There were times when people came to find their place in the world and their purpose in life, when a door opened and everything they hoped for fell into place, arranged neatly on the other side. This was not one of those times for Lasura.

This was sitting on Azram's torturous saddle for something that didn't make sense, to ride somewhere dangerous toward a destination he didn't pick and possibly for someone else's benefit that might end up with him dying very badly, having his innards picked by a bunch of starving vultures to top it off. And he had decided to come along on the ride, anyway, simply because ... well, what the fuck else was he supposed to do with his life now that he had become homeless, parentless, broke, and on top of it possibly wanted dead by everyone alive for existing except for this girl who had been deranged enough to have invited him to join her khagan so she could utilize him at will to win the war against his homeland with nothing in it for him whatsoever?

She also hated his guts, that much he had figured when they first met, and they hadn't been able to share the same space no matter how large without causing something to crash down from the sky or generating a fight to rival his mother on the verge of her monthly bleeding in intensity. And he was supposed to live here, among people who wanted his father dead and his bloodline gone extinct, hanging on her mercy and her ability to convince everyone not to kill him when he hadn't the slightest clue how that could possibly be accomplished.

Which one of you two made me this fucked up shit? he wondered, thinking about both his parents who were probably not dead and too busy trying to fuck up each other's life to care about where their son was. Of course, that's the only certainty in my life I can always count upon, Lasura thought and resorted to doing exactly what he had been doing in the past seventeen years, which was to sigh and try to make the most out of the situation he was stuck in to survive another day. Considering where he was right now and what Djari had just revealed to her brother, the chance of success was thin.

The kha'a's personal tent was more luxurious than Lasura had expected. Soft, Cakoran wool carpet lined the entire floor of the tent that could comfortably fit twenty people. An array of Makena silk pillows and cushions surrounded a low table intricately carved and inlaid with the finest mother-of-pearl from Samarra, making the otherwise basic accommodation fit for a king. It wasn't much compared to what he was used to in the Tower, but out here in the desert, it spoke of exactly how powerful and wealthy the Visarya was as a khagan. Not surprising, once you recall how they controlled eight smaller khagans, thanks to the late Za'in izr Husari.

At one end of the table seated Nazir izr Za'in, Djari's brother, kha'a and oracle of Visarya. In other words, the man who now controlled it all. The new kha'a couldn't be more than a few years older than he was, and Lasura caught himself wondering if he could have held himself with such authority in the same position. The idea of succeeding his father––of being salar in his case––was unthinkable, terrifying even. How does one decide to carry such a weight? And why? Isn't life already hard as it is to survive that one should want to be responsible for an entire khagan or the Salasar?

A useless thought for another time, that. For now, he had to survive this.

Across the table, Nazir Kha'a sipped his wine, staring at him quietly, openly. He decided to stare back––a habit he'd taken from his mother that was surely going to get him killed one day. It wasn't easy, given who he was having a staring contest with. They had met briefly when he arrived, and back then he was still seen as a son of Sarasef of the Rishi. Now that his true identity was out in the open, thanks to Djari iza Zuri, he was walking on a thin line between being welcomed and being skinned alive to make up for every death his father had caused, however many that was.

The new kha'a resembled Djari in facial structure, which meant that he looked like a jarring statue carved out of an extremely hard rock by an artist who hadn't bothered to smooth out the edges. Above those high cheekbones you could cut yourself with were those unnerving yellow eyes that matched Djari's and his mother's, giving one a sense of being in the same room as something not of this world. Lasura remembered then, with some irritation, that his eyes were also yellow.

Well, not like those. Nazir's eyes gave you an impression that they could see through your head and take shit out to spread on the table to play with. He could only wish he had that effect on people.

Djari, however, and for the first time since they'd met, looked like she was chewing on something she'd cooked herself and trying not to admit it was inedible. Which made everything suddenly more bearable for Lasura.

The tent flap opened, and in stepped an old woman and a middle aged man in white. They were the two guests the kha'a had been waiting for to join the meeting. There was a meaning to that small number of guests, of course. Anyone who'd been at court would get it instantly. The fact that Nazir kha'a hadn't alerted the entire council meant that he, too, considered himself walking on a thin line and wasn't sure yet what to do. That gave Lasura some comfort.

The old woman seated herself next to Djari while the zikh-clad newcomer took the seat opposite them. Seating arrangements mattered in the White Desert, Deo had warned him. 'You do not sit your ass down until you know exactly where to sit, and don't, ever, raise your voice at a bharavi, a khumar, or a kha'a or anyone above your rank. They are not your mother, nor does she hold any of them by the balls.'

