He must look, he thought, like a walking black cocoon—a cocoon concealing a worm doomed to die.
What would happen to him now?
Dressed in the women’s clothing, Mathew huddled inside his tent, not daring to sleep. The young wizard had lived a cloistered life, having spent his childhood and youth in the closed and secret school of the magi, but Mathew knew enough of the ways of men and women to understand that his greatest danger lay in the hours of darkness. He recalled the touch of the man in the palanquin—the jeweled hand stroking his cheek—and his heart sank.
Bitterly he regretted the loss of his magical devices—amulets and charms that could send a man into sweet slumber, spells that would disorient a man, making him think he was somewhere he wasn’t. Mathew could produce them, but that would take time and material: the quill of a raven to write the arcane words, parchment made of sheepskin, blood. . .
Blood. . . He saw John, falling. . .
No! Mathew shut his eyes, driving the gruesome vision from his mind. If he dwelt on that, he would go mad. And it was no use dreaming about magic defenses he didn’t have and couldn’t acquire. To keep himself occupied and hopefully discover some clue about what they planned to do to him, Mathew began going over the words he’d heard people speaking, trying to remember exactly what had been said, trying to translate the phrases.
At first it seemed impossible; the language that he had studied so painstakingly for so many months had vanished from his head. Stubbornly Mathew forced himself to concentrate. He’d understood a few words, enough to know that they thought he was female. “She.” “Her.” And another word. “Virgin.” Yes, Mathew remembered that word clearly, mainly because Kiber had repeated it often, coupling it with that crude gesture. He knew now what the goum had been asking: Have you lain with a man? Mathew couldn’t recall what he had responded, but he guessed that the look of disgust upon his face had been sufficient answer.
A light step sounding outside caused the young wizard to catch his breath in fear. But it was a woman. Parting the tent, peering inside, only her eyes visible above her veil, she thrust a bowl of food into Mathew’s hands, then withdrew.
The wizard’s stomach wrenched at the smell of the stuff—a glob of rice mixed with meat and vegetables. He started to shove the bowl back out, then stopped. This again would call attention to himself. It was impossible to eat. Even if he knew what the meat was, he could never keep it down. Furtively slipping the bowl out of the back of his tent, he dumped the food out into the grass, hoping some animal would come by and eat it before it was discovered in the morning.
This accomplished, he set his mind back to its problem. There had been those words spoken when he was half-conscious. “Red hair.” Yes, they had been talking about his hair, which he knew from his studies would be considered an unusual color among the mostly dark-haired, dark-eyed people of this land. There had been something else. Something to do with his skin. . .
Again, footsteps. These were heavy, booted, and definitely coming this direction. Holding his breath, Mathew waited grimly, almost eagerly. He had decided what to do. The man would almost certainly be wearing a dagger—he had noticed that they all did, carrying one or more tucked into their belts. Mathew would grab the dagger and use it. The wizard had never attacked a man before, and he doubted if he would be able to do much damage to his enemy before the man killed him. At least it would lend his death some semblance of dignity.
The steps came nearer and nearer, then stopped right outside the tent. He heard voices. There were two of them! Mathew swallowed the terrible taste in his mouth and tried to force himself to stop trembling. Soon it would be over—the fear, the pain. Then peace, eternal peace with Promenthas.
The two men, talking to each other, laughing, crouched down. Mathew tensed, ready to spring. But neither man entered the tent. Listening, longing to look outside but not daring to stir, Mathew thought he heard them settling themselves on the ground before his tent. His fear easing, he tried to concentrate on what they were discussing, hoping to discover his fate.
They spoke the language much faster than he was able to understand, however, and at first he caught only about one word in five. Listening closely, sorting out the strange accent, he began to comprehend more and more. The men were reliving the exciting event of the day—the slaughter of the kafir. Hearing them argue over how many of the unbelievers each had slain, and whose victims had died slowest and screamed loudest, Mathew gritted his teeth, fighting a longing to lash out in a rage and anger that surprised him, treading as it did on the heels of his fear.
