The Will of the Wanderer

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  “It is, O Sheykh,” answered Khardan formally. “This man was leader in my absence and performed his duties with exemplary skill. I can think of no more suitable reward.”

  “Then so shall it be. Woman, attend to me.”

  The Sheykh looked up at the female, who still sat unmoving upon the horse. “Woman?”

  The slave did not respond but stared straight ahead with a face so white and rigid that Majiid was reminded uncomfortably of a corpse.

  “What’s the matter with her?” he demanded, turning to Khardan.

  “She has suffered a great shock, Father,” Khardan replied in a low voice.

  “Um, well, Saiyad will soon comfort her,” Majiid said with an attempt at a laugh that failed beneath that frozen face, glimmering pale like a waning moon. Majiid cleared his throat. “Woman, you will henceforth belong to this man, who, in his mercy, has deigned to take you dowerless into his family. You will submit to his will in all things and be a dutiful servant, and you will be rewarded by his caring and”

  Saiyad, bowing again, grinned broadly at Khardan. Reaching up his hands, he grasped hold of the woman and brought her down—limp and unresisting—from the horse’s back. Icompassion.

  “If there is nothing else I can do for you, my Sheykh,” Saiyad began, licking his lips, his hungry gaze fixed upon the woman, “it has been a long ride. . . .”

  “Yes, of course!” Majiid smiled. “No doubt you are tired and desire some rest. Go ahead!”

  Taking hold of the woman by the arm, Saiyad led her to his tent.

  Watching her go, her head bowed, her feet stumbling as if she did not see the ground on which she walked, Khardan quieted the misgivings stirring in his heart. Irritably he told himself that it was all for the slave woman’s own good. Why couldn’t she be grateful? If Khardan had not rescued her, she might now be in the clutches of some brute, who would use her for his foul pleasures, then cast her to his servants when he grew tired of her. Saiyad was rough and certainly not handsome. A poor man, he had only one wife, so this addition to his household would be a welcome one. The slave woman’s life would be hard, but she would be fed and sheltered. Saiyad would not beat her. Her children, if she bore him any, would be well-cared for. . . .

  Saiyad and his new woman disappeared into his tent. Khardan’s father asked his son a question about the situation in Kich, and with relief, the Calif turned his attention to other matters. Deep in discussion, the two walked together to the Sheykh’s tent. Noticing Jaafar watching them intently, Khardan glanced at his father and received a grudging nod to include the other Sheykh in their talk. The three men disappeared inside Majiid’s tent; Fedj, the djinn, came along to serve them.

  The other spahis went to their tents, accompanied by their families, the women exclaiming excitedly over lovely silks or new brass lamps or showing off sparkling bracelets. Unnoticed, forgotten, Zohra crept back inside her own tent. Pressing cold hands to feverish cheeks, she sank down upon silken cushions, biting at her veil in her frustration.

  All was silent in the camp. The sun, sinking down in the west, brought an eerie beauty to the harsh land, painting the sands with rose pink, deepening to purple. The first cool breeze of coming night was drifting among the tents with a soft sigh when the sound of a hoarse yell split the air.

  So ferocious was the sound, so filled with rage, that everyone in camp thought they were under attack. Weapons in hand, men dashed from their tents, looking about wildly and demanding to know what was happening. Women clasped children to their breasts and peered fearfully from the entrances. Khardan and the Sheykhs rushed from Majiid’s dwelling.

  “What is it? What in the name of Sul is going on?” Majiid thundered.

  “This, O Sheykh!” yelled a voice. Choked with fury, it could hardly be understood. “Witness this!”

  Expecting nothing less than the Amir’s army galloping down upon him, Majiid turned with astonishment to see Saiyad emerging from his tent, dragging the slave woman by the back of her robes. She was unveiled, her red hair tumbling about her in a brilliant mass. With a vicious snarl Saiyad hurled her across the compound. The woman fell forward on her stomach, hands outspread, to lie face down, unmoving, at Majiid’s feet.

