Dragon Tree by Marsha Canham

glanced at
the fire, at the pot hanging over the tripod... at the wooden horse
lying on its side before the hearth. With one eye fixed warily on
the bed, he walked over and picked up the carving, turning it over
in his big hands.
    “Jibril never
lets this out of his sight,” he said quietly. “I vow he sleeps with
it.”
    Amie exhaled
over a large shudder and looked up. “I... I think I frightened him.
He dropped it when he ran out of the room.”
    “He is a timid
boy and frightens easily.”
    “Is he your
son?”
    “My son?” The
knight looked up sharply. “No. No, he is not my son. He is my...” a
pause produced a small, wry smile at the corner of his mouth, “my
gift from Allah.”
    Amie sniffled
and rubbed her eyes again to dry them. “Your gift?”
    “I saved his
mother’s life. Her husband was dead and her family did not want to
be indebted to a Christian, and so they gave her to me. Her and her
son. Had I refused to take them, they would have been stoned to
death for bringing shame on the family.”
    “Stoned
because you saved their lives? That makes no sense.”
    Tamberlane
shrugged. “In truth, the whole idea of a Holy War—men fighting over
the right to claim one god is superior to another—makes no sense.
Just as the notion of any god sanctioning murder and slaughter in
his name makes little sense either.”
    “You question
God’s j-judgement?” she asked through a soft hiccup.
    “I question my
own judgement more often,” he said quietly. Remembering Marak’s
parting words, he attempted a faint smile. “Your arm shows
improvement. How does it feel?"
    “Much better,
thank you."
    In the awkward
beat of silence that followed, Tamberlane moved in front of the
fire.
    He was dressed
in a plain tunic and doeskin leggings, with little to camouflage
the fact that his shoulders were bulked by muscle, his waist solid
and flat, his legs well hewn from the years of riding a warhorse.
He presented the silhouette of a powerful knight, a prime specimen
of a man who one might believe could, indeed, slay dragons.
    He picked up
an iron rod and pushed at the burning log, sending a fan of red
sparks crackling up into the air.
    He had not
expected to see her sitting up when he came to the room, and
certainly not weeping. The sight had caused a strange tightness in
his belly, for he had always felt clumsy around women. He had no
experience whatsoever with weeping females who looked small and
crumpled and helpless. Adding to that was the clever wit of his
tongue, wherein he had undoubtedly succeeded in convincing her he
was a heretic and a blasphemer. Certes, she would run screaming
from the room like Jibril if she knew the full extent of his
disgrace in the eyes of man and God.
    "The healer
tells me I owe you thanks for saving my life," she said, drawing
his gaze from the fire. "He said you slew the man who would have
otherwise killed me.”
    "I regret we
did not arrive sooner, we might have been able to save more...
including your husband."
    The comment
earned yet another awkward silence and prompted him to poke the log
a few more times.
    He heard a
whimper and looked over in time to see Amaranth struggling to push
the covers aside and swing her legs over the side of the bed.
    “What do you
think you are doing?”
    She sat on the
edge of the bed, panting softly through a wave of dizziness. "I
have been a burden long enough, my lord."
    She pushed
herself up and was valiantly able to wobble there for a full two
heartbeats before her knees buckled like candles left too long in
the sun. The room began to spin and the floor took a sudden lurch
and swooped from under her feet.
    Tamberlane
dropped the iron poker and moved quickly enough to catch her as she
started to pitch forward. She landed in a soft crush against his
chest, her cheek pressed to his shoulder, her hair spilling over
his hands and arms as they circled around her.
    Reaching for
her had been a reflex. Holding her was something else entirely, for
the