Nikki awoke stiff and sore. Gingerly, she fingered the wound on her temple. The skin felt swollen, but not infected. She thought of how close she’d come to dying and was grateful again that Zakir had managed to save her life.
It had bought her another day to get her kids to safety. And excitement began to trill through her. If all went well, she’d see them today. She smoothed her hair, tied it back with a cord and put on a scarf. She rubbed her face, then bent to step out of the tent.
The dawn light was beautiful. The wind was still and temperatures had not yet started to climb. She saw Zakir near the path, already busy loading the camels. His dogs gamboled at his feet, frisky in the crisp air.
“Good morning,” she called.
He stilled, staring at her as she neared. “Ready to leave?”
She nodded, suddenly uneasy. She hadn’t meant to reveal so much of herself last night. Secrets were heavy, stressful things, and a part of Nikki craved the release of confiding in someone. But she couldn’t.
Not if she wanted to keep her new life.
After taking the tent down and packing it onto the camels, they once again began to climb higher into the stark mountains.
As they crested a ridge, the sun burst over the peaks, rippling reds and yellows and golds into the dry hills. A hare bounded through scrub, and a vulture wheeled up high.
The warmth against Nikki’s skin was instant, and she felt her camel’s energy surge. So did hers when—as they rounded the next bend—the crumbling ruins of an ancient Crusades castle came into view. She relaxed. She was definitely on the right path.
But she gripped her camel rope suddenly, halting the animal when the first Rahm sentry stepped out into the track, brandishing an AK-47, his black robe and kaffiyeh flapping in the wind. Leather bandoliers crisscrossed his chest. His beard was long, ragged; his body wiry; and his skin darkly sun-browned.
Nikki carefully raised her arm high.
“I come in peace!” she called out in Arabic, her voice being snatched by wind and tossed through the scoured sandstone cliffs. “I return with a guide and medicine for my children. And with gifts of food and cloth from Sheik Zakir Al Arif!”
Silently, the sentinel motioned for her to dismount. She coaxed her camel into a couch. Zakir did the same, remaining behind her.
Dark shapes began materializing against the dun colored hills, black robes snapping in the wind.
More armed Berbers.
All wore the trademark leather cartridge belts crossed over their chests. In her peripheral vision, Nikki saw more movement in rocks behind them. They were surrounded.
Nerves skittered. Her mouth turned dry.
Zakir drew up closer behind Nikki. He could feel her tension, and his hand shifted, ready to grasp the hilt of the scimitar hidden under his cloak.
The sentry motioned for Nikki to approach.
“Go,” whispered Zakir. “I’m following right behind you. Tell them who I am right away, or they’ll feel deceived.” He noted the positions of the men in the hills as he and Nikki began to move slowly forward. They’d chosen a good place for an ambush. These mountain men were skilled guerrilla strategists who knew this harsh terrain like the backs of their hands. They were the kind of warriors Zakir could use on his side.
Not against him.
Which was why this meeting would be so important.
The sentinel lowered his weapon, eyes narrowing. Then suddenly his face crumpled into a craggy smile, teeth startling white against his dark features. “We have been waiting for your return, malaak er-ruhmuh!”
An angel, or messenger of mercy. These tribespeople regarded doctors and nurses as conduits of their God’s mercy and healing power. They saw Nikki as a healer, thought Zakir.
“We are deeply pleasured to see that you have returned.”
She bowed her head. “Thank you.”
The men began to move closer, circling in behind them. Zakir’s dogs began to bark.
He issued a curt order, and they stopped. But the men tensed, regarding him with fresh suspicion.
“Tell them,” he whispered. “Now.”
“I…I have much news,” Nikki said quickly. “But first…” Her voice caught. “How are my children?”
“They wait for you, malaak er-ruhmuh.”
Her body sagged, and her eyes filled with moisture. “All…of them?”
“All of them.” Another smile, bright against his complexion. “Young Solomon told us you would return, that you would never desert them. He said you are their mother and guardian. Their angel.”
