Stunned, the brothers and cousins rubbed their dazzled eyes and their ringing ears, wondering what had hit them.
Sond’s turbaned head brushed the topmost part of the seven-foot-high tent. He stood in the middle of the melee, his muscled arms folded across his bronze, glistening chest, his black eyes flashing in anger.
“Attend to me—djinn of Sheykh Majiid al Fakhar, djinn to his father before him, djinn to his father before him, djinn to his father before him, and so on for the past five hundred generations of the Akar! Hear the will of the most Holy Akhran the Wanderer, who has deigned to speak to you foolish mortals after over two hundred years of silence!”
“May His name be praised,” muttered Majiid caustically, holding up Khardan, whose knees were giving way beneath him.
Sond heard Majiid’s sarcastic remark but chose to ignore it. “It is the will of Akhran the Wanderer that you two ancient enemies—the Akar and Hrana—be brought together in peace through the marriage of the eldest son and the eldest daughter of the tribal rulers. It is the will of Akhran that neither tribe shall shed the blood of a member of the other. It is further the will of Akhran that both tribes shall make their camps at the foot of the Tel until such time as the flower sacred to the great and mighty Akhran the Wanderer, the flower of the desert known as the Rose of the Prophet, blooms. This is the will of Hazrat Akhran.
“In return for their obedience”—Sond saw the groom’s eyes start to glaze over and spoke more rapidly—”the Holy Akhran promises his people his blessing and assistance in the times of strife that are forthcoming.”
“Strife! Hah!” muttered Jaafar to his daughter. “The only people we ever fight are each other, and we are forbidden to do that!”
Zohra shrugged. She had suddenly ceased to struggle and slumped against her father’s chest in what he assumed was exhaustion. He did not notice, in the confusion and turmoil, that his dagger was missing from its customary place in his sash.
“Skip the rest,” ordered Fedj, holding out the ceremonial cord that officially bound the two people together as husband and wife. “Get on with the vows.”
“In the name of Akhran the Wanderer, do you, Princess Zohra, daughter of Sheykh Jaafar al Widjar, come here of your own free will to marry Calif Khardan al Fakhar?”
A bitter curse from the bride was cut off by her father, who wrapped his hand around her throat. “She does,” he said, breathing heavily.
“In the name of Akhran the Wanderer, do you, Calif Khardan al Fakhar, son of Sheykh Majiid al Fakhar, come here of your own free will to marry Princess Zohra, daughter of Sheykh Jaafar al Widjar?”
A vicious poke in the back from his father brought Khardan standing bolt upright, staring around with blinking eyes.
“Say bali! Bali!” ordered Majiid. “Yes! Yes!”
“B-hali!” cried Khardan with a triumphant gesture of his hand. His mouth gaped open, his eyes rolled back in his head, he swayed where he stood.
“Quickly!” shouted Fedj, holding out the binding to the two fathers.
Generally made of finest silk, the cord symbolizes the love and loyalty that bind husband and wife together. For this hasty wedding there had not been time to journey to the walled city of Kich to purchase silken cord, so a substitute was made of strong desert hemp. And as Pukah stated, it seemed more suitable to the occasion anyhow.
“Take it!” Fedj ordered.
Both fathers hesitated, glaring at each other. The mutterings in the tent swelled to a loud rumbling. Sond growled ominously, Fedj flexed his strong arms. A sudden gust of wind brought a small sand devil swirling into the tent through the open flap.
Memories of the ‘efreets in his mind, Majiid grabbed the cord. With an ill-will, he and Jaafar bound the hemp around their offspring and tied it in a love knot, a bit more tightly than was absolutely necessary.
“In the name of Akhran the Wanderer, you two are married!” gasped Sond, wiping the sweat from his brow as he gloomily surveyed the bound couple—the groom leaning heavily against the bride, his head lolling on her shoulder.
There was the flash of a knife, the hemp cord parted as did the bindings on the bride’s hands. The blade flashed again and might have ended the wedding day as well as any other future days for the groom had not Khardan pitched face-first onto the floor. Seeing that she had missed, Zohra jumped over the comatose body of her new husband and ran for the tent opening.
“Stop her!” Majiid yelled. “She tried to kill my son!”
