The Will of the Wanderer

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  In answer, Promenthas heard the sound of hooves clattering up the marble stairs of his cathedral, followed by the shocked voices of his angels raised in protest. The white head of a stallion appeared in the doorway, shaking its mane in impatience, its shrill whinny splitting the sanctuary’s holy silence. With a parting wave of his hand Akhran vaulted easily into the saddle. The horse reared, hooves flashing in the light, then it leaped into the air. Indignant seraphim and cherubim gazed after it in dismay, loudly exclaiming over horse manure on the marble steps.

  Shaking his head, sighing, Promenthas turned and beckoned to the droop-winged, disconsolate guardian angel.

  The Book of the Immortals

  Chapter 1

  The scent of roses hung heavy in the air. A nightingale trilled unseen in the fragrant shadows. Cool water fell from the marble hands of a delicate maiden, spilling into a large conch shell at her feet. The multicolored tiles, laid out in fantastic mosaics, sparkled like jewels in the twilight. But Quar took pleasure in none of this beauty. The God sat upon the tiled rim of a fountain’s basin, absently tearing apart a gardenia, moodily tossing the waxy, white petals into the rippling water.

  The luck of Sul, that’s what it was. The luck of Sul, which was no luck at all. The luck of Sul had taken those damned and blasted priests of Promenthas’s into the way of a few dozen of Quar’s faithful. At least he assumed they had been his faithful. The God had not realized his followers had grown quite that fanatical. Now Promenthas was angry and not only angry, suspicious as well. Quar was not prepared for this. He had intended to deal with Promenthas, of course, but further—much further—down the long and twisting road of his scheming.

  And there was Akhran to consider. He would act swiftly to take advantage of the incident. The Wandering God was undoubtedly persuading Promenthas to some sort of action. Not that Promenthas could do much. His followers had all died on the swords of the righteous. Hadn’t they? Quar made a mental note to check. But now that Promenthas was alerted, He would be watchful, wary. Quar would have to move faster than he’d anticipated.

  Akhran the Meddler. He was the scorpion in Quar’s bed sheets, the qarakurt in Quar’s boot. Just days ago Quar had received a report that two tribes of Akhran’s followers had banded together in the Pagrah Desert. Relatively few in number compared to Quar’s mighty armies, these nomads were more of a nuisance than a direct threat. But Quar had no time for nuisances right now.

  The one factor on which Quar had counted in his design to overthrow Akhran was the constant feuding and strife among the Wandering God’s followers. The old axiom: divide and conquer. Who would have imagined that this Wandering God, who seemingly cared for nothing except his horse, would have been observant enough to detect Quar’s plotting and move swiftly to forestall it?

  “It was my fault. I concentrated on the other Gods of Sardish Jardan. I saw them as the threat. Now Mimrim of the Ravenchai, feeling herself weakening, hides on her cloud-covered mountain. Uevin of the Bas takes refuge behind his politics and siege machines, never realizing that his foundation is being undermined and soon he will fall through the cracks. But you, Horse God. I underestimated you. In looking west and south, I turned my back upon the east. It will not happen again. ..

  The vase, once broken, cannot be mended with tears, Quar reminded himself severely. You have realized your mistake, now you must act to remedy it. There is only one way Akhran could have united his feuding tribes—through the intervention of his immortals. There were reports of Akhran’s ‘efreets whipping up fearsome desert storms. Apparently the unleashing of the mighty power of the djinn was enough to frighten those thick-headed nomads.

  Quar paused, absently crushing the last blossoms of the ravaged gardenia in his hand.

  The djinn. Why, that was his answer.

  Tossing the dead flower into the pool, Quar rubbed his hands together, sniffing the essence of the perfume that clung to the shell of human flesh with which the God frequently chose to surround his ethereal being. Rising to his feet, he left the pleasure garden and entered his palace, proceeding to his own private salon. The room was sumptuously furnished, the walls hung with brightcolored silks, the floors carpeted with thick tapestries made of the finest wool. In the center of the room stood a black lacquer table on which rested a small copper-and-tin gong.