  “What is this, Saiyad?” the astounded Sheykh demanded, angry at being alarmed over nothing. “What’s the matter? Isn’t the girl a virgin? Surely you didn’t expect as much—”

  “Virgin!” Saiyad drew a seething breath. Reaching down, he grasped hold of a handful of the red hair and yanked the woman’s head up, forcing her to face Majiid.

  “Virgin!” Saiyad repeated. “She isn’t a virgin! She isn’t even a woman! She is a man!”

  Chapter 10

  Jaafar, staring at Saiyad, burst into raucous laughter. Saiyad flushed an angry red. Reaching out, he grabbed Khardan’s scimitar, snatching it from the Calif ‘s hand.

  “I have been shamed!” Saiyad cried. “Defiled!”

  He dragged the disfigured man to his knees. Raising the sword, Saiyad held it poised above the kneeling, shivering figure. “I will have my revenge by cleaving this unclean head from its neck!”

  The man raised his head. Khardan saw the expression on the pale face undergo a swift and horrifying change, the eyes reflecting stark terror and fear such as he had never seen in the eyes of another human before. It was not terror at the blow coming, it seemed, but at a memory of something so horrible it blotted out the threat of death. Staring aghast into the white face, Khardan realized with a riveting shock that this was no man—it was a youth, not much older than Achmed. A boy, frightened and alone.

  Once again Khardan saw the woman. . . the boy. . . standing upon the slave block, saw the look of hopeless despair. Now he understood. Who knows how or why the young man came to be dressed as a woman, but he had foreseen as surely as he drew breath that he must be discovered and that his end would be a terrible one. This sword blow, at least, would be swift and painless, the misery that was traced upon the face soon ended. . .

  Saiyad’s arms tensed, ready to deliver the killing stroke.

  Moving swiftly, without stopping to consider why, Khardan caught hold of Saiyad’s hands, wrested the sword from the man’s grasp.

  “Why did you stop me? Why?” Foam flecked Saiyad’s lips, his eyes were bloodshot and bulging from his head.

  “I saved this life,” Khardan said sternly. Retrieving his scimitar from the sand where it had fallen, he thrust it into his belt. “Therefore, the life is mine alone to take.”

  “Then you kill him! You must. I demand it! I have been shamed!” hissed Saiyad, breathing heavily and wiping his hands repeatedly upon his robes as though to rid himself of some filth. “You cannot let him live! He is foul, unclean!”

  Ignoring Saiyad and ignoring, too, the swift angry glance his father shot him, Khardan turned to face the youth. People crowded near, pushing, shoving, and craning their necks to get a better view.

  “Back off!” the Calif commanded, glaring around him.

  Scowling, still rubbing his hands against his tunic front, Saiyad remained standing where he was. No one else moved.

  “Father, is this not my right?” Khardan demanded.

  Majiid nodded wordlessly.

  “Then let me talk to the . . . this man!”

  His face grim, Majiid moved some distance away, dragging Jaafar with him. One by one the other members of the tribe backed away, forming a large half-circle. Khardan stood in the center, the young man remaining kneeling before him, head bowed.

  The Calif stared helplessly at the youth, completely at a loss as to what he should do. By law, this man who had disguised himself as a woman and who had apparently used this disguise to entice another man to lay hands upon him must surely die. Khardan would be unworthy of his standing as Calif of his people if he defied the law. Slowly the Calif drew his sword.

  And yet. . . there had to be some other explanation!

  The youth’s face had regained its terrible composure. Crouched on his knees, his hands
clasped tightly together as though clutching every bit of courage he possessed, he looked up at Khardan with empty eyes, facing death with a despairing calm that was dreadful to see.

  Khardan’s palms began to sweat. He flexed them around the sword’s hilt. He had killed men before, but never one kneeling, never one who was defenseless. The Calif felt sickened at the thought, yet he had no choice. Shifting nervously in his stance as though to better position himself to deliver the killing blow, Khardan glanced swiftly around the camp, seeking inspiration.

  He received it, from an unexpected source.

  Movement in the shadows of a tent caught his eye. Coming forward noiselessly so that she stood within the failing twilight, Zohra mouthed a word, at the same time tapping her head as though there were something wrong with it.

  “Mad!”

