Zikka Sandwhisper's Arc

Chapter 3 of 5

The caravan reached the oasis by dusk. Servants led Zikka beneath tall palms to a shaded rest area. There, on a cushioned seat, sat the sultan himself. Gold covered his thick arms and wide chest. A jeweled crown pressed into his black hair. He looked her over the way a man weighs a gem, and he smiled. "The scouts spoke of a rare traveler," he said. "They did not lie." He patted the cushion beside him. "Sit. Drink. You are my guest now." Zikka sat. She took the cup he offered and sipped. Somewhere in this caravan, her idol waited among his treasures. She only had to slip away and find it. She lowered her lashes. "You are kind, great sultan. I will not trouble you long. I only need rest, then I will go." "Go?" He laughed. His rings flashed. "No. A woman like you stays close. I would be a fool to let the desert take you back." He clapped his hands. Two guards in layered robes stepped from the palms, spears in hand. "Watch over my guest. See that she wants for nothing." The guards took posts at the edge of the rest area. Zikka felt their eyes settle on her. She understood the trap at once. His charm was a cage. She could not wander the caravan now. Every step would be marked. The sultan had not caught a hunter, but he had caught her all the same. She needed him to move her himself. So she gave him what he wanted. She leaned close, let her shoulder brush his arm, and traced one finger along his gold necklace. "Such treasures," she breathed. "A man who carries beauty must love to share it. Show me your finest things. I would see what a true sultan keeps." Greed lit his eyes brighter than the charm had. He rose and pulled her up with him. "Come. My treasure wagon holds wonders the desert never dreamed." He waved the guards back and led her himself, one heavy arm around her waist. He parted a curtain on a wagon packed with chests and silks. Lamplight caught stacked coins, jeweled cups, carved ivory. Zikka scanned the heap. Then she saw it, half-wrapped in cloth near the back. The fertility idol from her shrine. Its jewels threw back the lamp flame. She did not reach for it. She pressed closer to the sultan and praised a golden bowl instead, learning the wagon, the latch, the single guard who dozed outside. Now she knew where the idol slept. But the sultan's hand tightened on her hip. "You please me," he murmured. "Tonight you share my tent." His grip left no room to refuse. Zikka smiled and nodded. She had found the idol. Now she had bought herself a longer night, pressed against the one man who must never guess why she came.