Kemar watched the people passing by the canvas opening. Tourists, mostly; spoiled rich visitors from places far away enough for their eyes to hold only naïve curiosity. To these people, they were amusements, their way of life a show, their worth only in the trinkets they sold, the colours they wore.

Kemar hated them almost as much as he hated the city people.

In the gloom, Tekan had gathered the children. The light flickered over their attentive faces as the elder told them the Stories. The Weaver and the Unraveller, Those-Who-See, the Jackal, Het-Assam - all the sources of his people’s dreams, sung in this place. The Red Dust fires kept burning, hidden from the empire and the stars.

”Oh, look! Look at the tent! How quaint!”

Kemar leaned against the pole, glaring unseen at the woman and her friend, already tittering about something else.

Thought about the stories the children weren’t told.

”...but the Jackal, the crafty trickster, he snatched that thread of fire right from the Weaver’s spool and hid it in his braid, and all the Sun tribe complimented him on the fine colours of his hair...”

The children giggled, hearing only a story about tricky ol’ Jackal up to his usual shenanigans, playing the reckless, fortunate fool.

Sometimes Kemar thought he was the only one who heard the stories about the Jackal’s cleverness, his bravery and skill. And all the ways he served his people.

”Wouldn’t his hair burn?” Chekel, bright boy, sad about his parents.

Before the elder could answer, Enet - sweet little Enet, young enough to ask these things - chimed in, ”Is that what happened to your hair, Kemar?”

Caught off guard, Kemar could only stare for a moment. Hand drifting up to his hair, unevenly cut off just below his jawline.

They never told the children about Tahan-Het.

”No,” he began, but Tekan said,

”Kemar didn’t need to steal the fire for us; the Sun’s daughter has already gotten it from the Jackal. Shall I tell you how she did it?” His voice was mild, as always, but his eyes darted a warning glance at Kemar.

Kemar held his tongue. The Medinn dogs were out sniffing their borders again.

Tekan sung the story of Het-Assam. Clever, patient Het-Assam, who lulled the Jackal to rest with a  bellyfull of honey bread and offered to brush and braid his hair. She did it properly, too, not leaving his hair in shameful disarray even when she had the thread of fire safely in her own braid. Fair, compassionate Het-Assam.

The dogs prowled by and Kemar held his breath until their dark-suited backs turned a corner.

”Tekan,” Enet’s voice again, ”where is Het-Assam now? Couldn’t she help us get our land back?”

Kemar almost grinned. Get out of that one, Tekan.

”She’s the star that lights our mornings, giving us hope. She lets us know that if we’re patient, we will come home again. And in the meantime, we will have to make this our home.”

Kemar thought of red morning skies and innocent blood. Tried to remember how old he had been when he first saw through Tekan’s pretty words.

”But what about the empire? Don’t they hate us?”

Kemar glanced back, saw Tekan, the old fool, shake his head.

”No. They do what they think is right, for them, and they’re frightened of us and what we can do. But if they knew us, if they knew you, they would help us. We must always strive to understand, and be understood.”

”And then there’ll be peace?” Much too young, Enet, much too young.

”Yes,” Tekan said, ”then there’ll be peace.”

Kemar closed his eyes against the cold in his chest, but didn’t argue.

It was a great lie to tell small children.



Kemar whirled on him as soon as the children were out of earshot.

”How long are you going to lie to them?”

Tekan still wasn’t used to how strange the youth looked, without his braids. Especially when he was angry, his face looking both softer and fiercer - wilder, alien. Tekan thought Tahan-Het might have looked like that. Which, of course, was the point.

”I don’t lie, Kemar.”

Kemar made an impatient, angry noise, like a threatened porcupine. Tekan missed the porcupines; they would not come this far into the city. He doubted Kemar had ever even seen one.

He let Kemar glower at him and busied his hands tidying away the colourful rag dolls the children had played with. Soft and worn, miniscule braids on shapeless heads. His old skin remembered still, being a small boy and playing with other children by the fire in his mother’s tent.

”When are you going to tell them about Tahan-Het?” Kemar’s voice was lower now. Tekan appreciated that, took it as a sign of respect the boy might be unaware of.

”It is a dark story. Why should I sing it for so young ears?” He stroked down the hair and skirt of one doll, met its single eye. Time to mend again.

”They need to know there is more to hope than sitting around and waiting!”

He could hear Kemar pacing behind him, a soft whisper of leather, and wondered if the boy knew he was doing it.

”And what would that be, Kemar?” They’d had this argument, many times. Tekan sometimes felt he was beating his brow against a very small, made-flesh piece of the greater conflict, like a reflection. He felt he understood, then, why it proved so stubborn, so hard to end.

”The teharaher-”

”You want the children to fight, like you?”