“You stop her!” Jaafar roared. “You could probably beat a woman in a fair fight!”
“Dog!”
“Swine!”
The fathers drew their scimitars. Cousins and brothers leaped for each other’s throats.
Hearing the clash of steel, Khardan staggered to his feet. He felt blindly for his scimitar—only to realize dimly that he was not wearing it on his wedding day. Cursing, he surged forward weaponless to join the brawl.
Steel clashed on steel. The tent poles swayed dangerously as bodies crashed into them. A shriek, a curse, and a groan coming from one of the guards standing near the tent entrance indicated that the knife-wielding bride had made her way that far, at least.
The two djinn stared around in exasperation. “You go after her!” Sond shouted. “I’ll put an end to this!”
“Akhran’s blessing be with you!” cried Fedj, vanishing in a swirl of smoke.
“That’s just all I need!” muttered Sond.
Grabbing hold of the central tentpole with his strong hands, the djinn glared at the sword-slashing, dagger-wielding, heaving and plunging bodies. Then, his lips coming together in a grim smile, Sond jerked the tentpole up out of the ground and neatly snapping it in two, let it fall.
The tent collapsed like a deflated goatskin, narrowly missing the bride, smothering the groom, effectively ending the fighting of fathers, brothers and cousins. Dagger in hand, Zohra fled into the desert. The qumiz going to his head, Khardan lay snoring blissfully beneath the folds of the ceremonial tent as the air whistled out of it with a whoosh, effectively extinguishing—for the time being—the flames of hatred that had burned hot within the hearts of these people for centuries past remembering.
Chapter 5
Deep night had fallen over the desert. Around the Tel, however, the flames of a hundred small suns lit the night almost as bright as day, the night air resounded with drunken laughter. These celebratory measures were not so much in honor of the wedding but in commemoration of the glorious fight that had taken place following the wedding, and in expectation of more glorious fights to come. The largest bonfire burned outside Khardan’s tent. Surrounded by weaving, dancing black shapes, the flames licked hungrily at the wood as dogs lick up blood.
A silver slit appeared in the black sky; Achmed’s youthful voice, more sober than the rest, shouted out that the moon was rising. This was followed by a cheer, for it was the signal to escort the groom to his bridal tent where, presumably, the bride waited in perfumed, bejeweled splendor. Everyone (more or less) surged forward—the groom in the lead. Many of his companions clung to each other for support, either too drunk or too injured to walk without help.
No one had died in the skirmish in the wedding tent—for which the fall of the pole could undoubtedly be thanked—but there were several on both sides who’d been carried to their tents feet-first and were being tended by their wives. One of these was Zohra’s father, Jaafar. A lucky swipe of Majiid’s saber just as the tent collapsed on top of them caught Jaafar across his skinny chest. The wound opened a bloody gash in his flesh, ruined his best robes, and neatly sliced off the bottom half of his long, white beard, but it did little other damage, not even penetrating as far as the bone.
Nonetheless, this injury done to their Sheykh would have precipitated a bloodbath among the tribes had not Sond threatened to transport the first man who raised his dagger into the Sun’s Anvil, stuff his mouth with salt, and leave him tied to a stake with a waterskin hanging just beyond his reach. Grumbling and muttering threats
into their beards, Jaafar’s men limped out of the tent, bearing their fallen Sheykh, stretched out on a blanket, between them.
Jaafar himself had only one command to make: “Find my daughter.”
The men of Hrana glanced uneasily at each other. Zohra was still armed, not only with her knife but with her magic, which, though it could do nothing deadly to them, could still make their lives more miserable than Sul’s Hell. The men therefore hastened to assure their Sheykh that Zohra had been located. She was in the bridal tent.
This wasn’t a lie—no honorable man would have told an untruth to a member of his own tribe. Someone had actually seen Zohra heading in the direction of the bridal tent following her escape from her wedding. What for, no one knew, but bets were being placed among the Hrana on how long Khardan would remain alive once he entered that tent. Nothing over five minutes was getting any odds at all.