“The one man, he squealed like a hog when I stuck him. Did you hear? And the two who ran. A fine chase we had, along the shore. The captain himself beheaded the man—a swift, clean stroke. Robbed us of fun, but he—the master—was in a hurry.”
Beheaded! They were talking about John! Mathew wanted to stuff something in his ears, shut out the voices and the memories. But he couldn’t afford the luxury. Grimly he forced himself to keep listening, hoping to discover his fate.
After the murders of the kafir had been discussed, disputed, and enjoyed to the fullest, the goums’ conversation turned to their journey. They were bound for Kich, Mathew managed to make out, catching the name and recognizing it as being one of the major cities in Sardish Jardan. The caravan had made good time today, despite stopping to sport with the kafir, and the goums hoped, if the weather held, to be in Kich within a week. Once there, they would sell their wares, collect their wages, and spend some time indulging in the sins to be found in the rich city.
Sell their wares.
Remarkable hair, unusual color. Soft white skin.
Mathew bit his tongue to keep from crying out. What a fool he’d been, not to have thought of this. The women with their hands bound. . .
A virgin. See to it that she remains one until we reach Kich.
That explained the reason the men were outside. They were guards, responsible for keeping the “wares” undamaged! So that was his fate. He was to be sold as a slave!
Mathew sank back upon the few cushions that had been tossed carelessly into the tent for his use. At least I am in no immediate danger, he thought. If I manage to maintain my disguise, which—considering how segregated the women are being kept from the men—shouldn’t be too difficult, I might well live a while longer, until we reach the slave markets.
He felt no relief at this, only empty and disappointed, and he smiled bitterly. Of course he had secretly been hoping it would all end quickly, this night.
Now he looked forward to nothing but torturous days of constant fear; torturous nights spent lying awake, starting at every footstep. And at the end? What then? He would be placed upon the slave block and sold as a woman, then meet his death—probably a horrible one—at the hands of some defrauded buyer.
Terror, shame, and guilt burst from Mathew’s throat in an anguished cry. Hastily he tried to choke back his tears, wondering if the guards had heard him, afraid that they might come in to find out what was wrong. But he could not help himself, grief and fear overwhelmed him. Stuffing the veil in his mouth to muffle his despairing sobs, the young man rolled over on his stomach, buried his face in the cushions, and wept.
Night, black and empty, came upon the plains: The guards outside Mathew’s tent dozed fitfully. They had heard his choked cries but only glanced at each other with sly grins, each urging the other to creep into the tent and “comfort” the captive. Neither moved to do so, however. Kiber was a good captain, discipline was maintained. The last man who had gained a little private pleasure from the slaves had been dealt with swiftly and severely. One stroke of his captain’s sword and the wretched goum was now a eunuch in the seraglios of Kich.
As for the faint sobs coming from the tent, more than one captive was likely wailing over her fate that night. It was none of their concern. So the guards slept, not overly worried that anyone might slip past them.
Someone did slip by them, however. It was not anyone either g
oum could have stopped had they been awake. It was not one either could have seen, asleep or awake. The angel, her white, feathery wingtips brushing the ground, stole into the tent with less sound than the soft breeze whispering across the sand. Bending over the weeping Mathew, the angel touched him gently upon the cheek, brushing away his tears even as her own fell fast.
At her soft touch, the young man’s wrenching sobs ceased. He drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep. The angel gazed at him with deep pity and compassion. Slipping back out of the tent, she glanced furtively around her, then swiftly and silently spread her wings and soared into the heavens.
Chapter 6
Promenthas paced solemnly the long length of the red-carpeted aisle that ran straight and narrow between the hard, wooden pews in his cathedral. The God’s face was grave, he stroked his white beard thoughtfully, his white brows bristling. An angel waited at the far end of the aisle, her silver hair shining in the soft light of hundreds of flickering votive candles. A sound behind her caused her to glance around. Seeing who it was that entered the great wooden doors, the angel slipped silently away to wait within the dark shadows of the nave.
