Khardan breathed a soft sigh.
From Pukah’ s description the Calif had expected a lovely woman, an ordinary woman—a woman like his mother and his sisters. “Eyes like the gazelle, lips like roses, breasts like snow. . . .” So Pukah had glibly reported.
“Djinn, where are your eyes?” Khardan said to himself, letting the silk of Zohra’s face-veil slip between his fingers and fall to the bed.
He had seen the pet gazelles in the palaces of Kich, he had seen the animal’s adoring gaze cast down when a man stroked the creature’s neck or fondled the soft ears.
The large, liquid black eyes that fixed him with an unwavering stare were nothing like that. There was flame in them, they gleamed with an inner light that the intoxicated Calif mistook for love. The petal softness of Zohra’s cheeks were a dusky rose, not pasty white as other women’s. Her black hair shone sleek and smooth like the mane of the Calif ‘s own horse. Falling over her shoulders, her hair brushed against the wrist of his hand that rested lightly upon the white sheets of the bridal bed, sending a fire crackling through his body as though he’d been touched by a flail.
“Holy Akhran, my sincerest apologies for ever doubting your wisdom,” Khardan breathed, moving nearer his bride, his eyes upon the red lips. “I thank you, Wandering God, for this gift. She truly pleases me. I—”
Khardan stopped speaking, his voice arrested by the blade of a dagger pressed against his throat. His hand, which had been about to part the silken fabric of the paranja, halted in midair.
“Touch me and you die,” said the bride.
The Calif ‘s face flushed in anger. He made a movement toward Zohra’s knife-hand, only to feel the metal of the blade— warm from having been hidden against the bride’s breast—prick his skin.
“Your thanks to your God are premature, batir-thief!” Zohra said, her lip curling. “Don’t move. If you think that I—weak female that I am—do not know how to use this weapon, you are wrong. The women in my tribe butcher the sheep. There is a vein right here”—she traced a line down his neck with the tip of her dagger—”that will spill your cowardly blood and drain you of life in seconds.”
Khardan, sobering rapidly, knew suddenly that he was seeing his bride truly for the first time. The black, fiery eyes were the eyes of the hawk swooping in for the kill, the trembling he had mistaken for passion he realized now was suppressed fury. The Calif had faced many enemies in his life, he had seen the eyes of men intent on killing him, and he knew the expression. Slowly, breathing heavily, he withdrew his hand. .
“What is the meaning of this? You are now my wife! It is your duty to lie with me, to bear my children. It is the will of Hazrat Akhfan!”
“It is the will of Hazrat Akhran that we marry. The God said nothing about bearing children!” Zohra held the knife firmly. Her black eyes, staring into Khardan’s, did not waver.
“And what will happen tomorrow morning when the bridal sheet is exhibited to our fathers and there is no blood to give proof of your virginity?” Khardan asked coolly, lounging back and folding his arms across his chest. His enemy had made a mistake, opening up an area vulnerable to attack. He waited to see how she countered.
Zohra shrugged her shoulders.
“That is your disgrace,” she said, lowering the dagger slightly.
“Oh, no, it isn’t, madam!” Lunging forward, Khardan skillfully pinned Zohra’s knife-wielding hand to the bed cushions. “Quit struggling. You’ll hurt yourself. Now listen to me, shedevil!” He shoved his bride down upon the bed and held her fast, his arm over her chest. “When that sheet is exhibited tomorrow morning, Princess, and it is white and spotless, I will go to your father and tell him that I took you this night and that you were not a virgin!”
Zohra’s face went livid. The hawk eyes glared at him with such fury that Khardan tightened his grip on the woman’s wrist.
“They will never believe you!”
“They will. I am a man, Calif of my tribe, known for my honor. Your father will be forced to take you back in disgrace. Perhaps he will even cut off your nose—”
Zohra twisted in Khardan’s grasp. “My magic—” she gasped.
“Cannot be used against me! Would you have yourself proclaimed a black sorceress as well? You would be stoned to death!”
“You—” Struggling to free herself, Zohra mouthed a filthy name.
