Strong, Hot Winds

  “Sometimes darkness can be a blessing.”

  “Look, Selim, I’m not up to deciphering nuances this morning,” she said wearily. “Just tell me what I want to know. Do I have to ask questions? All right, let’s start with this Raban.”

  Selim took another drink. “That’s a bad place to start. Raban is no longer with us.”

  Cory’s eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

  “Raban is dead.”

  “Oh, no,” Cory whispered. “No wonder Damon is so upset. You said he loved Raban.”

  “He did.” Selim looked down into the amber depths of his brandy in the glass. “He does.”

  “What happened?”

  “Raban committed a crime. He was executed.”

  “But I don’t understand.” Cory gazed at him in bewilderment. “We saw him just yesterday. He wasn’t under any kind of constraint. He was free. He was happy.”

  “Constraint wasn’t necessary. Raban wouldn’t have run away. He wouldn’t have been happy anywhere else but with the El Zabor. He had spent all his life with them.” Selim swirled the brandy in his glass. “Even if he hadn’t been sure of Damon’s friendship he still would have stayed.”

  “What did Damon have to do with this?”

  “Everything,” he said simply. “He’s the Bardono.”

  “Bardono,” Cory repeated slowly. She’d wondered what significance the word carried, and now she thought she could guess. She didn’t want to know. The implications were too painful to contemplate.

  “Bardono is the El Zabor word meaning ‘judge,’ ” Selim told her. “It was Damon who ordered Raban’s death.”

  “Good Lord,” she said hoarsely as she swayed back against the desk. “How could he do that?”

  “No one else could do it. It’s one of Damon’s duties, perhaps the most important one. The El Zabor system of justice demands that all crucial disputes be settled by the sheikh. That’s why they award total power to their shiekhs. So that there can be no question when judgment is made.”

  “But Raban was his friend.”

  “Closer than that,” Selim said huskily. “But he was also guilty of murder.”

  “Murder!”

  Selim nodded. “He killed his own child.”

  Cory’s knees felt suddenly weak, and she dropped down on the edge of the desk. “He didn’t look—” She stopped. Murderers didn’t automatically wear the mark of Cain on their features. She had seen many men guilty of heinous crimes who appeared quite ordinary. “Why?”

  “It was a girl child and the baby was born blind and crippled. She would have required the time and care of everyone in the tribe and, when she was grown, no man would pay a dowry for such a wife.”

  “So he killed her?” Cory felt sick.

  “According to the laws under which he grew up, Raban had the right to do it. His wife and his daughter were as much his property as his tent or his horses. Damon published an edict forbidding the practice, but there are many traditionalists who believe the old ways are best. Raban was one of them.”

  “It’s … horrible.”

  “Custom,” Selim said. “In the old days only the fittest could survive the life of a bedouin and any weak ones had to be eliminated or the entire tribe might perish. When a child with insurmountable defects was born, the parents left it in the desert to die.”

  “And that’s what happened this time?”

  Selim nodded. “Marain didn’t discover what had happened until four days later. The tribe had been on the move to a new encampment, and Raban left the child somewhere on the journey. Marain sent a message to Damon and they formed a search party to try to find the baby, but it was too late. The child was dead when they found her.”

  “And he knew he’d have to condemn Raban to death?”

  “There was no question what the verdict would have to be,” Selim said. “If he had shown Raban mercy, it would have been like a green light to anyone else who bore a defective child. He had to show them that in his eyes every child has value and that the crime would be punished in the same manner in which it had been committed.”

  “A life for a life.”

  “The El Zabor are still a very primitive society. It’s the only yardstick they understand.”

  She had just remembered something else. “Damon sent a message to Marain that he had done well.”

  “The final sanction,” Selim said. “Custom. The acknowledgment that the responsibility for the death was entirely the Bardono’s. I didn’t think Damon would be able to do it this time.”

  She didn’t know how anyone could do it, Cory thought. Damon had been writhing in pain and he had still managed to make the acknowledgment freeing the tribesmen of guilt and taking it instead on his own shoulders.