Jaafar appeared dubious upon receiving the news that his daughter had—apparently—decided to meekly submit to this marriage. But before he could say anything further, he lost consciousness. Leaving their wounded Sheykh among his wives, the men of Hrana stealthily followed the groom’s procession to the bridal tent, hoping to find a way to disrupt it without being caught by the djinn.
As it turned out, all of these proceedings in the camps were being observed by two black, scornful eyes. Supposedly in her bridal tent, lounging in a silken gown among silken cushions with kohl on her eyelids, henna on her fingertips, attar of rose, jasmine, and orange blossom perfuming the air, Zohra instead was standing on the very top of the Tel, dressed in an old caftan and trousers that she had stolen from her father. Her hand on her horse’s bridle, she looked down into the camp one last time before leaving it forever.
The horse was a magnificent stallion—a wedding gift from Majiid to Jaafar. (Actually it was a gift from Sond to Jaafar. The djinn knew that Majiid would reluctantly hand over his son in marriage, but the Sheykh of the Akar would never—no matter how many storms Hazrat Akhran visited on him—give one of his horses to a Hrana. Therefore Sond had taken it upon himself to present the suitable gift. Majiid had no idea that the horse was missing. Sond had created a passable substitute that fooled everyone until the first time Majiid attempted to ride it. An unfortunate leap into the nonexistent saddle revealed that the horse was an illusion. It took a month for the Sheykh’s bruises to heal, and it was weeks before he could speak to Sond without exploding in rage.)
Jaafar had been pleased with the horse, but he never rode it, preferring to ride the ancient, mangy camel he had purchased long ago from the tribe of Sheykh Zeid. His daughter Zohra, however, had fallen in love with the animal and determined to learn to ride if she died in the attempt. She practiced several times in secret during the month before the wedding, galloping among the hills, and being naturally athletic, she had become quite skilled. She had another motive in learning to ride: this gave her the means to escape her dire fate.
Stealing from a member of one’s own tribe was an unforgivable act, but—since the horse was a wedding gift—Zohra considered that she had more right to the animal than did her father. After all, she was the one who had been insulted by that mockery of a wedding ceremony. She deserved this wonderful beast. And she had left all her jewels behind to pay for it. Surely they were worth more than one horse.
At the thought of her jewelry Zohra sighed softly and rubbed the horse’s nose. The animal nuzzled its head against her neck impatiently, longing for a gallop, urging her to get on with her journey. Zohra patted it soothingly.
“We’ll go soon,” she promised, but she didn’t move.
If there was one weakness in this strong woman, it was a love of jewelry. To hear the jingle of golden earrings, to see the flash of sapphire and ruby bracelets on her slender arms, to admire the sparkle of turquoise and silver on her fingers, this was almost worth being born a female. Almost. . . Not quite. That was the real reason she had gone to the bridal tent—to look for the last time on the jewelry that had been given her. Jewelry meant to adorn her body for—for what? To make her worthy in the eyes of some horseman?
Zohra’s lip curled in a sneer. In her mind she envisioned the man’s heavy, clumsy hands snatching the rings from her fingers, tugging the bracelets from her, arms, and hurling them carelessly into a comer of the tent as he . . . as he . . .
The horse neighed suddenly, tossing its head. Gripping the knife, Zohra whirled around, stabbing with a quick, skillful thrust, not caring whom or what she hit.
A strong hand closed painfully over Zohra’s wrist. Holding on to the woman, the djinn Fedj stared down at the blade sticking from his chest. Grimly plucking out the dagger, the djinn returned it to the fuming bride.
“I command you! Leave me! Return to your ring!” ordered Zohra in a quivering voice.
“I am your father’s djinn and therefore subject to no one’s commands but his, Princess,” answered Fedj coolly.
“Did he send you after me? Not that it matters. I’m not going back,” Zohra stated defiantly, a defiance whose strength was considerably diluted by the knowledge that the powerful djinn could return her to her father’s tent in the blink of an eye.
Fedj was just about to respond when a shout of drunken laughter coming up from the desert floor drew the attention of both. Looking down, they saw the groom’s procession wend its way slowly through the camp. Khardan had apparently sobered up following the fight in the wedding tent, for he was walking upright without help, laughing and joking with several less steady companions, who staggered along at his side. Snatches of his conversation, carried clearly on the crisp, chill desert air, came to Zohra.
