Part 1

When Khalid Met Jaheira

Cold, icy, liquid - impressions flooded his sleeping brain with visceral implications that his waking mind struggled to process, in the split instant before it settled on the most appropriate course of action - awakening the young man with a gurgling yell,

Khalid sprang from the threadbare cot upon which he had been sleeping, his mail shirt rattling with surprise and dripping with water. He stared in bewilderment at his assailants, who burst into laughter.

"It's your watch," grunted one, and then grudgingly threw him a rag with which to dry himself.

"Err, yes, thank you..." he stammered, wishing that he could think of something witty to say in response. But it was no use - whatever he would have said would just come out in a jumble anyway, twisted out of dignity by his tripping tongue. They would have just laughed more.

He walked out of the guardhouse onto the sun baked battlements, taking in the vast sienna spread of the dusty city below. The coolness of the water became a blood warmth on his body and he discarded the rag - no point in exerting himself since it would all soon evaporate in the stifling heat, to be replaced later by sweat.

He palmed his sword hilt reflexively, but there was really no need, as he scanned the horizon for enemies on the march, finding, as usual, that there were none.

"Ehhh, elf, don't let 'em get to you," a voice called behind him, as the clank of mail heralded the approach of one of his fellow guards. "They're just playing, you know - some day they'll be tired of you...."

/Tired of me.../ Inwardly he sighed. After serving with the guard for more than three years, was that really the best he could hope for? That eventually his comrades would no longer find his differences interesting and would finally leave him alone? He supposed indifference to moderate boredom was better than active dislike; such as he got from his father.

A punch in the shoulder made him look back, and he forced a smile as he stared at the darker human behind him. He had long ago stopped trying to point out that he was half human. To his eyes he had always borne more of the unfortunate appearance of his human ancestry than any of the beauty of his elven heritage, but the moment a person laid eyes on him, saw the delicately pointed ears and the slanted eyes, though they were as black as any Calimshite's, they saw only the elf.

"You're on leave tonight," Nassar unknowingly ferretted out the very meat of Khalid's misery.

"Yes, for a sevenday." He tried to sound as happy about the situation as he possibly could.

"Of course your rich dad makes sure of that, eh? This is just a sideline for you until you inherit the family business."

If only Nassar knew how wrong he was. No, being part of the city guard was what Khalid treasured more than anything else because it kept him away from home and the ceaseless, hawk-like disapproval of his human father.

Of course it was no use telling that to anyone not born to privilege, it was assumed that money made all troubles vanish, when instead it sometimes caused new strife. Khalid shrugged, no, there was really no point explaining it at all,

"I heard you were taking lessons with a mage too, lucky bastard..."

Lucky, yes, he had been lucky, lucky he had been able to convince his father to part with any of his precious money for the tutelage of his unwanted half breed younger son. Of course now he knew the real reason his father had parted with his precious pennies: so that he could have the satisfaction of laughing as the mage finally left in disgust, declaring Khalid unteachable because of his speech impediment that would prevent him from ever reciting a spell with any kind of reliability or accuracy. Never mind that he could memorize as many spells as he wanted, or that his quick mind instantly grasped the right inflection. He had thought to impress his father, thought that, as he had once been told, he could not stutter while chanting, but he found that he could. The one thing that made him special was his special weakness, and for that his father never ceased to harass himl.

"It didn't work out," Khalid dismissed hastily, "the mage was called away on business." His omnipresent tremble made it sound like he was even more disappointed than he actually was.

"That's too bad," Nassar replied, with what seemed like genuine sympathy. "But you're a good sword, you know... why try to do everything?" He drew his blade with a metallic shing. "Come on, how about a few rounds?"

"I probably should be paying attention to our surroundings, you know, being on watch and all..." Khalid said, but felt the twinge of temptation all the same. When he held the sword he was a different man, a man who could be bold and decisive as his father always believed a man should be. If only he could see what his son could do... But he could not, or would not. Nothing must eclipse the glory of his full-human sons, and anything that did had to be tainted in some way. It followed to his narrow, closed mind.

"Alright then, but next practice, you and me..."

"That would be l-lovely..." The half-elf clenched his hand around the pommel of his sword as the other man departed. He knew what his father was, knew that were he any other man he would not think anything of his taunts, would know him for the bigot that he was - who thought elven women were good enough to warm his bed but never to engender his children, no never that. Hypocrite... And yet Khalid knew in his heart that reason would never persuade his emotions in this matter.

The hours went by in a peaceful, yet chaffingly slow pace, one that Khalid wished would crawl by slower still, though it prolonged the agony of waiting to go home to his loving family. He planned to spend his leave much as he spent every other leave since he joined the city guard, curled up with a good book where his father would never find him.

All too soon the sun began its irrevocable descent towards the desert in the distance, and a new guard came to take Khalid's place on the battlements. There was nothing for it, nothing for him but to descend the steps of the turret, as slowly as he could, and lose himself in the crowds that were also heading home after a busy working day.

Flipping down his visor to avoid the curious states, he walked as quickly as he could without seeming hurried - thieves and cutthroats were always watching, alert to those who seemed unsure or weak - though with a large sword hanging from his belt Khalid did not present the appearance of a easy target. But he was lost in thought, and so he did not hear the strident female voice importuning him until suddenly a smaller figure stood blocking his path.