He remembered thinking then, that no one here would be below his rank––perhaps not even the goats––and that he may have raised his voice to Djari three times, maybe more. His mother, however, would probably have them all by the balls given an opportunity before the day was over. He'd bet silvers on that, maybe golds.

The tent went into awkward silence, now with five people in it, which, in turn, made everything that wasn't supposed to be heard disturbingly loud. Here and now was where it would begin. He could die for this, very quickly. That thought seemed to amplify every breath taken, every shift of weight, and every awkward sip of wine as he waited for the first word to decide his fate. Outside, a goat bleated. Wind blew. Loose sand tossed against the goat hair tent. Settled.

"So," said the old woman, breaking the silence with a voice made for stories at campfires, "this is the Prince? If I had known he was this handsome I would have dressed up for the occasion." She gave him a wink, perhaps also a look one might consider flirting.

It broke more than silence, Lasura thought. The kha'a winced. The zikh-clad warrior suddenly found something extremely interesting in his wine. Djari smiled, for the first time actually, since they'd met. That made her a lot more pleasant to look at. She was pretty, mind you, but looking at her that way could be considered an insult and possibly get you killed.

Lasura smiled at the old woman, would have done so more wholeheartedly had he known who she was and where his boundaries were. For the very least, everyone there seemed to have been informed of his true identity. That much appeared to have been taken care of, although he wasn't sure if he should be glad about it.

"I wouldn't use that term anymore, my lady," he said, clearing his throat in between. "My father has been dethroned, my mother is missing. I am no longer a prince of the Black Tower, considering that I can never return."

"Unless your father returns," said the White Warrior.

"Until," Nazir corrected, resolutely.

All eyes turned to the kha'a, stayed there, widened. Nazir answered them all with a calmness that slammed something down on the table. Lasura realized then, suddenly remembering the man's most powerful role by birth, that something important had just happened, or, more precisely, had been revealed.

"Both of them?" Djari asked.

Lasura swallowed, held his breath as he waited for the answer.

Nazir nodded. "Both of them."

He closed his eyes and allowed himself to breathe, feeling a weight he hadn't known was there vanished from his chest over just three words spoken. He supposed he did care, after all, whether they were dead or alive, even though he didn't quite understand why he should.

"Do you see his return?" Djari asked. "To the throne?"

The hush made by the rest of the people in that tent might have been louder than her question. Leave it to Djari to always be able to say what no one else had the courage to without breaking a sweat. It was the way her presence demanded attention, most likely without being aware she was doing it. But that question was out now, dumped in the middle of them all like a stinking corpse no one wanted to unwrap to deal with the maggots.

The kha'a sipped his wine, placed it down on the table slowly. "My point is," he said, turning to address Lasura, "your life, my lord prince, is only valuable to us as long as you are a prince of the Black Tower and as your father's son. That term, I would say, is crucial to your continued existence."

He's avoiding Djari's question. I wonder why, Lasura thought.

The kha'a had a point nonetheless. The most important thing at that moment was not his father's return, but him staying alive somehow. Without holding an identity as his father's or his mother's son, or someone who knew the inside out of Rasharwi, he would have no value whatsoever to them, not enough anyway to risk keeping him here now that they knew who he was. "I see," he said. "Prince it is then. To the four people in this tent, but not elsewhere, correct?"

'Negotiations,' Deo had said, 'only happen when both parties need something or are equally at risk. Recognizing your opponent's needs and weaknesses is how you raise your price.'

They did need him, or, more precisely, the kha'a believed he did, which was why he was still alive. For what, he wasn't sure. Djari had invited him here over the idea of them having a common enemy. Now that they knew his father was alive, everything changed. Taking down Azram could mean putting his father back on the throne, and if you were an enemy of his father, you wouldn't want him anywhere near it. Azram, by comparison, was easier to deal with even with Deo di Amarra guiding him. As things stood, they now had two enemies to take care of, not one. How he fit into this, Lasura was certain, had everything to do with Nazir kha'a's vision he wasn't willing to share. But whatever that vision might be, the fact that he was still alive and talking meant they were willing to consider keeping him here, taking a huge risk for it, and that was their weakness he needed to play with.

"Not elsewhere, no." There was a hint of smile on the kha'a's face as he replied, something that resembled Deo's when he said something clever. "But also not to the four people in this tent, not for long, unless you answer our questions wisely."

Lasura nodded. "Fair enough," he said. "And who are the four people in this tent, besides you, Nazir Kha'a, and Djari iza Zuri? Before I answer your questions?" A risky move, confronting a kha'a that way, but a necessary move to hold his ground, however small a space.

Djari straightened, reached out an open palm toward the two guests. "You are in the company of my grandmother, Zabi iza Nyema, and Zaharran izr Shalyk, Commander of our combined army and battle strategist––a member of the kha'as council."