Kemar had looked horrified, the first time Tekan had asked. Tekan had allowed himself to hope it had all been a foolish mistake, that Kemar would grow his hair back. Now the boy just waved his hand.

”No, but someone needs to. Or there won’t be anything left for them, for any of us. Our tribes are weak, the fires-”

”The fires need someone to tend them. What will be left of us?” Tekan shook his head, sat down on a battered folding chair. ”I am old, Kemar. I remember the plains. I don’t want those memories to be lost in blood.”

”They already are! You will die in this city, Tekan, you will die in this dog’s den, while theives hold our lands and our children starve! I don’t want to.”

”If you fight, you might.” Tekan didn’t bother to say that land couldn’t be stolen. They’d been through it before.

Kemar looked down, rubbed the faded birth charm on his wrist. ”I know,” he said, quietly. ”But it’s better than- I’ll die as Red Dust.”

”Freedom is many things.”

”I don’t even remember the plains, Tekan! If we just wait, generations of us will die without ever seeing them. You hold onto your memories. I want to live now.” Kemar leaned back against the tent pole, closing his eyes.

It struck Tekan that this was more than their usual argument. There was something in the lines of Kemar’s face, in the unhappy turn of his mouth. There were new scars on his body that Tekan would rather not ask about, but they didn’t look serious. Kemar looked tired.

”Our memories keep us true,” he said, gently. ”Until the right time comes.”

”So you’ll wait for Het-Assam?” Even Kemar’s voice sounded tired now, and brittle as dry leaves.

”The Sun Daughter may or may not come.” Tekan spoke slowly, drawing in the dirt; clan marks, songs, the Weaver’s threads. ”I think she is a symbol, a figure of hope. Something we need to make ourselves free, from inside ourselves.”

”Het-Assam is dead! Who’s to say her other isn’t?” Tekan could see his eyes now: shiny, wide like a child’s. Pleading. Kemar looked desperate.

Tekan wondered if he had even heard what he said.

”Come,” he said, indicating another folding chair. ”Sit.”

Kemar looked about to refuse, but sat with a sigh. His hair fell to hide his face, and Tekan remembered first seeing him like this. Kemar had stepped into his tent looking like a stranger, and Tekan had found no words, no song that could express the sadness he felt. It was as if the boy had already died, that moment, and a ghost had been visiting him.

Tekan wondered, sometimes, if Kemar knew how much more Medinn he looked now.

”Het-Assam lives, in all of us. In our memories. In our songs.” Tekan took Kemar’s hand, felt battered knuckles against his palm. ”She is the hope that will not die.”

Kemar sighed again, leaning slightly towards Tekan.

”And what does that make me?” he murmured.

Tekan hesitated, reached out to stroke Kemar’s hair. ”Red Dust. Heart of the plains.” He held his breath, afraid it had been the wrong thing to say.

But Kemar dipped his head, just slightly. ”I just... I see our tribes falling apart. You know Nemet and Kharan... died.” He sniffed. Tekan remembered Kemar had been there, at the market. He had smelled like blood and burning flesh for days after; no one had wanted to make him come in from where he sat staring at the ground. ”We are breaking each other apart, when we should be...”

Tekan congratulated himself on the small hesitation, that he had managed to take away at least some of the absolute certainty in the path Kemar had chosen.

Kemar shook his head, a bare turn to each side under Tekan’s hand. ”What should we do?”

”We must stay together. We must remain who we are, and remember. We will make it through. The morning star guides us; we will find our way.”

Kemar’s shoulders shook, a quiet breath of a laugh.

”Some say we’ve always fought each other.”

”They are wrong. We have always lived in peace.”

”Until now.”

”We can do it again. Still.”

Kemar lifted his head to look at him.

”They took their bodies.”

Tekan nodded. ”Yes.”

”I couldn’t do anything about it.”

”No,” Tekan said. To confirm. It wasn’t your fault.

”His mother thinks I did wrong.”

”You couldn’t have done anything.”

”No. But now their families fight over whose fault it was, and they all blame me, and everyone else gets angry and afraid. Why are we falling apart, Tekan, when you fight so hard to keep us together?”

Kemar’s eyes stared straight into his, unrelenting, clear.

He could only tell the truth he knew. ”We’re not made to stay in one place too long. We need to move. And if we cannot walk, we fight.”

”And then we die.”

”We don’t have to.”

Kemar shook his head free of Tekan’s hand.

”We are already fighting. We’re already dying. We’re just doing it wrong.” He smiled, and stood.

”Where are you going?”

”I know what I am, Tekan. I am Red Dust. I am Free Wind.” He stopped by the entrance to look over his shoulder. He looked older and very proud, halfway into the sun. ”I am the vengeance of our people.”

Then he was gone.

Teharaher.

Tekan sighed and hid his face in his hands.