Pretty... no, beautiful, her raptor sharp gaze assessed him pointedly, exotically slanted eyes that proclaimed she too was of elven blood, and other more earthy features that also spoke of a human heritage. Khalid gasped, unable to help himself. It was the first time he had seen another of his particular kind. She was clad in a doeskin tunic and a matching long skirt, fringe dangling around her calves, a dusky orange and white scarf wrapped around her head as a concession to modesty, and as protection from the sun and heat. It was her eyes that continued to hold him, green and gold and blue at once, with a little ring of russet around the iris, probably enhanced by the dark orange of her scarf, and the way they slanted slightly... so like his own, a mirror he had never dreamed of finding.

"You're a half-breed!" he exclaimed, cursing inwardly at the stammer that always seemed to emerge at the least convenient opportunity, like when he was upset, or excited, or facing intense scrutiny from his father. This was scrutiny of a different kind, however, as he lost himself in those beautiful eyes and, despite his awkwardness, could not bring himself to look away.

Dark golden brows knit together in a contemptuous frown. "I am of elven blood, yes," she answered coolly. "Just because you live in a city which holds my kind in contempt, you don't have to imitate their bigotry..."

/And if my father is one of those bigots?/ Khalid thought, but didn't speak aloud. He was almost tempted to take off his visored helmet and show her that he was like her, but he held back. What could he hope to accomplish with that? Stun her with his handsome face? Hardly. Nabil and Achmed had inherited their father's rugged good looks along with his good favour. All Khalid had to show for his parentage was a beaky nose and a roof over his head.

But the woman was still speaking, he realized, ranting and railing like a fishwife. "...Silvanus show me a man who is truly able to think for himself and not follow others like lemmings off a cliff and I swear I'll kiss him!"

Seizing the opening, Khalid addressed her again, realizing, with some wonder, that this was the longest conversation he had ever held with a woman who wasn't family. "What brings you to our city, then, if you dislike it so much? As a woman, and as one of elven blood, and one so beautiful..." he faltered, cursing the tongue that refused to pronounce the eloquence of his thoughts. "There are slavers about who would have much interest in you."

A rush of air was all the warning he had before the staff the woman had been casually leaning on was suddenly aimed at his throat, jammed up under his chin and through a gap in his armour. "Not so much interested in a brace of broken ribs, however," she said, her eyes, those eyes - only the unimaginative could have called them hazel - snapping with magnificent anger.

All dusky skin and heat, she was the merciless desert personified.

"I see..." Khalid swallowed, the feeling of the steel-shod wood pressing against his throat only a distant sensation compared to the strange emotions engendered by her nearness, and her mysterious, coppery loveliness. "I would pity any slavers who tried to bother you, except that they deserve whatever luckless fate befalls them."

The staff came down again, its tip burying itself in the red dust of the street. "You don't support the slave trade?"

He shook his head, thinking of his mother, as he always did, with a wave of loneliness, sorrow, and guilt. "I have seen what stealing a person's freedom does to their soul. No matter how silken the prison, it is a living death..."

The woman's eyes narrowed slightly. "Your helmet - take it off."

Khalid shifted uncomfortably. "I'd prefer not." He feared their conversation would soon end when she saw what lay beneath, and he found that he was enjoying their spirited banter as much as he enjoyed the view.

"Why do you hesitate?" she asked, her expression at once exasperated and quizzical. "Is it because you are scarred? Regardless of what some may think I hold there is no dishonour in scars gained in righteous battles."

As a matter of fact he did have a scar, running along the left side of his face, but his younger brother Achmed smashing him with a priceless vase from Kara-Tur in a fit of pique when he was 12 was hardly what he would call a righteous battle.

"I'm waiting." The fringe of doeskin edging her skirt twitched in time with her tapping foot. "And kindly address my face and not my feet. Though I suppose you are a notch above some of your kind, who prefer to converse with my chest." His gaze followed the line of her body back to her face, skipping quickly over the more interesting regions lest she relegate him back with the rest. Her arms were crossed and he could see she was accustomed to having her own way. "Very well," she said at last, "I don't see much point in continuing a conversation with a man whose face I can't see..."

"No, wait..." This was just the situation Khalid had hoped to avoid. Hurriedly he tugged his helmet off and held it awkwardly under his arm. The coolness of the evening breeze felt wonderful on his heated skin, the pleasurable sensation contrasting with the sinking feeling in his stomach.

One gilded brow shot up in the only betrayal of her surprise at finding he too was of elven blood.

"My mother was... a concubine," he admitted by way of explanation. Yet somehow it was not enough, his chest was tight with words he had never spoken aloud to another living soul, and somehow he couldn't help but say them. He could feel the rise of anxiety and emotion, heralding the certainty he was about to embarrass himself again with his stuttering speech. "I had always told myself I would force my father to free..." He paused for a moment, and tried to keep the despair from his eyes as he looked at her waiting patiently for him to finish gathering his tongue from where it seemed knotted around his tonsils. "...to free her, but she died before I was strong enough... of sorrow, I think..."

He cursed himself for a fool as he saw her gaze harden, and steeled himself for scathing words.

They never came.

Instead the woman cleared her throat awkwardly. "I believe we have not introduced ourselves. I am Jaheira." She held out her hand as a man would.

Automatically he took it, and was surprised by the strong, firm grip. "K-K-Khalid..." His heart sank - what must she think of a man who couldn't even speak his own name properly?

"Khalid," the woman - Jaheira - repeated, her subtle accent lending a richness to the syllables that he had never heard before. And then she gifted him with a smile, and he nearly forgot her name again as the sun seemed to warm him from the inside out. "Well, Khalid, I am new to this city, and I am in search of a merchant, Kasim ibn Hafiz, perhaps you know of him?"

"Yes I do." Khalid found he was so stunned he couldn't stutter. "He is my father."