  Lifting the mallet, Quar struck the gong three times, waited for the count of seven, then struck the gong three times again. The resultant quavering tone was vaguely disturbing. Setting the teeth on edge, it caused the very air to shiver. As the last note died in the still, perfumed air, a cloud of smoke began to take human shape and form around the gong, coalescing into a ten-foot-tall ‘efreet.

  “Salaam aleikum, Effendi,” said the ‘efreet, folding its hands together before its turbaned forehead. Clad in red silken pantalons girded with a red sash around its massive stomach, the ‘efreet bowed with a grace remarkable in such a hulking body. “What is your wish, my Master?”

  “I grow weary of Akhran’s meddling, Kaug,” said Quar languidly, seating himself upon a silken couch. “I have received reports that two of his tribes have united. How is this possible?”

  “They have united through the efforts of two of Akhran’s djinn—one Fedj and one Sond, O Most Holy Being,” replied Kaug.

  “I thought as much. I find it most annoying.”

  “I can see the solution in your mind, my Master. Your plan is an excellent one. Be at peace, Effendi. The matter is easily handled. And now, allow me to bring you some refreshment to ease the worries this has brought upon you.”

  Kaug clapped his hands, the thunderous sound calling into being a pot of thick, sweet coffee and a plate of candied rose petals, sweet figs, and pomegranates. Nibbling a rose petal, Quar watched appreciatively as Kaug poured the sweet, syrupy coffee into a fragile porcelain cup.

  “It is a trifling thing, an irritation,” said Quar. “But such is the delicacy of my nature that these small upsets disturb me unduly. I can rest assured, then, that this matter is in your capable hands, my loyal servant?”

  “Consider the scorpion relieved of his sting, the spider crushed, Magnificence,” replied the ‘efreet, falling to his knees and bowing so low that the front of his turban brushed the carpet.

  “Mmmm.” Quar picked at the pomegranate with a golden knife, poking out the ruby seeds and crunching them, one by one, between his teeth. Scorpions and spiders. Exactly what he’d been thinking. He did not like Kaug’s penetrating his mind, and the God wondered, not for the first time, how much of his inner thoughts the ‘efreet was coming to know as Kaug grew in strength and power.

  “Is there anything else my Master desires?”

  “Information. The murder of these wretched priests of Promenthas—”

  “Ah!” Kaug frowned.

  “What is it?”

  “I knew such violent a deed would upset you, Master, and so I have endeavored to discover what I could. Unfortunately a dark cloud hangs over those who committed the act, obscuring my sight.”

  Quar’s eyes narrowed. “A dark cloud. What does that mean?”

  “I do not know, Effendi.”

  “Perhaps it is some trick of Promenthas’s. All the followers are dead, are they not?”

  “As far as I can tell—”

  “Promenthas’s followers are dead. Yes or no, Kaug?” Quar repeated softly.

  The chastised ‘efreet, unable to reply, crouched on the floor before his Master, shoulders hunched, his huge body quivering.

  Sincere abjection? Or a very fine act.

  “Very well, if you do not know, you do not know. You are dismissed,” Quar said, making a negligent gesture with a jeweled hand.

  “My Master is not angry?”

  “No, no,” Quar said, barely concealing a yawn behind sugarcovered fingers. “My time is too valuable to waste on such trivial circumstances. I assume that, in your hands, all will be acted upon and settled satisfactorily.”

  “I am honored by your confidence, my
Master, and blessed by your patience with my shortcomings.” The ‘efreet bowed again, humbly, thankfully.

  Quar did not reply. Reclining upon the couch, he closed his eyes as though asleep. In reality he had stepped out of the human body and was watching Kaug with invisible eyes, scrutinizing the ‘efreet carefully, searching for traces of smugness, self-satisfaction, or an inner conviction that this matter with Akhran and the priests was a greater threat than his Master was letting on. Quar saw only serious, conscientious devotion on Kaug’s massive face.

  Returning to his body, Quar blinked, yawned, and rubbed his eyes sleepily.

  “Is there anything else I can do for you, Exalted One?”

  “No. Proceed with your tasks.”

