.”

“You want me to leave her?”

Kali stirred weakly.  Dakheel settled her more carefully in his arms.  “Hakim, you must do this.  You know your family cannot afford to lose those animals.”

He did not wait to debate the issue.  Without another word, he turned and bounded toward the house, too fast for me to follow, despite his burden.

For a moment, I simply stood there, fuming and shaking.  Then I growled a curse and turned to snatch up the abandoned sword and return it, awkwardly, to its sheath.  I gathered the goats as quickly as I could.  Seconds felt like hours as I herded them back into the fold and roused our guard dog.  By the time I arrived, panting and sweating, back at the house, Dakheel had settled Kali on the long counter that bisected the kitchen.  Already, she had a pillow under her head and a blanket covering her.  A kettle on the hearth was just beginning to steam, and Dakheel had laid out a number of basins and ladles.  How he’d found it all so quickly, having never been inside the kitchen before, I’m not sure.

As I entered, he looked up from the bowl in which he was meticulously scrubbing his hands and greeted me with a nod.  “Does your mother keep a healer’s kit?”

I managed a nod, bending over to catch my breath.  “In . . . in her room.”

“Bring it to me.”  His voice was brisk, but not sharp.  He sounded so calm that for a moment I forgot to be afraid.  I trotted off to fetch the box of herbs and bandages from Mother’s bower.  When I returned, it seemed there were a thousand things yet to do—more water to be drawn and set to boil while the first kettle cooled, shutters to be opened and lanterns lit.  At long last, Dakheel told me to wash my own hands.  As I complied, he folded the blanket back and carefully unwound the makeshift bandage.  Still only half conscious, Kali winced slightly.  Her brows furrowed and she moaned softly.  Dakheel laid a cool cloth over her forehead and murmured something too soft to hear.  He looked up at me.  “Stand on her other side.  I need you to hold her leg still while I scrub it.”

Willing my legs not to shake, I stepped to the other side of the table and leaned over my sister to place my hands—one above and one below her knee.  Dakheel moistened a cloth from a basin that had only just stopped steaming.  Gently but without hesitation, he began to scrub away the half-dried blood.  Kali whimpered.  The muscles of her leg began to tense and twitch under my hand, but I held it still.  Dakheel shot me a reassuring smile.  “You’re doing well.  Talk to her, but do not try to rouse her fully.  It will be best if she is not fully aware for this part.”

So, I spoke to Kalima softly, muttering nonsense and humming half-remembered lullabies.  But, my sister, ever the contrary one, was rousing quickly to full alertness.  When Dakheel touched a particularly ugly wound, her eyes fluttered open and she cried out.  Dakheel began to sing softly in that strange, lilting language.  His voice was clear and deep—far superior to mine.  Slowly, the distress faded from Kali’s face.  She blinked half-lidded eyes, caught at the boundary of sleep and wakefulness.

I breathed a little easier.

Dakheel kept up the song as he set the cloth aside and poured ladle after ladle of water over the wounds.  The simple tune filled the small space and seemed to expand beyond it.  Though I understood not a word, the lyrics created images in my mind’s eye—flowing water and flowering trees, dappled moonlight and dancing stars.  I let it envelop me as my heart slowed and my own eyelids began to flutter.  My hands slipped . . . and then I stumbled and had to catch myself against the counter.  Dakheel stopped singing abruptly and watched me with concerned eyes.

“Sorry.”  I flushed red.  “It was just . . . that song.  It was like magic.  Like you were casting a spell.”

He smiled as he set the ladle back in its basin.  “It is part of an Elvish lay.  Such songs can have strange effects on those who’ve not heard them before.”  He opened the pouch that held Mother’s herbs and fell silent.  A dozen different types of leaf, root, and stem were wrapped individually in crinkled paper.  Dakheel opened the little pouches one by one and inspected their contents closely, rolling them between his fingers and lifting them to sniff.  A frown creased his brow.  “These herbs are unfamiliar to me,” he said slowly.