Khardan, his eyes widening in pretended shock, grinned. The Calif ‘s gaze went to the high, firm breasts he could feel rising and falling rapidly beneath the silk. The fragrance of night-blooming jasmine wafted through the air. His bride’s black eyes were fierce as any hunting bird’s, but her lips were red and warm and glistened warmly.
“Come, Zohra,” he murmured, leaning to kiss her. “I like your spirit. I had not expected such a thing from the daughter of a sheepherder. You will bear me many fine sons-hhhhiii!”
“You wanted blood on the sheet!” Zohra cried in triumph.
“There, you have it!”
Gritting his teeth against the pain, Khardan stared in amazement at a deep gash in his upper arm.
Dagger pointed at her husband, Zohra slid back away from him as far as she could on the cushions of the bridal bed whose white silken sheets were now stained crimson red.
“And what will you tell your father? That his stallion was a gelding?” Zohra laughed mirthlessly, pointing at the wound on his arm. “That you were the virgin? That it was the bride who conquered?”
Her earrings jingling in triumph, Zohra flung back her head proudly and started to rise up out of the bed. A strong hand caught hold of her wrist, yanking her back down onto the cushions. Screaming a curse, she tried to lash out with the dagger, only to find her knife-hand caught in a grip of iron. There was a cracking sound, and gagging with pain, Zohra dropped the weapon.
Smiling grimly, Khardan flung his bride back onto the bed. “Do not fear, wife”—he spoke with mocking irony—”I will not touch you. But you are not going anywhere. We must spend this night as man and wife and be found together in the morning or Hazrat Akhran will vent his wrath upon our people. “
He gazed down upon her as she lay among the cushions, nursing her bruised wrist. Her hate-filled eyes burned through a tangle of sleek black hair. Her gown had been torn in their struggles; it fell down over one shoulder, revealing smooth, white skin. The slightest touch would displace it completely. Khardan’s gaze lowered, his hand moved slowly. . . .
Snarling like a wildcat, Zohra grasped hold of the flimsy fabric and drew it closer around her.
“Spend the night with you. I would sooner sleep with a goat! Pah!” She spit at him.
“And I likewise!” Khardan said coldly, wiping spittle from his face.
The groom was stone-sober now. There was no passion in his eyes as he gazed upon is bride—only disgust.
Zohra clutched her clothes around her. Wriggling as far from her husband as she could get, she huddled among the cushions at the head of the bed.
Khardan climbed out of bed and stripped off his torn and bloodstained wedding shirt. Rolling it into a ball, he threw it into a corner of the tent, then tossed a cushion over it. “In the morning, burn it,” he ordered without turning around or looking at his bride.
The tan skin of his strong shoulders glistened in the flickering light. Removing the headcloth, he shook out his curly, black hair. Shir, he was called among his people—the lion. Fearless and ferocious in battle, he moved with a catlike grace. The scars of his victories were traced over his lithe body. Going to a water bowl in the tent, he bathed the wound on his arm and clumsily bandaged it as best he could with one hand.
Glancing at his bride’s reflection in one of many small mirrors that had been woven into a tapestry hanging upon the wall before him, Khardan saw to his astonishment that the fire of anger had died in the dark eyes. There was even, he thought, a smoldering glimmer of admiration.
It was gone in an instant, as soon as Zohra realized the Calif was watching her. The soft red lips that
had been slightly parted over the even white teeth curled in a sneer. Flipping her long black hair over her shoulders, Zohra coldly averted her face, but he could see the slits of black eyes watching him.
Khardan’s hand moved to the waist of his trousers, and he heard a snarl of warning from the bed behind him. His lips twisting in a grim smile, the Calif—with an emphatic gesture— cinched his trousers more tightly. Walking to the front of the tent, he searched the felt floor. Finding what he sought, he returned at last to the bridal bed. In his hand was the dagger.
Without a glance at Zohra, he tossed the weapon down upon the cushions. Blood glistened on the dagger’s blade, its handle facing the bride. Lying down upon the right-hand side of the bed, the dagger separating him from his wife, Khardan turned his bare back to Zohra. He rested his head upon his arm, made himself comfortable, and closed his eyes.