A dry sob racked through Nikki’s body. Zakir felt emotion swell in his own throat as he watched her. Her orphans were alive. They really did exist.
“Come!” The Berber held out his hand. “Welcome back to our home. What is this news you bring?”
Her gaze flicked around the sentinels. Zakir could see she was afraid. “I…I would like to introduce you to my guide. He, too, comes in peace.” Her voice was thick and she spoke in careful Arabic. The men stilled, sensing something.
Zakir stepped forward, arms held slightly out to his sides so the warriors could see he had no weapon. He bowed slightly.
“I have come to meet your sheik,” he said. “I have a great deal to learn from him and to share with him.”
“Who are you?”
“I am Sheik Zakir Al Arif. I am your new king.”
Tension rippled like some invisible crackling current among the men. Weapons turned on him and the silence grew dangerous.
Zakir couldn’t help feeling admiration for these rebel warriors standing with unwavering stature, AK-47s aimed at his heart. There was a wildness about them, something primitive that spoke of desert history—that reminded Zakir of his ancestors in the paintings at his palace. It awakened something wild and abandoned in his own blood. He felt a whispering of heritage, a strange stirring of kinship.
“I come in peace,” he reiterated, using the rough guttural dialect of the mountains. “I have no soldiers, no guards with me. Will you take me to your sheik?”
The sentinel assessed him in silence.
“First you will give us the knives under your cloak.”
Telegraphing each movement, Zakir slowly removed his scimitar belt, then his jambiya. He set them on the ground and then stepped back. One of the Berbers moved in to retrieve them while the others kept rifles trained on the Dark King.
“Bring the camels,” said the sentinel with a jerk of his chin.
Zakir lowered his head, then led the camels forward, his dogs silent shadows at his heels.
Relief surged through Nikki. Zakir’s humility had surprised her. Once again, his actions stirred her respect and admiration.
The convoy—tribesmen, camels, dogs, Zakir and Nikki—walked in silence through twisting sandstone cliffs and spires.
As they neared the hidden Berber village—many dwellings carved right into a massive cliff face, making the interiors cavelike and cool in the searing heat of summer, yet easily warmed by fire on freezing winter nights—a lone little figure bulleted down the path toward the procession on skinny little brown legs, one foot tripping over the other in his excitement. “Miss Nikki! Miss Nikki!”
“Solomon!” she cried.
“I told them you would come! Miss Nikki, I told them, and you are here!”
Choking on emotion, Nikki dropped down to her knees as Solomon—all of seven years old—barreled into her chest, skinny little arms wrapping like a limpet around her neck.
She hugged him tight, tears of relief streaming down her face as the Berber tribesmen and Zakir looked on. Then she held him out at arm’s length so she could see his face, his glistening dark brown eyes, his bright white smile. “You were right, Solomon. How are the others? Did you take good care of everyone?”
He nodded again, pride squaring his skinny little shoulders and burning savagely into his dark eyes—wise, capable beyond his years. “I did my best, Miss Nikki, but they are very sick,” he said in French. “Samira?”
“She cannot walk, Miss Nikki. She is bleeding. The baby, it wants to come. Samira says so.” Solomon’s little hand sought hers, slipping into hers, fingers curling tight, and he tugged. “Come, come bring the medicine. Fix her.”
Nikki felt Zakir’s hand on her shoulder. She glanced up.
His black eyes had turned liquid, mysterious. “Go. I will talk with the Berber sheik.”
She got to her feet, hesitated, recalling the words of Tenzing Gelu.
I want to know everything he says, who he meets with, each name.
Solomon tugged on her hand. The children were her priority. She was going to do whatever was necessary to keep them alive. “Help me with the medicine box, Solomon,” she said, starting toward the camel with supplies.
“Nikki—” Zakir called after her suddenly.
She paused, heart skittering.
He came close, spoke low near her ear, in English. “I am pleased to see there are actual children. That your story is true.”
She swallowed. He was finally beginning to trust her.
And now she would have to betray him.