  Khardan stared at her, the sudden rush of thoughts confusing him. How had she known the reluctance he felt? Stranger still, why should she care about this boy one way or another? No matter, the Calif supposed. He had his answer now. He knew the beginning, if not exactly where all this would end.

  Lowering his sword, Khardan cast a grim glance around the assembled tribes. “I have remembered that Akhran gives everyone the right of speaking in his own defense. Does anyone question this?”

  There was some muttering. Saiyad snarled angrily, mumbling something inaudible, but he said nothing aloud.

  Khardan turned back, regarding the youth grimly. “You may speak. Tell why you have done this thing.”

  The youth did not answer.

  Khardan checked a sigh. Somehow he had to force him to talk.

  “Can you answer me?” he asked suddenly. “Are you dumb?”

  Wearily, as though longing for sleep that was denied him, the young man shook his head.

  “From your look, you are not of this land,” Khardan continued patiently, hoping to force the young man to respond. “Yet you understand our language. I saw your face. You understood Saiyad’s words when he threatened to kill you.”

  The youth swallowed, and Khardan could see the knot in the young man’s throat that marked the true nature of his sex.

  “I . . . I understand,” the young man said in a voice that was like the music of the flute. They were the first words he had spoken since Khardan had rescued him. The empty eyes looked up at the Calif.

  “Why these questions?” the youth continued in a dulled, uncaring tone. “End it now.”

  “Damn it, boy! Don’t make me kill you!” Khardan shot back in a vehement whisper, meant for the youth’s ears alone.

  Startled, the young man blinked, as though awakening from some terrible dream, and stared at Khardan dazedly.

  Walking over to the youth, the Calif grasped hold of the young man’s chin, turning his face roughly to the light. “You have no beard.” With the blade of his sword he parted the robes. “No hair upon the chest.”

  “It. . . is the manner of . . . men of my . . . land,” the youth said in a strained voice.

  “Is it also the manner of men of your land to dress as women?”

  Bowing his head, flushing in shame, the young man did not reply.

  “What did you do in this land of yours?” Khardan persisted.

  “I . . . I was a wizard—a ‘sorcerer’ in your tongue.”

  Khardan relaxed. Behind him he heard excited, wondering whispers.

  “Where is this land?” Khardan continued, praying to Hazrat Akhran to grant him wisdom and a certain amount of luck.

  The God heard his prayers. Or at least some God heard.

  “Across the Hurn sea,” the boy mumbled.

  “What?” Khardan gripped the young man painfully by the chin, raising his head. “Repeat your words, that all may hear!”

  “Across the Hurn sea!” the youth cried in desperation.

  With a grim smile Khardan thrust the young man roughly away from him. The Calif turned to face his tribe.

  “There, you hear? He claims to be a sorcerer! All know only women may practice magic. Not only that, but he claims to come from a land across the Hurn.” The Calif waved his arms. “All know that there is no such land! All know that the Hurn empties into the abyss of Sul. It is as I thought. The young man is mad. By the laws of Hazrat Akhran, we are forbidden to harm him.”

  Khardan gazed about defiantly. Victory was within his grasp, but he hadn’t won. Not yet. Accustomed to either obeying or disobeying the laws of their God as they saw fit, the nomads weren’t going to give up the excitement of an execution so easily.

  Saiyad—his honor unsatisfied—took a step forward and turned to face the tribes.

  “I say he is not mad! I say he is a perversion and should, by the laws of Hazrat Akhran, be put to death.”

  Khardan glanced at his father. Majiid said nothing, but it was obvious that the Sheykh agreed with Saiyad. Arms folded over his massive chest, eyebrows bristling, the Sheykh regarded his son with anger, mingled with concern.

  Khardan realized that his leadership in the tribe was balanced on a knife’s edge. He cast a swift glance at Zohra, still hidden in the shadows. He could see her eyes, black, fiery, watching him intently, but he had no idea what she might be thinking.

  If it is your will that this young man live, then help me, Akhran, Khardan prayed silently.

  And suddenly, whether from Akhran or from within himself, the Calif had his answer.

