Page 102 of War

Hussain gives a small laugh. “I know who you are,” he says. He sounds kind and not at all like he despises me.

I’m not used to kindness here—to be honest, even back in Jerusalem, kindness was a rare thing. Life is a series of debts, loans, and obligations. Kindness is just something to muddy the waters.

The two of us get to the tent flaps. Hussain bows and steps away, leaving me to enter alone.

When I step inside War’s tent, everything feels different. In this enclosed space, nothing else besides me and the horseman exists. Not the death and grief and violence and horror of the outside world.

In here, with the smell of leather and perfumed oil in the air, I’m reminded of other, more intimate things.

Across the room the man himself lounges in a chair, a glass of wine dangling from his hand.

“Miriam.” His eyes heat when they meet mine, and I can practically see last night playing out in his mind.

He stands, setting his wine aside.

I take a deep breath and move to him, my hand trailing over the table as I pass it by. I glance idly at it, but then what I see catches my attention.

A map of Arish is spread out, various notes and arrows scribbled across it. This was the map War and his phobos riders were looking at yesterday when they were talking strategy. Despite all his supernatural abilities, the horseman still relies on us, the natives, to help him out.

War steps in close behind me.

“I still can’t believe there are people who are loyal to you,” I say, my fingers moving over the writing. Different hands have penned different notes.

“My riders aren’t loyal to me, Miriam.” His breath fans along my neck. “They are loyal to the art of breathing.”

My skin puckers at his nearness, and it takes several seconds to ignore my body’s response to him.

I turn from the map, the table jutting into my back. I have to crane my head to look up at War.

“Whyareyou doing this?” I ask.

“Doing what?” His eyes are fixed on my mouth.

“Fighting. Killing.”

War gives me a strange look, like I’m asking him why birds fly or hearts beat. Something that needs no answer.

“Whywouldn’tI be doing this? It’s why I’m here. It’s what I am.”

It’s what I am.

I keep thinking of him as a person, not as an entity, but I guess that’s what he is—war. He just happens to wear a human face.

“Could you stop fighting and raiding?” I ask.

“I won’t.”

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

War stares at me for a long time, his eyes narrowing. “Yes, wife, I suppose Icouldstop.”

If, of course, he wanted to. That makes this a little worse; I wasn’t positive until now that the horseman might have a choice in the matter.

I take a shuddering breath. “Do you have a bow and arrow?” I ask, changing the subject.

War studies me. “I do,” he says carefully.

“Can I use it tomorrow?”

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