The Sheikh and the Servant Read Free Page B

thoughtfulness; Noori still could not figure a reason for his purchase. While they traveled he had served even less than at the castle, but the sheikh seemed not at all concerned. While Noori still feared a change of heart, he had almost accepted that he had lucked into a compassionate owner.
    The sheikh captured his attention again as he pried at the tin to finally get it open, revealing a soft-scented salve. He took up one of Noori’s hands, noting the cracks and dry skin with a deeper frown, and he started rubbing the salve into his hand liberally, though gently.
    The touch both soothed and frightened Noori. Before, when he’d been cared for like this, it was always in preparation of a night of entertainment. He unconsciously pulled his hand back slightly. “Will we be entertaining guests tonight, Master?”
    The sheikh looked up, confusion clear in his expression. “Guests? In the middle of the desert?” he asked, voice rough with disuse but reflecting his surprise.
    Noori found himself blushing under the sheikh’s scrutiny. “Master prepares my skin. I assumed….”
    A dusty eyebrow rose sharply, and the sheikh blinked. “No. No guests,” he clarified, frowning down at the slave’s hand and adding more salve to one crack that had bled.
    Noori fell silent once more, eyes riveted to the place at which a dark hand smoothed healing salve into his skin. “Then why, Master?” he dared to ask. His pulse raced as he took the liberty.
    The sheikh’s hand froze, staring down at the slave’s hand. Then he asked abruptly, “What is your name?”
    “By Amir Qutaibah’s harem master I was called Abdur, Master,” Noori answered flatly. None of the slaves were given names of their own. Simply Abdul or Abdur. Servant or Slave.
    The sheikh sniffed and looked Noori directly in the face, as was his habit, although Noori always looked away deferentially. “What is your birth name?”
    “I was born Noori, Master.”
    “Noori,” the sheikh repeated, the sound coming out like “nur-eee” with his thick accent.
    Noori nodded, blushing slightly at the intense regard. As the sheikh studied him, he took the can of salve, scooping some onto his own fingers, and he began to gently knead the muscles of the sheikh’s palms.
    The sheikh allowed Noori to take over with the salve, just watching him silently for long moments before he sighed, as if unhappy with some choice he’d made. He sniffed again. “You needed it,” he said shortly, looking away.
    Noori’s blue eyes flashed up. “And Master provided it for me. It is the mark of a good master.”
    The sheikh looked back to meet Noori’s eyes for a moment, and he nodded once, slowly, in acknowledgment.
     
    #
     
    After a fortnight’s riding, one morning the group of riders plodded along at almost a lazy pace. A guard scouting ahead called out to the sheikh, who raised his hand in acknowledgment, and as the guard reached the top of what just seemed to be another dune in the ocean of sand, he was engulfed by a swarm of cheering denizens wearing bright colors.
    Noori hunkered low on the horse he was riding, shocked by the sudden appearance and sound of such a large crowd. He pulled his scarves up to cover his face. He dared to look out over the surrounding land, seeing dunes give way to a city of tents built into a ridge of stone cliffs that formed a large valley. His eyes grew large, and he lowered his face immediately. He had never seen such a place—it rivaled Qutaibah’s palace, yet blended so perfectly into its surroundings that it must have been there for generations.
    At the sheikh’s wave, the other guards rode ahead to greet their families as they were dancing and singing and cheering while the group descended the sand dune into the tent city that spread through the hidden rocky valley. They were surrounded by other chattering and singing people, and servants came to catch the horses’ reins. The sheikh dismounted in the middle of the crowd, waving a little,