“I’ve heard stories about this she-devil of a sheepherder.” Khardan’s voice was rich and mellow, a deep baritone, his laughter infectious and arrogant. “I heard that she has vowed to the God that no man will possess her. An unholy vow! To be honest, my friends”—Khardan turned to face his companions, who were regarding their Calif with profound admiration—”I have come to believe that this sacrilegious vow is the reason Hazrat Akhran brought the Akar together with the tribe of our enemies. These shepherds have been living too long among their sheep. Akhran needed a man to take this woman and teach her the duties of her sex—”
Zohra gasped. Her dark eyes flashed, her hand curled tightly over the hilt of the dagger. “I have changed my mind,” she said, breathing rapidly. “Send me back to the bridal tent, Fedj. That filthy spahi will learn what are the ‘duties’ of a woman!”
The djinn’s own face was pale with fury as he glared down upon the swaggering prince, who was boasting of his prowess with women. “Believe me, Princess! Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to run a hundred cactus thorns through the portion of his anatomy that this young man values most, but-”
Raucous laughter drifted up from the Calif ‘s companions. Turning unsteadily, Khardan once more proceeded slowly and leisurely to the tent of his bride. With a sigh Fedj laid his hand over the dagger-wielding hand of the Princess.
“But what?” she cried angrily.
“But I dare not. Hazrat Akhran has ordered that this union shall be so and so it shall be. You two must remain married and no blood must be shed between the two tribes until the Rose of the Prophet blooms.”
“Why?” Zohra asked bitterly. “What is the God’s reason? Look at the ugly plant!” She kicked irritably at one of the many Rose cacti growing at her feet. Sprawled against the hillside, it looked, in the bright moonlight, like a dead spider. “The leaves are withered and turning brown, curling in upon themselves. . .”
“It is winter, Princess,” said Fedj, glancing at the cactus with equal disgust. “Perhaps this is its habit in the winter. I am not familiar with the customs of this flower, except I know that it grows here and nowhere else in the world—one reason why you have been commanded to reside in this place. As for the ‘why’ of Hazrat Akhran in forcing you to make this hateful marriage, I know something of the mind of the God, and—if it will comfort you—I can tell you
that the boastings of that-puffed-up prince are arrows shot wide of the mark. I can also tell you, Zohra,” said Fedj, his tone growing more serious, “that if you do not go back to your people, they and perhaps all the people of the desert are doomed.”
Zohra glanced at the djinn from the corner of her black eyes. Though shadowed by thick, long lashes, the fire in their depths burned more hotly than any blazing log.
“Besides, Princess,” continued Fedj persuasively, moving nearer Zohra, “Akhran said only that the two of you had to be married. He did not say that the marriage had to be consummated. . .”
Zohra’s black eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and there was, Fedj was relieved to see, a glimmer of amusement in them—malevolent amusement, but amusement nonetheless.
“You would be Khardan’s head wife, Princess,” Fedj suggested softly, feeding the fire. “He would not be allowed to take another into his harem without your permission.”
The glimmer of amusement became a flaring spark. “And it is only a few weeks until spring. When the Rose of the Prophet blooms, the command of the God is fulfilled. You may do what you like to your husband then, after having made his life miserable in the interim.”
“Mmmmm,” Zohra murmured. Near her, the horse shifted restlessly, either wanting to take flight through the desert or return to his mares.
“If I agree to go back,” Zohra said slowly, her fingers tracing the intricate designs carved into the bone handle of the dagger, “I want one more thing.”
“If it is in my power to provide it, I will, my lady,” answered Fedj cautiously. There was no knowing what this wildcat might ask him for—anything from a sirocco to blow her enemies off the sands of the desert to a carpet to fly her to the other side of the world.
“I want my own immortal to serve me.”
Fedj checked a deep sigh of relief. Fortunately a djinn was easy to provide. Fedj had one in mind, in fact—a low-ranking immortal who owed him a favor from three or four centuries back. Not only did this djinn—one Usti—owe Fedj a favor, but Fedj owed Usti a nasty trick. Fedj had been biding his time, savoring revenge for several hundred years. Here was his chance.
The Will of the Wanderer Page 6