I bit my lip.  “Mother gets them shipped from the cities in the south.  She never told me what they do.”

“They do not grow in my homeland.”

I closed my eyes and thought of the dried leaves that released such a potent scent.  “What about the herbs you brought with you?  Could those help?”

He shook his head.  “I’ve run out of all but athelas, and that is for the gravely ill.  We can only hope that Kalima does not grow weak enough that it would aid her.”

For a moment, we were both silent.  Kalima’s leg did not look nearly so bad, now that the dirt and blood had been rinsed away.  The skin around her knee was reddened, but the gashes were neither as large nor as deep as I had first feared.  “Do you have any honey?” Dakheel asked at last, “It may aid in preventing infection.”

I hesitated for only a half-second.  Honey was a precious commodity, and one of the few indulgences we permitted ourselves.  The jars had to be carried overland in long caravans all the way from Khand.  Father grumbled about the expense, but he liked a small honey cake on his name day, the same as all of us did.  I raced to the pantry and got the jar down, carefully, from an upper shelf.

Accepting the jar with a quick word of thanks, Dakheel twisted the lid off and drizzled a liberal amount of honey directly over the wounds.  Wiping the excess away, he covered the knee with a clean cloth and carefully wrapped a bandage around it.  “We have done all we can, for now.  The wound must be kept very clean, and the dressing changed frequently.”

“Aren’t you going to stitch it?”

He shook his head.  “There is less chance that it will fester if left open.”

Kali was stirring once more.  Dakheel lifted her head and raised a cup of cool water to her lips, gently coaxing her to drink it all.  “Abba?” she whispered, her eyes still closed.  He shushed her and gathered her up in his arms.  Her hand found the ragged collar of his tunic and clutched it tight.  “Dakheel . . .”

Ten minutes later, she was slumbering in her bed.  I only wished peace would come so easily to me.

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That evening was one long trial.  Kali napped for only a few short hours before waking.  Fortunately, she could wiggle her toes and flex her ankle.  Unfortunately, she was cranky and in pain and more than willing to share that pain with the world. 

First she was hot and didn’t want to stay in bed. 

Dakheel insisted.

Then, evening came and she didn’t want to eat even a bite of the food Mother had left. 

Dakheel insisted.

Her bandage came loose from constant fidgeting, and she didn’t want it changed.

Dakheel insisted.

He did a lot of insisting, his expression still calm and implacable long after I had lost all patience.  Beneath the collected façade, though, I could tell that he was frustrated—not at Kali, but at his own inability to do more.  He was able to ease her pain slightly by rubbing her leg above the wound, but she continued to suffer, and he dared not treat her with unfamiliar herbs

At last, my sister fell into a fretful sleep.  I would have stayed up with her, but Dakheel bid me rest as well.  “I will keep watch,” he assured me.

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It seemed I had just barely begun to doze, when I was awakened by a crash and a high-pitched scream.  In an instant, I was sitting bolt upright, struggling to push back the blankets that entangled me.  I scrambled to my feet and cast around my room.  Lawless nomads occasionally passed through these parts and had been known to prey on homesteads.  Where had I put that cursed sword?

Voices were echoing down the hallway—male and female, harsh with anger and fear.  Giving up on finding the sword, I grabbed my belt knife and raced from the room.  In the hallway, I was better able to pinpoint the source of the commotion.  I swallowed hard.  Kali’s room.

I shouldered through her open door, knife held out in a shaking grip.  The small chamber within was lit by a single candle.  A brass lantern lay smoking near the door.  The crash I’d heard had been the lantern falling to the floorboards, its shutters breaking, its flame guttering out.