  Khardan turned back to face the youth. “You yourself will make the decision whether you live or die. I give you a choice. If you are sane, you will choose to die bravely as a man. If you are mad, you will choose to live—as a woman.”

  A murmur of appreciation and awe rippled through the tribe. Majiid glanced about proudly now, defying anyone to argue with such godlike wisdom.

  “Will that satisfy you?” Khardan looked at Saiyad.

  Head to one side, Saiyad considered. If the young man was sane, he would pay with his life for his crime and Saiyad’s honor would be avenged. If the youth were mad—and what sane man would choose to live life as a woman—then it would be understood by everyone that the boy had seen the face of Akhran and no shame could come to Saiyad. Either way, his honor would be appeased. Saiyad nodded once, his brow clearing.

  Raising the sword, the blade flashing red in the light of the setting sun, Khardan held it poised, flexing his hands on the hilt to get a firmer grip. “Well?” he prompted harshly.

  His eyes stared into the eyes of the youth. For a brief instant there was just the two of them, poised upon the turning world. No one else was present, no one at all. Khardan could hear the beating of his own heart, the whisper of his own breath. The sun was sinking, deepening to blood red, the sky to the east was black, glittering with the first faint stars. He could smell the scents of the desert—the tamarisk and sage, the sweet scent of the grass around the oasis, the acrid odor of the horses. He could hear the rustling of the palm leaves, the song of the wind across the desert floor.

  “Live!” he pleaded softly, almost reverently with the boy. “Live!”

  The eyes looking into his flooded with tears. The head drooped, the red hair fell around the shoulders like a veil. A sob burst from the young man’s throat, his shoulders heaved.

  Weak with relief, Khardan lowered the sword. His impulse was to take the young man by the shoulders and comfort him, as he might have comforted one of his younger brothers. But he dared not. He had his standing to maintain. Scowling darkly therefore, he turned back to face the tribes.

  “I will not kill a woman!” He thrust his sword into his belt.

  “That is all very well,” said Jaafar suddenly, stepping forward and pointing at the wretched figure huddled on the sand. “And I admit that the boy is undoubtedly mad, touched by the God. But what is to become of him? Who will take care of him?”

  “I will tell you!” came a clear voice.

  From out of the shadows of her tent stepped Zohra, her silken caftan rippling with the rising wind, her jewelry sparkling in the dying light. “He says
he has the power of magic. Therefore he will enter the harem—as Khardan’s wife!”

  Chapter 11

  The sun sank behind the far western hills. The afterglow lit the sky and was reflected back by the crystals of desert sand. There were a few startled gasps from some of the women, a flurry of whispers and silken rustling as wives crowded together like flocks of birds, and here and there a low voiced command from a husband to hush.

  Silence, thick and heavy with amazement, fell over the tribesmen. All looked to Khardan, awaiting his reaction.

  The Calif both looked and felt as though he’d been riding his horse at a mad gallop when the animal suddenly dropped dead beneath him. The breath left his body; his skin flushed red, then went deathly white; his frame trembled.

  “Wife, you go too far!” he managed to gasp out, nearly strangling.

  “Not at all,” Zohra replied coolly. “You have stolen two—shall we say—’women’ and carried them far from their homes. By the law of Akhran you are, therefore, required to provide for them, either by establishing them in your tent or seeing them established in another—”

  “By Sul, wife!” Khardan swore viciously, taking a step nearer Zohra. “I saved their lives! I didn’t carry them off in a raid!”

  Zohra made a fluttering motion with her hands. Her face was unveiled, and it was smooth and grave and solemn. Only Khardan, looking into the black eyes, saw smoldering there coals he had fondly thought quenched. What could have touched off this fire, the Calif couldn’t imagine. In another woman he might have said it was jealousy, but jealousy implies a certain amount of caring, and Zohra had made it clear countless times that she would as soon give her love to the meanest creature that walked as to give it to him.

  He had thought her changed, but apparently not. No, this was just another attempt to humiliate him, to shame him before his people and to elevate herself in the eyes of her own. And once again, as in the matter of the bridal sheet, Khardan was helpless to fight her, for she stood solidly on her own ground-magic, a woman’s province, inviolate by men.