Khaneerim khaneer (Blood of my Blood)

[Sands and Suns]

"Khaneerim khaneer, Jhezleen."

It was the last time she heard her name pronounced correctly. Syllables too foreign for tongues unused to their dialect.

"Khaneerim khaneer" Blood of my blood.
Her mother spoke these words as she sent her away quietly. Sent her away in the night where none would ask questions or follow. In the morning, there would be a carcass to show and a story of jackals and another warning tale about wandering in the desert alone --and one less to worry about for water and food. No one need know that she had been disfavored by the gods with the Hudir Khanis. The blood curse whose only resolution was to sacrifice of the one who bore it. A sacrifice to the gods to appease their disfavor.

No one knew yet of her illness. Only her mother, and only because of her gift. Her mother was of the Khan Ustas. The blood masters, and she could see and sense that something was wrong long before symptoms showed.
"You are sick," she had heard her mother say.
"I know I am," she replied. Hearing she was sick meant little to her until her mother added.
"Hudir Khanis, Jhezleen." She tried to will her body to breath, but it did not. Suspended in the moment for time that seemed outside of time. She finally gasped and looked into her mother's dark eyes.
"No. This cannot be so. This cannot. They... they will..."
"No one knows. Only I, but they will know soon enough, and you must go before they ... " Her mother paused, unwilling to say what was to follow. "You must go to find the Khan Ustas before you are too weak to travel. " Travel? What even was that? They did not travel. They moved as a group, but that was not travelling. That was shifting as sands shifted.
"Travel ... Alone?" She queried, the word nearly sticking in her throat which had gone dry as sand mid-day.
"Alone, my jewel. If I disappear with you, it will be suspicious and you know your father will come to find me." And with that, her mother pressed her forehead to Jhezleen's forehead. "You must go tonight. I have already packed everything. You must go now, my jewel, while they are all celebrating. You must find this Khan Ustas. I have a map of his making. Pay close attention to the drawings. Stay to the shadows. Tell no one there who you are." Her mother then sang the instructions to her. She sang the song three times as was the custom, and by the third, Jhezleen had memorized it. "Khaneerim khaneer, Jhezleen."

[Sands and Suns]

To understand the Khanasti, one had to speak the language. A language passed by blood from generation to generation through oral traditions spoken during what outsiders would consider gruesome rituals involving blood sacrifices and rites -- rites the Khanasti believed to be both sacred and necessary: a reminder that water, food, and all that was life could not be obtained without blood. Such was the language and history of the Khanasti: A language spoken with swords; a history written on corpses.

The day began with them: rituals of thanks for surviving the night. Tales of dangers encountered --be they snakes or jackals or scorpions or raiders --were told as the morning blooding was performed over an altar by the Sheikh's first wife who would cut the throat of a bat or other small animal she was charged with catching the night before, letting it run along the altar as praise to the gods that the night creatures had not ended them. The Sheikh would chant three times "Khanseet destez khaneer" "The end of blood begins our blood." It was meaningful. To hear the words meant that you survived the night. It meant that all which would have ended your life when the sun descended, instead lost theirs. It was a common and a sacred phrase. It was said after battle when the dead were buried. It was said after a successful hunt to honor the animal that was to be eaten, and it was said in prayer before eating it as the tribe gathered around, each having equal part in the feast.

The day ended with them: rituals that gave thanks for survival during the day where one warrior was honored to represent the entire tribe by spilling his own blood drawn from his sword. "Khaneerat hastez Khaneer." "By my blood lives our blood." Except in their language, there was no difference betwixt my and our. Success and failure belonged to all equally. This unity, embedded linguistically, represented one of the most essential elements of the tribe. No one is alone. No one stands alone. The blood of one is the blood of all. The same blood: Khaneerim khaneer.