The intruders were my parents.  Both still wore their dusty traveling robes.  They must have walked through half the night to arrive home so soon.  Mother’s eyes were wide.  Father’s face was red.  In a trembling hand, he held the Gondorian sword, its edge appearing black in the low light.  He’d backed Dakheel up against the wall, the tip of the sword held just inches from the taller man’s throat.  Dakheel’s face was tight with tension, but still far calmer than either of my parents’.  He was lifting his hands in a placating gesture, trying to reason with the other man.  Father scarcely seemed to hear.  His eyes were bulging as he shouted a stream of questions and accusations in a garbled mix of Haradric and Westron.

My knife clattered to the floor, as the pieces came together in my mind, making an awful kind of sense.  I’d left the sword by the entryway.  Full of concern for Kali, I hadn’t even taken the time to clean it, leaving the dog’s blood to congeal and crust.  My parents, arriving home earlier than expected, had been greeted by a silent house and a bloodied sword.

And then they’d found Dakheel, keeping watch in their daughter’s bedchamber in the dead of night.

I raced forward and grabbed Father’s free arm, but let go when he started in surprise.  Dakheel had to jerk his head quickly to the side to avoid being skewered by Father’s reflexive twitch.  “Father, no!  You don’t understand, he didn’t hurt Kali.  It was the dogs . . .”

My father’s only response was to shove me behind him with his free arm, his eyes still fixed on Dakheel as the story poured out of me, scrambled and nonsensical from my haste.  Haradric answers overlapped with Westron questions, Westron explanations with Haradric accusations.  Neither my father nor I was calm enough to keep the languages straight.  Neither of us noticed when Kali opened her bleary eyes, her face screwed up with pain and confusion.  Nor did we take much note when Mother crossed the room quickly to kneel beside her, questioning her daughter in a low, urgent voice.  All of us froze, though, when Mother’s voice, sharp as a whip, cracked through the room.

“Enough!”

We turned as one to look at Mother.  She had her arms around Kali, who seemed near tears.  Mother’s face was grave, but collected as she locked gazes with her husband.

“Let him go.”

Father’s face clouded in confusion.  He opened his mouth, but she cut him off.  “Azzam.  Let the Gondorian go.”

Slowly, as if against his will, Father’s sword arm retracted a few inches.  Even more slowly, Dakheel lifted his hand to push the sword aside, the back of his hand against the flat of the blade as he knocked it out of alignment with his neck.  Dakheel’s sharp eyes darted from face to face before coming to rest on my mother.  She swallowed hard and gave him a slight nod.  “Just go,” she said in thickly accented Westron.

Returning her nod, Dakheel stepped around my father—cautiously, as if to avoid spooking him.  He clasped my shoulder briefly as he brushed past and slipped from the room.  A moment later, we heard the front door creak open and thud shut.

A heavy silence lay over the four of us, punctuated by Kali’s occasional sniffles.  In the wake of Dakheel’s departure, the color drained out of my father’s face, leaving it pale and blotchy.  His arm dropped slowly, until the tip of the bloodied sword was pointed at the floor.

His whole body was trembling.

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It took some time to get my father calmed down enough for me to explain the day’s events in full.  While he paced and stewed, fighting the after-effects of fear-inspired rage, Mother lit a few more candles and lifted Kalima’s bandages to check her wounds.  Once she was sure Father would not fly off on a murderous rampage, Mother sent me for her healer’s kit and then banished both Father and me from the room.  He retreated to his study, alone with his fears.  I went out in search of Dakheel.

The barn was empty and silent as were the surrounding grounds.  At last, I found the foreigner in the fold.  He sat with his back against the brick wall, a young goat held in his lap.  I recognized it as the same kid that Kali had risked her life to save.  Dakheel was gently washing out the wounds on its back with a damp handkerchief and murmuring to it.  The kid seemed entranced.  Both the nanny goat and the watch dog, on the other hand, hovered nearby, their faces pictures of animal suspicion.

Dakheel greeted me with a small smile as I knelt beside him.  For a moment, we both were silent.  I had to force myself to speak.  “I suppose it’s my lot to forever be making my father’s apologies.”