  Bowing again, the ‘efreet’s hulking form dissolved to a cloud of billowing smoke that spiraled around the gong, then vanished suddenly, sucked up by the copper metal.

  Left alone, Quar rose from the couch. Perfume filled the air around him, his heavy brocade robes brushed against the thick carpet. Hands behind his back, his head bowed, he began to pace in the small amount of space in the room that was cluttered with carved wooden chairs, tables, couches, huge standing vases of porcelain, flambeaux with thick beeswax candles, golden pipes and pots, and flowering trees.

  Back and forth he walked; not the restless, nervous pacing of one who is indecisive or uneasy in his mind. This was the pacing of one who walks the miles his thoughts travel, the footsteps of one mentally traversing desert and city, making new plans, refining old ones.

  At the end of an hour’s pacing, Quar—lingering near the black lacquer table in the center of the room—reached out to gently stroke the gong with his fingers, a slight smile upon his lips. His plans were coalescing in his mind, much as the ‘efreet coalesced around the gong.

  Quar’s faithful follower, the Emperor, would be instructed to act at once to secure the God’s position in southern Sardish Jardan. Once conquered, the southern lands of Bas would provide wealth and slave labor to complete the building of the Emperor’s grand fleet. In the name of Quar, the Emperor would sail west, across the ocean, aiming to strike at the gold-laden, heavily populated continent of Tirish Aranth—the stronghold of Promenthas.

  The war in heaven would move to the world.

  Jihad.

  Chapter 2

  When the Gods decided that the immortals were to be freed from their boring task of guarding the Realms of the Dead and assigned to the more interesting—if occasionally more stressful—task of interacting with mortals, each God was initially granted an equal number of immortal beings to serve him. This number either grew or diminished as the God’s power in the world increased or waned. Ranking among the immortals was, therefore, usually based on age. The older, wiser immortals took over the leadership roles. Young immortals were assigned the low-ranking, menial tasks—generally that of working directly with the humans.

  Unfortunately the young immortals, because they lived half on the mortal plane and were deeply involved with mortals, tended over the centuries to take on mortal characteristics— particularly mortal weaknesses.

  Promenthas’s angels were arranged in a strict hierarchy, as has been discussed; guardian angels being the youngest and lowest in rank, up through archangels, seraphim, and cherubim. Each angel had his or her assigned task, his or her appointed superior. Only in times of dire emergency or disaster—such as the murder of his followers—would Promenthas invite a guardian angel to report to him directly. Others of the Gods were more relaxed in their dealings with immortals, structuring them loosely as suited their needs. Then, of course, there were those such as Akhran, the Wandering God, who had no discipline or structure at all.

  This lack of organization at first led to much confusion among Akhran’s immortals. Each was constantly getting in the other’s way. Some tribes had a surfeit of djinn, while others had none at all. The ‘efreets fought among themselves, unleashing violent storms that occasionally came near to wiping Akhran’s followers from the face of the planet.

  All this was brought to Akhran’s attention—when he could be found. Beyond scowling in irritation at being bothered and lopping off a few heads to serve as a warning, the Wandering God did little that was useful. Seeing that their God took no interest in them, and becoming more than a little fearful for their heads, Akhran’s immortals attempted to form some sort of organization.

  This worked out as well as might have been expected. The powerful ‘efreets demanded control of the wild and reckless forces of storm, volcano, and shaking ground. They were granted these without question. The elder djinn refused to have anything to do with humans since that onerous duty required one to live upon the mortal plane, subject always to the whims of humans and bound to a material object. This—to the elder djinn—was a humiliating way in which to live out eternity. They chose, therefore, to remain on the immortal plane and send the young djinn down to do the dirty work.

  The young djinn did not mind this so much, most enjoyed the exciting, ever-chaotic world of humans. But the elder djinn did something else that drove the younger to distraction. In order to liven up eternity’s nights, the elder djinn chose to keep the djinniyeh—the female djinn—on the immortal plane with them. As might be imagined, this angered the younger djinn and nearly precipitated outright war. The rebellion came to nothing, however. Each rebel djinn felt the blade of Akhran’s sharp sword at his throat and meekly, if reluctantly, backed down.

