Fable: Edge of the World by Christie Golden Page A

king and his friends, their eyes wide seeing so many visitors. They bowed as he approached; clearly word that they were hosting royalty had spread.
    The afternoon passed in a most pleasant fashion. Everyone drank water that was clean, fresh, and cool for the first time in weeks, and enjoyed a swim to wash out the sand and sweat of travel. Even as the king stood waist deep in the flowing water, looking back at the village, he saw cartloads of supplies—large water gourds, sacks of quick-cooking grains and dried meats, and baskets of fresh fruit—being pulled by donkeys heading off toward the northern area of the oasis, where the soldiers were camped. Men and women both led the donkeys.
    “I have to say,” said Ben, “I wonder how far Samarkandian hospitality goes.” His eyes were not on the carts but on the women.
    “Careful, Ben,” warned the king. “We really don’t want to cause an international incident so early in our journey.”
    “Ah, where’s the fun in that?” Ben shot back, then splashed him. A water fight began, which eventually left both men laughing and choking in equal amounts.
    Cooled and clean, they dressed for the feast as best they could. The king had brought a single set of formal clothing, includinghis crown, in the happy chance that the confrontation with the Empress would take the form of negotiations rather than war. Something told him not to bring it out on this occasion, though. These were simple people, already in awe of him; he contented himself with wearing clean, if wrinkled, traveling clothing and opted not to put on his crown.
    He, Ben, Shan, and Kalin were given places of honor next to Pahket. The feast began at dusk, starting with fresh-cut melons and other fruits passed around on a platter. After weeks of rations, the flavor was intoxicating. And the food kept coming: spiced mutton carved fresh from the roasting spit, root vegetables, delicate greens, tangy milk and cheeses. It was simple fare compared to any meal the king had eaten at Bowerstone Castle, but no meal had ever tasted so delicious. They ate and ate, licking their fingers clean of the dripping juices. After there was no more room for another bite, what remained was borne away to be shared with the soldiers, and the entertainment began.
    Several men bearing unusual instruments took seats by the fire while women dressed in lovely, flowing silk garments stood in a row. The night air was filled with songs that, to the Albion ear, initially sounded almost disharmonious but strangely beautiful. The women took no such getting used to. They were slender but strong, no doubt a testament to their difficult lives. Their skin was dark brown, darker even than the Aurorans, and their long hair black as night. The dancing was lovely and graceful as they performed for their honored guests. Ben had a rather stupid grin on his face, and the lead performer gave him a wink without missing a beat.
    “Interesting,” said Kalin. “The music and the dancing are very similar to our own traditional songs and dances. We are closer to the Samarkandians than I had thought.”
    Shan was smiling. “It is good to hear the old songs again,” he said. “I … I have missed my home.”
    The king squeezed his shoulder. “We’re here to bring your home back to its people. So that traditions like this can continue.”
    “I like
this
tradition,” Ben said as the lead dancer whirled and bowed low in front of him, affording him an excellent view.
    “International incident,” the king reminded him, and Ben sighed.
    All too soon, the evening wound to a close. His stomach comfortably full for the first time in what seemed like ages, his mouth no longer parched, the king was more than ready to trundle off to his tent, fall down on the sleeping mat, and be dead to the world.
    A few hours later, he wondered if he might be dead, period.
    A hand covered his mouth. The king surged upright. He shot one hand out to choke the intruder and closed the other