Maslakhat’s assertion regarding the desert’s loveliness was more an attempt at wry wit than full on sarcasm—it was certainly not a lovely place. Flowers were lovely. A gentle breeze was lovely. In truth, the desert was brutal, but it was what Maslakhat knew—always better to conduct business in a land at least somewhat familiar than one that was totally foreign. Since he had not been around these Islands long, it only made sense to begin his search here. Like Orhan, he had lived in the desert for most of his life, and thus he felt it might alleviate some of the tension between the two stallions if he chose a word so unfit to describe the climate they both knew that Orhan would find it humorous. The buckskin boy blows a puff of air from his nostrils, making it quite clear that he was not amused.

So much for that.

His reply was blunt but not uncouth, and so Maslakhat remains unfazed. Yusuf was apparently not here either, though he was not sure if he believed Orhan was telling the truth. A stallion this on edge could have something to hide—and while it was likely that it was not his brother—the Akhal-Teke wondered what might be so interesting that Orhan could not let his guard down even for a second to fraternize with a guest. It’s not like Maslakhat could actually accomplish anything in a single second. Trust was like a pyramid—it took many suns and many grains of sand to build, but when it was complete it was steadfast and magnificent—capable of remaining for all time. Yet this boy would not allow for a single grain of sand to fall. But why?

As if the very notion of wondering had been a step too far, the black mare’s sudden assault on him made it clear that something was going on here—or at least explained why Orhan had been so decidedly guarded. Maslakhat rears to avoid her snapping teeth, and staggers backwards to maintain his balance. He is not surprised at her fury, as completely unhinged as it is, but is instead taken aback to hear his own language coming from her lips—albeit the foulest words he knew.

“Öfke ile kalkan zararla oturur,” Maslakhat says calmly. He takes a hard look at her, shielding the stallion with her body, and he notices her outline is neither distinctly Akhal-Teke or Arab—but definitely represents a bit of both. A halfbreed. It seemed some of Zenith’s hatred toward those of impure bloodlines was reciprocated. Maslakhat however, has not yet made his mind up whether halfbreeds like her were worth such blind rage. He was fortunate to have grown up in a time of peace, though the tensions between the two parties obviously remained. Perhaps if he had not been privy to his brother’s existence he might have been quicker to adopt Zenith’s way of thinking, but he was curious as to how someone who shared some of his blood could be so evil.

“You and my brother are alike,” Maslakhat continues in a different tongue so that Orhan might understand, and he shifts his gaze to him behind her for a moment. “But I am told he does not dwell here.”

Maslakhat pauses a moment, deciding that was not going to simply turn and leave without some sort of assurance that he wasn’t being lied to. Word travels faster than hooves, and he wondered if perhaps El Aran had a more specific reason for lashing out at him. It would of course depend on how she reacted now that he’d revealed his brother’s existence to her.


MASLAKHAT
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