  “It wasn’t fair to make him do that,” she broke out with sudden fierceness. “Don’t they realize what he must be going through? They just wash their hands of guilt and let Damon go through hell. It’s not fair, dammit.” Selim opened his lips to speak, and she motioned him to silence. “The El Zabor system of justice stinks. Why should Damon have to go through this? Why couldn’t Marain or—”

  “It’s Damon’s choice, Cory,” Selim said gently. “He’s been trained for this since childhood. It’s his duty.”

  “Then he must be crazy to let them put him through this.”

  “He loves them, Cory.”

  “Why? I saw the way they treated him in that encampment. He was almost a pariah.”

  “They love him too. It’s just very difficult for them to treat him as they do one another. He’s the Bardono. His words guide their lives.” His face became shadowed. “And in cases like this can take their lives.”

  Cory’s nails dug into her palms. “It’s cruel, Selim. He shouldn’t have to do this.”

  Selim nodded. “But it’s the only way he can help the El Zabor.”

  “What if something like this happens again?”

  “Then he’ll make judgment again.”

  “Lord, you make it sound easy. Why don’t you help him?”

  “There’s nothing I can do.” His gaze lifted to her face. “Why don’t you? Damon won’t accept comfort from me but perhaps he might from you.”

  Cory felt a tingle of shock, followed immediately by panic. It would be a mistake to go to Damon now. She was far too vulnerable. “It’s not my responsibility.”

  Selim smiled sadly. “Are you washing your hands of responsibility too, Cory? That leaves him very much alone, doesn’t it?”

  In the name of loneliness. Isolation. Damon’s pale face drawn in torment.

  To hell with her own vulnerability. No one on this earth should have to go through something like this alone. She straightened away from the desk and started for the door.

  Cory paused before the door of Damon’s suite and drew a deep breath. This was a mistake. If she had even a particle of intelligence, she’d change her mind.

  She knocked on the door.

  No answer.

  She knocked again.

  No response.

  She turned the knob and opened the door.

  At first she thought he wasn’t in the suite, then caught sight of him on the terrace. Damon was sitting on a cushioned cane chair gazing unseeingly out at the brilliant scarlet streaking the dawn sky.

  “Damon.” She stopped at the French doors, wondering how to go on. What could she say? Don’t worry, Damon, everything is going to be fine and dandy? He knew better. He knew he might have to face a staggering decision like this next week, next month, or next year. He knew and accepted that terrifying possibility and no amount of reassurance was going to make him feel better about it. But she had to try to help; it was a driving force within her. “Is it all right if I come out and sit down?”

  “I want to be alone.”

  Her hesitation vanished as relief poured through her. That response was blessedly familiar. Gary always said he wanted to be alone at the start of one of his down times. She had helped Gary, and surely she could help
Damon too. “No, you don’t.” She walked briskly out onto the terrace and sat down on the chair facing him. “You want to talk. So do it.”

  His gaze lifted to her face. “You want me to bleed for you?”

  She experienced a knifelike pain. Lord, did he think she was so callous she’d take advantage of the hell he was going through? “No, the truce is back in effect.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to help,” she said gently. “Call it a psychological quirk of mine. I need to help you, Damon. Let me. Please.”

  Damon looked away from her. “There’s nothing you can do.”

  “I can listen. Tell me what you’re feeling. Guilt?”

  He didn’t speak for a long, long time as the sky changed from scarlet to rose.

  “Not guilt,” he finally said slowly. “Raban had to die. He told me when I spoke to him that he would do it again. He believed that what he had done was right.”

  “Anger?”

  There was another silence. “Yes, I guess I’m angry.” He stopped, and then said roughly, “Hell, yes, I’m angry. This shouldn’t have happened. It was senseless. Why won’t they listen to me? I talk and plead and give commands and they nod their heads and go on doing what they’ve been doing for hundreds of years. Why can’t they see it won’t work anymore? It’s a new world with new rules.” He drew a harsh, uneven breath. “Sometimes I want to crack their heads. Raban was—”

  “Tell me about Raban.”

