Sandstorm by Megan Derr Page B

with no one else around, there would be no way to prove Falcon was responsible. He could do it. The Ghost Amir looked more exhausted then he. But Jabbar's words still echoed in his head, and Isra didn't doubt that if he went against his Uncle's orders, he would find himself without a Tribe.
    "So if you will keep your sword sheathed, I will return the favor - this time."
    The Ghost Amir regarded him distrustfully, but then slowly nodded. "I have no desire to hurt anyone, Falcon."
    Isra snorted. "Yet to judge from your face, I would say you were recently in quite the fight."
    He pulled off his head and face covering and dipped his hands into the water, washing his face, soaking his hair, sighing at the blessed cool. "Unless you just stood there and did nothing." He frowned at the way the Ghost Amir said nothing, merely stared into the rippling water - but his hand tightened into a fist before an obvious effort was made to relax it.
    "Where is your protector, Ghost Amir? Am I to be stabbed in the back?"
    "Wafai would never do such a thing," the Ghost Amir replied, voice hardening. "Nor would I ever permit it. I came here for peace, Falcon. Kill me or go away, I have had enough fighting for a time."
    "I want to kill you," Isra said. "Badly. Yet time and again I am told not to, and if I do so here I will most likely find myself in more trouble than you are worth. Still, I am tempted." His fingers went to the scar on his cheek. "I do not appreciate that you mocked my Tribe with your farcical offer of peace, nor do I like the way your mockery has made me a laughing stock in my own Tribe." His hand fell away. "Why shouldn't I kill you?"
    "That is not for me to say. If you want to kill me, do so. I'm in no condition to stop you." Gold eyes fastened on blue, and Isra drew a breath at the pain in them. More startling was that the Ghost Amir would allow an enemy to see it.
    Isra shrugged. "I've no interest in killing someone who already looks like he's well on his way to death. I'll kill you when you can put up a fight, Ghost Amir."
    "Sahayl," the Ghost Amir replied. "You're the only one to ever mark me in battle." Fingers dusted along the scar on Sahayl's right cheek. "So call me Sahayl."
    "Isra, then," Isra said with a grunt, more than a little surprised that the Ghost Amir used the old custom - to use a man's name so casually was rare. Always there was a form of address when speaking to others, especially those of higher position. Even within the Ghost Tribe, precious few probably ever used the Ghost Amir's name. It was a high courtesy, and not something he would have expected from a Ghost. "If you call me desert rose again, this strange truce is over."
    Sahayl laughed softly, and Isra was struck by what it did to his eyes. He looked away, down at the rippling water, wishing he wasn't so exhausted and could actually think clearly.
    A heavy silence fell, and Isra struggled for something to say though he wasn't certain why he thought something needed to be said. Without a fight, there was nothing to say. Suddenly unable to take it, Isra stood and mounted his horse. "Another day, Ghost Amir…Sahayl."
    "Isra," Sahayl replied, looking at him, gold eyes once again dark. "Mind, body, soul," he said softly.
    Isra didn't reply, merely turned and raced off back toward home.
    The sounds reached him first, and he could not believe what he was hearing. Chest tightening with fear, Isra urged his horse to a gallop. As they cleared the last of the dunes before the Desert spilled into the encampment. His eyes widened at the chaos he saw below.
    Screaming in rage, drawing his sword, Isra spurred his horse forward and raced down into the chaos, catching one assailant across the stomach, knocking another from his horse, slashing open the neck of a third as he raced by. He continued to attack, defend, searching all the while for any survivors, his Uncle.
    "Isra!"

    "Uncle!" he said in relief, fighting his way toward the Sheik's tent. He turned his horse