Zohra remained where she was, crouched at the head of the bed, watching her husband warily for long moments. She could see blood beginning to seep through the crude bandage he had wound around his arm. The gash was open, bleeding freely. Hesitantly, moving slowly and quietly, Zohra removed a bracelet, ornamental with blood stone, she wore upon her arm and held it out toward Khardan.
The Calif, sighing, shifted his weight. Zohra snatched her hand back. Dropping the bracelet, her fingers hovered over the handle of the dagger. But Khardan only burrowed further down into the soft cushions. Zohra sat, waiting, unmoving, until the man’s breathing became even and regular. Then, picking up the bracelet again, she lightly passed the jewels over the injured flesh.
“By the power granted to woman by Sul, I conjure the spirits of healing to close this wound.”
The bracelet slipped from her hand. Her fingers lingered on the man’s muscular arm, their light touch sliding up the smooth skin.
Khardan stirred. Hastily, fearfully, Zohra snatched her hand away. There was no change in his breathing pattern, however, and she relaxed. Qumiz often sent men to sleep’s realm quickly, buried them deeply. She stared closely at the wound, wondering if her spell had been successful. It seemed that the bleeding had stopped, but because of the bandage she could not be certain, and she dared not untie the cloth to examine it, for fear of waking the man.
Zohra had no reason to doubt her power, however. Nodding to herself in satisfaction, she blew out the light of the lamp then gingerly laid herself down upon the bed, keeping her body as far as possible from Khardan’s, nearly rolling off the edge of the cushions in the process. For some reason she could still feel the touch of his skin, warm beneath her fingers. Glowering into the darkness, the princess reached behind her with her hand for the dagger and found the hilt, cold and reassuring, lying on the silken sheets between them.
The wound was healed, vanished as if it had never been. The scar would be just one more taken in battle. But what an ignominious defeat for the warrior!
Zohra smiled. Exhausted from the day’s events, she sighed, relaxed, and soon fell fast asleep.
Lying next to her, Khardan stared into the darkness, still feeling the touch of fingers upon his skin, fingers as soft and delicate as the wings of the butterfly.
The next morning the two fathers approached the bridal tent. Jaafar walked stiffly. Though his wives had used their magic to seal his wound, the cut had been deep enough to require a bandage and a healing potion spread over it to prevent the tainting of the blood. The Sheykh of the Hrana was surrounded by armed guards who glared at the Sheykh of the Akar as Majiid swaggered into view, surrounded by his own armed spahis.
The procession of the two fathers was not, therefore, the joyous walk with arms around each other customary to the morning after the wedding night. They did not speak but growled at each other like fighting dogs, their followers keeping their hands closed over the hilts of dagger and sword.
The men of the Hrana and the Akar gathered around the bridal tent, waiting in silence. Fedj, his face grim, turned and faced the tent, calling out a cold morning greeting to bride and groom. The djinn, having heard the commotion in the bridal tent during the night, had no idea what they would find upon entering. Two lifeless corpses, hands on each other’s throats, wouldn’t have much surprised him.
After several moments, however, the groom emerged, carrying the white silken sheet in his hand. Slowly he unfurled it to flutter like a banner in the desert wind. The splotch of red was plainly visible.
A cheer went up from the Akar. Jaafar regarded Khardan with amazed, if grudging, respect. Majiid clapped his son upon his back. Pukah, sidling over, nudged Fedj in the ribs. “Five rubies you owe me,” he said, holding out his hand.
Scowling, the djinn paid up.
The fathers reached for the bridal sheet, but Khardan kept it away from them.
“Hazrat Akhran, this belongs to you,” the Calif cried to the heavens.
He held the sheet out. The desert wind filled the bridal sheet. Khardan loosed it and a sudden strong gust sent it skipping along the sands. The silken sheet fluttered through camp, dancing like a ghost, the wind driving it toward the Tel. Long, sharp needles of a shriveled and brown cactus—the ugly plant known as the Rose of the Prophet—caught the sheet and held it fast.
Within seconds the whipping, angry wind had ripped the bridal sheet to shreds.