Zaharran. "Of course." Lasura nodded. It made sense. "The Sparrow's adoptive father." He'd heard it from Sarasef before coming here. This man, having taken great risks to adopt the Silver Sparrow into his family, would obviously be included in the innermost circle. "A heroic and selfless move, izr Shalyk." Or is it ambition, I wonder? "My respect, truly."

Zaharran izr Shalyk didn't reply. No trace of emotions showed on his face.

'Never take a man who guards his feelings lightly,' his father had said. 'And always guard yours equally around him.' Lasura decided that this was such a man and made a point to remember it.

"Well then." He turned back to the one holding the most power. "Your questions, Nazir kha'a?"

The oracle smiled, though not with the kind meant to put anyone in their right mind at ease. His eyes, Lasura realized, might have brightened a shade before he spoke. "Who are you?" he asked. "A son of Salar Muradi, or of your mother, a bharavi of the White Desert?"

The tent grew quiet once more, this time, the silent moved around them like a firefly looking for a place to land. It circled the men and women at that table as if to join in the conversation and settled on his shoulder, waiting for the answer. For a moment, the world seemed to have come to a pause, holding its breath for his decision. The wind outside became quiet and still, as if ready for change.

It would come down to this, of course, to having to choose one, Lasura thought. My father's or my mother's son. Never something in between, never something else.

He realized then that Djari was looking at him, staring with the same pair of eyes that once took him by the collar and yanked him out from his hiding place in Eli's Prayer Room.

'I need someone from the other side if I am going to try to win this war.' The words echoed in his mind, came alive as though they had been spoken just now. 'Pick a side. Don't run. Do something with your life, or are you too afraid to choose one?"

Someone from the other side, she said.

Something began to turn in his head, falling into place in his heart. A fog clearing to reveal a path he couldn't see before. A new direction leading to a new place.

'...the fate of this peninsula is in the prince's hands as much as it is in yours, iza Zuri,' Deo had said, in the Hall of Marakai.

Lasura drew a breath and made a decision. They could kill him for this. Strangely enough, he no longer cared.

"I am both and neither," he told them. "Might I one day choose one? Yes, I might. But that day, Nazir kha'a, has not come. The blood that runs in my veins is made up of both Shakshi's and Rashai's. For me to abandon one for the other makes a traitor of me either way. You ask me to choose one, but on what basis? What have any of you or anyone in the White Desert ever done to show me it is worth saving? For all I know you and your people would kill my father's people for their blood, their birthplace, their choice to live. You are, at this very moment, threatening to kill me for my blood and my identity alone. Tell me, what is my sin? Why do I want to fight for people who judge others by the color of their skin, their hair, their birthplace, or the god they worship? What will that make me?"

"We did not start this war, Prince Lasura," said Zaharran izr Shalyk, calmly. "The Rashais did. Your father's people are the ones who took us into slavery, based on who we are, our birthplace, and the god we worship."

"And you will answer to this monstrosity by becoming a monster yourself? You will justify it by doing the same thing in return? Your father, Nazir kha'a, may he rest in peace, was a living proof that your people are just as capable of killing innocents for your own benefits as the Rashais. If you want peace, it will have to start with an offering of peace and the ability to put peace above all else, above hate, above prejudice, above vengeance, or else we will continue to be at war, no matter who holds the power in this peninsula. If I am to pick a side, it will either have to be the better one of the two, or one ruled by a lesser monster who wants to make this peninsula a lesser hell that it already is."

He turned to Djari, caught her eyes, held them for all to see. "I am here because Djari iza Zuri is willing to see it from the other side, to be stopped before she crosses the line. I believe that is my role in this war––to put an end to this conflict, to bring peace to the peninsula. I stand for both Shakshi and Rashais, by blood as much as my upbringing, and I will fight for whichever side that fights for peace. I am giving you that chance to convince me here. You can kill me for this. It will simply prove my point. Or you can prove me wrong. If you want me on your side, then give me a reason to."

He looked at the kha'a, heart slamming against his ribs by the end of the speech he hadn't known from where it came, convinced that he would, most definitely, be killed for this before the day was over. For that particular show, he blamed both parents seeing how it hadn't been decided yet which one was the more suicidal between the two.

"Well then." It was iza Nyema who broke the silence, once again. "It looks like Djari has a new horse to break. This is going to be fun."

***

A/N: How about it? Let's break in a new black mustang! How long do you give Djari before she whips him into shape? I enjoyed writing my boy Lasura immensely in this chapter, couldn't type fast enough when he starts bitching. LOL I hope it entertains :)