  Attended by the beautiful djinniyeh, the elder djinn lived in heavenly splendor, performing such tasks as distributing their less worthy brethren among the mortals, hearing disputes between djinn, and judging complaints from mortals about their djinn. The young djinn (or an older djinn who’d had the misfortune to cross a powerful peer) were sent to the world below, each immortal’s essence entrapped inside a material object made by mortal hands—such as a lamp, a ring, or a bottle. This bound the djinn to the mortal plane and made it impossible for him to survive long outside of it.

  Of course there was always the possibility for advancement from the mortal realm to the immortal, and the younger djinn were ever on the watch for the opportunity to perform some miracle that would attract Akhran’s attention. As a reward the God would elevate the djinn from his humble lamp in a sheepherder’s yurt to a dwelling among the clouds, with the djinniyeh to supply one’s every need, wish, and desire.

  To live in luxury, entwined in the arms of the djinniyeh, was every djinn’s dream, for if there was one human frailty above all others to which the djinn were subject, it was love. Intrigues and assignations between the djinn below and the djinniyeh above were common; particularly among the young and lovely djinniyeh of an elderly djinn, whose afterdinner delights consisted of a pat on a well-rounded bottom and falling asleep with his head on a perfumed bosom.

  One djinn, in particular, was notorious for his affairs of the heart. Strong and handsome, as brave and daring as his sheykh, Sond could often be found scaling the walls of the cloud palaces, slipping among night’s shadows into perfume-scented gardens, whispering words of love to some beautiful djinniyeh who trembled in his strong arms and begged him not to wake the Master.

  Sond had long avoided falling victim to love, however. He had a roving eye and varied tastes. His conquests among the djinniyeh were many and he always escaped unscathed. But like every gallant warrior, he was finally vanquished on the field. The weapon that brought him down was neither sword nor arrow, but something infinitely more painful and piercing—a pair of violet eyes. Red, pouting lips inflicted wounds in Sond too deep to ever heal. Soft, white breasts, pressed against his flesh, forced him to plead for terms of unconditional surrender.

  Now the eucalyptus trees of other cloud gardens saw Sond no more. Other djinniyeh waited and sighed for their lover in vain.

  Her name was Nedjma, which means “the star,” and she was the light of his heart, his soul, his life.

  On this particular night Nedjma’s master—an elderly djinn who remembered (or insis
ted that he did) the creation of the world—had been in his silk-cushioned bed well over an hour. His current favorite was with him, destined for a boring evening of listening to the old djinn’s snores. The rest of the djinniyeh remained in the seraglio, chattering and gossiping, playing at games of chance, or—if they were fortunate—slipping away for more thrilling games of love.

  Nedjma went out for a breath of fresh air, or at least that is what she told the guards. Some might have thought it strange that no fresh air could be found near the palace but was only obtainable in the darkest part of the garden that stood farthest from her master’s dwelling. Here, in this secluded place, a pool as deep and dark as Nedjma’s eyes reflected the light of stars and a full moon. The eucalyptus scented the soft night wind, its fragrance mingling with the smells of roses and orange blossoms.

  Nedjma looked carefully around, not really expecting to see anyone, of course, since no one ever came here. Feeling certain (and perhaps a little disappointed) that she was alone, she posed herself gracefully upon the marble lip of the pool. Leaning over, she idly trailed her hand in the water, sending the goldfish darting about in a frenzy.

  She was a sight as beautiful as the night itself. Pantalons made of silken gauze spun as fine as cobweb softly draped the curves of her shapely legs. The diaphanous fabric was clasped about her waist with a jeweled girdle, leaving bare her shell-white midriff. Her small feet were adorned with jewels and rouged with henna. Her thick honey-colored hair was worn in a long coil, and her enchanting face could be seen through the soft folds of a goldembroidered veil.

  Entirely absorbed in contemplating the water, the fish, or perhaps her own bejeweled hand, Nedjma was perfectly unconscious of the fact that, when she bent over the pool, her breasts in their tight-fitting bodice were an enticement, her soft lips a temptation, her voice, as she sang sweetly to herself (or perhaps to the fish), an invitation.