The Book of Promenthas
Chapter 1
Leaning upon the ship’s rail, the young wizard breathed deeply, his lips parted as though he could drink in the fresh wind that billowed the sails and sent the galleon scudding over the waves. Sunlight danced on the smooth blue water of the Hurn Ocean, clouds white as angel’s wings floated in the sky.
“A day like this is a gift of Promenthas,” said the wizard to his companion, a monk, who stood beside him on the foredeck.
“Amen,” replied the monk, taking the opportunity to rest his hand lightly upon the hand of the wizard. The two young men smiled at each other, oblivious to the coarse remarks and nudgings among the galleon’s rough crew.
The wizard and the monk were just entering young manhood—the magus only eighteen, the monk in his early twenties. The two had met aboard ship. It was the first time either had been away from the rigorous, cloistered schooling both Orders required of their members, and now they were on an adventure, voyaging to a world rumored to be fantastic and bizarre beyond reckoning. As they were the youngest of each of their Orders present, an immediate friendship had developed between them.
That friendship had deepened during the long voyage, becoming—on both sides—something more serious, more profound. Unaccustomed to relationships of any kind, having been raised in strictly ordered and highly disciplined schools, neither young man sought to rush this one. Both were content to wait and enjoy the long, sunlit days and fill warm, moonlit evenings in each other’s company; nothing more.
A step behind them caused the hands to separate quickly. Turning, each bowed reverently to the Abbot.
“I heard the name of Promenthas,” said the Abbot gravely. “I trust it was not being taken in vain?” His gaze went to the young wizard.
“Indeed not, Holiness,” replied the wizard, flushing. “I was thanking our God for the beauty of the day.”
The Abbot nodded. His gravity easing as he looked upon the two young men, he smiled at them benignly before continuing his morning stroll around the deck. Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw them grinning at each other and shaking their heads, undoubtedly laughing at the foibles of their elders.
Ah, well . . . the Abbot recalled what it was to be young. He had seen the growing affection between the two; one would have had to have been blind to miss it. He was not overly concerned. Once they arrived in Bastine, the two would be kept busy with the duties of their Orders, and though the party of wizards and monks traveled as a group for safety’s sake, the young men would find little time to be alone together. If their relationship was a solid one, the hardships of the journey would strengthen it. If not, as well to find out before either was hurt.
The Abbot, his
constitutional taking him around to the starboard side of the ship, found his gaze following his thoughts, returning once again to the two young men standing opposite him. A school of dolphins was swimming alongside the ship, their graceful bodies leaping through the waves. Brother John, the young monk, was leaning over the rail in an effort to gain a better view; a feat that obviously disturbed his companion.
Odd, thought the Abbot. One generally sees solemnity in those of my Order. In this instance, however, it was the wizard Mathew who was the more solemn and serious of the two. Such a remarkable-looking young man, too, the Abbot noted, not for the first time.
Mathew was a Wesman, a race celebrated—men and women alike—for their beauty and their high-pitched, fluting voices. His hair was a coppery auburn, his face so white as to be almost translucent, his eyes green beneath feathery chestnut eyebrows. The men of Mathew’s race did not grow beards— his face was smooth, and though the bone structure was delicate, it was strong, marked by a serious, thoughtful expression that was rarely broken. When the young wizard smiled, which was rarely, it was a smile of such infectious warmth that one was instantly moved to smile back.
He was as intelligent as he was attractive. His Master had informed the Abbot that Mathew had been at the head of his class since he was a boy. This journey was, in fact, a reward granted upon his recent graduation to the rank of apprentice wizard.
Mathew was also devoutly religious, another reason he had been chosen to accompany the priests upon their missionary travels. Forbidden by Promenthas, their God, to fight, the priests often employed wizards to act as bodyguards when traveling to the lands of infidels, preferring the more gentle, refined defenses of magic to the swords and knives of men-at-arms.
So dangerous and uncertain was this trip, however, that the Abbot almost regretted not bringing knights with him, as had been urged by the Duke. The Abbot had pooh-poohed the idea most heartily, reminding His Grace that they traveled with the blessing and guidance of Promenthas. Stories he had since heard from the ship’s captain, however, had given the Abbot pause.
The Will of the Wanderer Page 8