  “Raban …” Damon paused. “Raban put me up on my first pony. I remember how he laughed when I fell off and came up spitting sand. Then he dusted me off and put me back on the pony.…” His words trailed off and he was silent again, remembering. “He laughed a lot. He enjoyed life.” He broke off and closed his eyes. “Why couldn’t he see that his little girl deserved that same joy. I would have helped. There are doctors and schools …”

  Cory swallowed to ease the tightness of her throat. The pain Damon was feeling was tangible, reaching out and touching her with unbearable intimacy. She didn’t want to go on with this. This wasn’t like helping Gary. With him she could stand apart, there was an element of remoteness. With Damon there was no question of standing apart, the empathy was frighteningly complete. But she had to force herself to go on. Talking would be a catharsis for him, and Lord how he needed that cleansing. “Why didn’t he come to you?”

  “Pride. He was a proud man. It was his problem and that of his tribe. So he solved it.” Damon lifted his lids to reveal eyes glittering with moisture. “He solved it.”

  She couldn’t stand it. She didn’t even realize she had jumped up from her chair until she had crossed the few paces separating them. Her arms were suddenly around him, pressing his face to her breasts, her fingers tangling in his hair as she rocked him back and forth in a passion of maternal tenderness. “It’s all right. It will be fine.” Those stupid, senseless words she had sworn she wouldn’t use. But she would find a way of making them come true, she thought fiercely. She had to find a way. Damon mustn’t suffer like this.

  She felt him stiffen in surprise against her, then his arms closed around her with desperate strength. His face burrowed in the softness of her breasts and his voice was muffled. “I loved him, Cory. I didn’t want to hurt him. Why couldn’t he have understood?”

  “I don’t know.” Her voice was low as she tenderly stroked his hair. “But it wasn’t your fault. None of it was your fault. You wanted only to save lives, not take them.”

  “But I did.” Damon’s arms tightened around her. “I told them it was right. Who the hell am I to decide things like this? I’m only a man, for God’s sake. I study and try to do what’s right for them, but how do I know?”

  She couldn’t answer. She could only hold him and rock him and try to take away a little of the loneliness.

  He didn’t move from her arms for a long time, and the sun moved upward from the horizon while the sky became hard and blue.

  Damon lifted his head from her breasts and slowly released her. He leaned back in his chair, automatically straightening his shoulders. “I’m fine now,” he said gruffly. “You can go now.”

  Her arms felt suddenly empty and she quickly crossed them across her breasts. “You need sleep,” she said gently. “Why don’t you go to bed?”

  “You didn’t rest much either last night.” He smiled wearily. “Thanks to me.”

  “I don’t need much sleep.” She didn’t want to leave him. He was no longer in that first shock of despair, but she was still conscious of a deep sadness. “I’ll stay if you like.”

  He became still. “You want to be with me?”

  “You need someone here. I’ll be—”

  “I don’t need anyone.” His chin lifted proudly. “I’m sorry if I made you think I was some kind of weakling, but—”

  “Weakling?” Cory gazed at him in disbelief. “Damon, how many people do you think could have done what you did? Not me. Not Selim. I don’t think I know anyone who would have had the strength to make a decision like that.”

  He frowned uncertainly. “Are you telling me the truth?”

  Cory stared at him in exasperation. He thought because he had shown her this brief moment of vulnerability that he had broken some cardinal rule of machismo. Heavens, men could be foolish. “I’m telling you the truth.”

  Relief washed over his face and he tried to hide it with a careless shrug. “You seem to be in the mood for dispensing gifts today.”

  “I told you that I gave. I just don’t like being taken. Are you sure you’ll be all right if I leave?”

  He nodded.

  She turned and started for the door.

  “Cory.”

  There was a faint flush mantling his cheeks, and he spoke awkwardly. “I’m … grateful. I can give gifts too. What would you like?”

  She frowned in puzzlement. “What do you mean?”

  “Would you like a house, a car … anything?”