“Promenthas, I understand that you wished to speak to me.”
“I do and over a matter of extreme gravity.” Promenthas’s gentle voice shook with grief and anger. “How dare you murder my priests?”
Dressed in a fantastically embroidered silk caftan with long, flowing sleeves, Quar looked particularly exotic and outlandish in the austere setting of Promenthas’s cathedral. But Quar did not see himself in the gray marble edifice. He was strolling about the grounds of his palace. To him it was Promenthas who was out of place, the God’s plain, gray robes appearing poor and shabby amid the sumptuous setting of orange trees, fountains, and peacocks.
Coolly regarding his angry fellow, Quar raised his eyebrows. “If we are accusing one another of misdeeds, how dare you send your missionaries to subvert the faith of my people?”
“I cannot be accountable for the zeal of my followers!”
Quar bowed. “My answer as well.”
“There was no need to slaughter them! You could have attempted to gain them for yourself.” Promenthas’s face flushed in anger.
“According to the new belief spreading among my followers, a kafir—an unbeliever—leads a misguided life that is doomed to end only in sorrow and tragedy. By cutting short such a wretched existence, my followers consider that they are doing the kafir a favor.”
Promenthas stared in astonishment. “Never before have any of us propounded a doctrine such as this! It is murder in the name of religion!”
His hand absently stroking the neck of a fawn that he kept as a pet in his garden, Quar appeared to muse upon the matter. “Perhaps you are right,” he admitted after several moments of profound thought. “I had not looked at the incident in that light.” He shrugged delicately. “To be truthful, I had not really given the encounter much thought. These are mortals we are discussing. What can one expect of them except to behave foolishly and irrationally? But now that you have brought this to my attention, I will discuss the matter with my Imam and attempt to discover who is teaching such a potentially dangerous doctrine.”
Promenthas appeared somewhat mollified. “Yes, you had better look into it. And put an end to it.”
“Rest assured, I will do what I can.”
Promenthas did not much like this answer, nor did he like Quar’s easy dismissal of the shocking murders. But Promenthas was not entirely satisfied in his own conscience that his people had been completely in the right, so he let the matter drop.
Changing the topic of conversation to less volatile subjects, he escorted Quar to the massive carved wooden doors of the cathedral. In Quar’s view the two walked together to the wroughtiron gates of the palace garden. Bowing to each other coolly, the Gods parted.
But left alone, Promenthas returned his thoughts to the murdered priests and magi. His head bent, his hands clasped behind his back, the God was walking down the aisle when—to his astonishment—he glanced up to see someone standing before the altar.
“Akhran,” said Promenthas, not overly pleased. The followers of the Wandering God had been known to commit their share of murder, although—he had to admit—not in the name of religion. More often it was in the name of theft, blood feud, war. “What business brings you here?”
The Wandering God, dressed in flowing black robes worn over a white tunic and trousers, his head and face swathed in black cloth, looked as if he were standing in the midst of a raging sandstorm instead of the quiet of the cathedral. Two piercing black eyes beneath straight-edged brows stared intently into Promenthas’s mild eyes-eyes that were now shadowed with worry.
“I warned you,” came the deep voice, muffled behind the haik. “You would not listen to me.”
Promenthas frowned. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do. Jihad.”
“I’m sorry, I do not understand—”
“Jihad. The word of my people for ‘holy war.’ It has already begun. Evren and Zhakrin are dead, their immortals vanished. Now your followers, butchered in the lands of Quar.”
Promenthas regarded the other God in silence. Akhran—as always—seemed too big, too wild, too savage, to be contained within the stone walls of the cathedral. The Wandering God himself was obviously ill at ease. Removing the face cloth from his mouth, sucking in a deep breath of air, he looked longingly to the wide wooden doors that led outside. But Akhran remained where he was—standing tall, straight—keeping himself under rigid constraint.