He flashed another smile—quick and reassuring.  “Do not trouble yourself, Hakim.  Your father was frightened.  He was not himself.”

“He could have killed you.”

“You underestimate his heart, I think.  And you overestimate his arm.”

I bit my lip.  As usual, this conversation with Dakheel wasn’t turning out anything like I’d expected.

He met my gaze.  “Believe it or not, that reaction was quite familiar to me.  Even in his own lands, a healer who asks for no payment is often the subject of suspicion.  Especially if he has my look.”  I suspected that the light self-deprecation in his tone masked many a painful experience.

I looked away.  “Still, I am sorry.”  I stared at my knees.  “I should have been more vigilant.  Had I waited up with you, I could have explained things before he ever got into such a state.”

“You had no reason to expect them.  No more than I did.”

“Still, my father . . .” I muttered before running out of words.

Dakheel released the little goat.  It butted its head once against his chest then trotted off to its mother.  The nanny goat nuzzled it all over, as if to reassure herself that her little one was all in one piece.  Dakheel watched, his gaze slightly pointed.  “’Tis natural,” he said, “Your father believed his child was in danger.”

We fell into a companionable silence as we watched the goats mill and doze.  When Dakheel finally spoke again, I started slightly.

“You did well today, Hakim.”  His voice was distant.  “You have the heart of a healer.  Do not be troubled by things you cannot control.”

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When I returned to the house, I edged quietly past my father’s study, but paused before Kalima’s room.  Through a crack in her door, I saw Mother still kneeling at her side and heard the murmur of low voices.  I pushed the door open hesitantly.  “Can I come in?”

Mother glanced back and nodded absently.  “Just take care that you do not rouse her.”

I stepped close and knelt beside Mother at the edge of the low pallet.  Kali lay still.  Her eyes were bleary and half-lidded.  I resisted the urge to cover her thin hand with my own.  An empty cup sat on the floor beside her.  Lifting it and taking a sniff, I discovered that Mother had anesthetized her, at least in part, with a strong dose of Father’s brandy.  It worked, apparently; Kali did not stir, even when Mother poked a needle through her skin and tugged a length of silk thread through the wound.

“Dakheel said that ought to be left open.”

Mother harrumphed softly and continued to stitch the puncture wound.  “He did well to tend her—for a warrior.  I admit, there are not many who know of the benefits of honey.  But, these wounds will scar badly if they’re not stitched.”  She tied off a stitch.  Taking a bottle of fragrant oil from her kit, she added a few drops to a dab of honey and slathered the mixture over the wound.  She left unsaid what we both knew—that it was far more difficult to find suitors for a young woman who was scarred or maimed in any way.

“We owe the Gondorian,”  Her voice was low and unhappy.  “You remember what that means, my son?”

I nodded.  In my youth, my mother had taken care to teach me the commandments of the old gods.  The requirements of gratitude were clear and unambiguous; for saving a helpless member of our family, Dakheel should have become “as dear as family” himself.  Of course, those strictures were based on a lost way of life—a remnant of a time when our people lived together in tightly-knit tribes, and clan membership could be offered as a reward for service.  In these days, we could hardly name a Gondorian an honorary son of Azzam, nor would such a title offer him much benefit.

“Father won’t see it that way,” I said quietly, “He’ll say Dakheel was merely repaying his debt to us for saving him from the desert.”

Mother’s jaw clenched.  “Nevertheless.”

I waited for her to continue, but she said nothing.  “What will become of him?”  I asked at last.

Mother covered her neat stitches with a pad of clean linen.  “I wish I knew.”

Author’s Notes:

Dakheel and Kali’s secret language is, of course, Sindarin.  All terms are taken from Hiswelókё’s online Sindarin dictionary.  I am by no means an expert.

Lith—sand (or dust, or ash)

Tund—hill or mound

Gathrod—cave

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