  “Anything?” Cory met his gaze. “Then give me my son. Give me Michael.”

  Pain flashed across his face. “Anything but that, Cory. I can’t give him up.”

  “Then you have nothing I want,” she said wearily. “Forget it, Damon. I’m not going to bargain a few moments of the milk of human kindness against Michael. You needed help and I gave it. I told you I have some kind of psychological quirk.”

  “I can’t forget it,” he said fiercely. “I don’t forget debts.”

  “Any more than you forget sins against you? You think I did wrong in not telling you about Michael. Well, maybe I should have told you. Maybe I was lying to myself about protecting him from you. And maybe I wanted only to keep him mine with no complications.” She ran her fingers nervously through her hair. “I just don’t know anymore.” She fumbled with the doorknob. “But I do know it was wrong of you to take him like this. It was wrong.”

  Then she was running down the long hall, her eyes stinging with tears she refused to let fall. She couldn’t let herself cry.

  Because she wasn’t sure if the tears would be for her own unhappiness or for Damon’s.

  SIX

  “I’VE COME TO take you to Michael,” Selim said quietly as soon as she opened the door. A brilliant smile lit his face. “Thank heaven for small mercies. I don’t like playing the hard-hearted keeper of the keys.”

  “Michael?” Joy surged through Cory. “Damon’s letting me have Michael?” This morning when she had left Damon she had been certain he’d never relent, and now this was almost too good to be true.

  Selim shook his head. “You’re going too fast. He’s giving you permission to visit with Michael and your friends whenever you like. But he’s not bringing Michael here to live at the palace.” He paused. “Not yet. He wants the boy to feel secure before he takes him away from the Langstroms.”

  Her sudden disappointment was instantly superseded by an upward swing of optimism. “But it’s a start. At least I can see him. Where is he? At this village you were talking about?”
>
  He nodded. “Damon gave the Langstroms a very nice house in the village.” His eyes twinkled. “You look about as young as Michael right now.”

  “I’m excited.” She hugged Selim with all her strength and then released him and hurried toward the door. “Let’s go. What are we waiting for?”

  The house allocated to the Langstroms was lovely. The white, flat-roofed villa possessed a multitude of long narrow windows and a courtyard paved in cool blue-and-white ceramic tiles surrounding a small graceful fountain. Yet Cory barely noticed these features.

  Her gaze was fixed on the carved double doors of the front entrance.

  Selim’s sympathetic eyes never strayed from her face.

  “I sent word you were coming; they’ll be waiting for you.” Selim honked the horn of the jeep as he pulled up before the steps leading to the front entrance. “I’ll be back to pick you up at nine tonight, okay?”

  “Okay.” She scarcely heard what he said, for the doors were flying open and a small boy dressed in jeans and a red T-shirt was running down the steps. Cory jumped out of the jeep and met him on the second to the last step, her arms closing around his warm, sturdy body. “Michael,” she whispered, blinking back the tears. “Oh, Michael.”

  But he was already wriggling away from her. “I have a pony, Mama. Well, not yet, but I’m going to have one. Just as soon as I learn to take care of him. My daddy says I have to learn that first. And I have a new friend in the village, but Jessica thinks Saram’s weird because he doesn’t like girls and—”

  “Take a breath, Michael.” Cory sat back on her heels and just looked at him. It seemed years since she had last seen him instead of just a few days. “And Jessica is probably right. It shouldn’t make any difference what sex anyone is.” Her hand moved tenderly over his raven-dark curls. Oh, Lord, she loved him. “It doesn’t make any difference to you that Jessica is a girl. She’s still your friend.”

  Michael nodded. “That’s what Daddy said.” He skipped on like a pebble thrown on a still pond. “We came here on a real jet with velvet seats and I had all the sodas I wanted and then we changed to a helicopter. I liked the helicopter best.” He hugged her again. “I have to go now. Jessica and Saram are waiting for me in the nursery.” He made a face. “We’re going to change that name. A nursery is for babies. Jessica thinks we should call it the transporter room like on Star Trek. What do you think?”