By Sul, Promenthas realized in astonishment. Akhran really is in the cathedral! The Wandering God has left his beloved desert, has deliberately entered my dwelling place! Such a thing had not happened since the beginning of time.
Promenthas knew he should be pleased, flattered. He felt neither, only chilled. Quickening his steps, he approached the altar.
“If what you told us that terrible day is true,” he said slowly, coming to stand before Akhran, “why then are Quar’s own immortals disappearing?”
“I have an idea, but I have no proof. If what I fear is correct, then our danger is very great.”
“And what do you fear?”
Akhran shook his head, the black brows beneath the twisted black folds of the headcloth drawing together like the wings of a falcon above the smoldering eyes.
Promenthas moved to smooth his beard as was his habit when disturbed and noticed that his hand trembled visibly. He clasped his fingers together in an unconscious, prayerful attitude. “Perhaps you are right, Akhran. Perhaps we have let Quar make fools of us all. But what does he want?”
“Surely that is obvious. To become the Supreme God, the Only God. Little by little, his Emperor is extending his rule, his Imams are gaining strength. Those people they conquer are either killed instantly, as were your followers, or given the choice of jihad—convert or die. Little by little we will lose our worshipers. We will dwindle and . . . eventually . . . vanish.”
“That is impossible!”
“Is it? You saw it happen before your own eyes. Where now are Evren and Zhakrin?”
Promenthas was silent long moments, mulling over in his own mind the account the angel had given him of the slaughter of his followers. Jihad. Holy war. Convert or die. Frowning, he glanced back at the Wandering God.
“This affects you most closely, Akhran. The lands of your people border on those of Quar’s faithful. What are you doing?”
The Wandering God cast Promenthas a scornful look and lofted his head proudly. “My people are not like yours. They did not go meekly to their deaths with prayers upon their lips. They fight.”
Promenthas smiled “Quar or each other?”
Akhran’s eyes blazed fiercely, than his shoulders sagged, his mouth twisted. “One should never be angry to hear the truth. That, in fact, is one reason I have come. I seek your help. Your people are much different than mine, they are noted for their wisdom, their compas
sion, their patience . . . .”
Promenthas regarded the Wandering God in astonishment.
“That may be true, but how can my people help you, Akhran? They are an ocean away—”
“Not all of them.”
Promenthas, taken aback, appeared startled. “No,” he murmured, glancing at the angel who was waiting patiently in the nave and who appeared extremely alarmed by the turn of the conversation. “No,” the God repeated. Troubled, Promenthas rested his hand upon the altar rail, absently caressing the oiled wood with his gnarled, wrinkled fingers. “That is true.”
Akhran laid his suntanned, weather-hardened hand upon Promenthas’s. “Do not deceive yourself, my friend. An ocean will not stop Quar.”
Promenthas’s gaze went to the angel. “The poor lad to whom you refer has undergone a frightful experience. His suffering has been immense. I had thought to give him a swift and easy death.”
“And will you do the same for the tens of thousands who will not be so fortunate?” Akhran asked sternly.
Promenthas stared thoughtfully at the angel. The silverhaired woman regarded her God with beseeching blue eyes, mutely pleading with him not to change his mind.
At length Promenthas, turning abruptly, looked back at Akhran. “So be it,” he said gruffly. “I will do what I can. I promise nothing, however. After all, one can only accomplish so much with mortals.”
Akhran smiled, a brief smile that vanished in an instant, his face returning to its accustomed gravity and severity. Wrapping the black cloth over his mouth and nose, he nodded to Promenthas—the closest the Wandering God ever came to a bow—and took his leave, walking hastily back down the red-carpeted aisle, his strides growing increasingly longer as he neared the bright sunlight he could see shining outside the massive wooden door.
“Come, One Who is Swifter Than the Starlight!” he called out commandingly.
The Will of the Wanderer Page 12