The Will of the Wanderer

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  “I lost Nedjma the night Kaug stole her from the garden. Akhran made me see this. I was a fool to believe that anything I did would induce Kaug to give her back. He was using me. But I was desperate. What else could I do?”

  In a few bitter words Sond related the story of Nedjma’s capture by the ‘efreet and Kaug’s demands that Sond separate the tribes or lose Nedjma forever.

  “I tried to split them apart. It didn’t work. You saw that,” Sond continued miserably. “Everything was against me! Zeid coming out of nowhere like that”—Pukah squirmed uncomfortably—”and forcing the Akar to make friends with the Hrana. I went to Kaug to try to explain and beg him to give me another chance, but he only laughed cruelly. He asked if I truly thought myself clever enough to thwart him. Nedjma was gone, he said, and I would never see her again—until the day I myself was sent to join her.”

  Pukah’s brow wrinkled in thought. “That’s an odd statement. What did he mean by it?”

  Sond shrugged wearily, letting his head lapse into his hands. “How should I know?” he mumbled.

  “And what did Hazrat Akhran say?”

  “After I finally found him,” Sond said, looking up, his face drawn, “a search that took four days and four nights, he told me that he understood why I had done what I had done. He said that next time I was to come to him directly, then he gave me a stern lecture on attempting to subvert the ways of the Gods and reminded me that he himself had ordered us to find out what was happening to the vanishing immortals—”

  “Why, that’s it!” Pukah cried.

  “That’s what?”

  “That’s what happened to Nedjma! Kaug’s sent her to wherever the lost djinn are. From what he said about your going to join her, we’re next, seemingly,” Pukah added after some reflection.

  “Do you truly think so?” Sond looked up, hope illuminating his face so that it glowed in the dark with a pale, white radiance.

  Pukah looked at him in amazement.

  “Honored Sond, I am pleased beyond measure that you have recovered your spirits and that any poor words of mine have performed this transformation, but I can’t help wondering why this dread news of Nedjma’s being banished to the Gods know where—no, on second thought, to someplace of which they don’t even know—fills you with such joy?”

  “I . . . I feared. . . she was. . . that Kaug had. . .” Sond’s voice trailed off huskily, his face growing dark and brooding once more.

  “Ah!” said Pukah in sudden understanding. “Kaug?” He scoffed. “You say Nedjma is delicate and beautiful? Then she will not arouse Kaug’s interest. He ruts with sea cows. I’m serious! I have it on very good authority. . . Now, come, my friend.”

  Pukah felt confident enough to climb out of his hole. Going over to Sond, he respectfully assisted the djinn to his feet. “I am always thinking, you know. It is my curse to have a fertile brain. And I have the beginnings of a plan. No, I can’t say anything yet. I must do some research, some investigating,” the djinn continued importantly, brushing the sand off Sond’s shoulders and putting the djinn’s rumpled clothing to rights. “Don’t say a word to anyone yet about. . . well, what you overheard me discussing with myself tonight, particularly to the master. All this is part of the plan. You might spoil it.

  “And now,” continued Pukah, as Sond stood gazing at him in bewilderment, “I must go and tend to the madman as my master ordered. As if I didn’t have enough to do!” He sighed a long-suffering sigh. “Be of good hope, O Sond!” Pukah clapped the djinn on the shoulder. “And put your faith in Pukah!”

  With that, he vanished.

  Chapter 13

  Waking from the strangest dream he’d ever experienced, Mathew sat up suddenly, shivering in fear. He’d been lying in the sand when a young man wearing a white turban and flowing silken pants appeared out of nowhere and—with an unbelievable strength—lifted him up onto his shoulders. This young man had been talking to himself—at least so Mathew thought, until another man appeared. His face was dreadful to I behold. He made a sound like thunder, and then both men were gone and the young wizard was alone inside a tent that smelled strongly of goat.

  Glancing around in the darkness, Mathew began to realize that at least that part of his dream hadn’t been a dream. He was lying in a tent, it did smell as if a goat had been its former inhabitant, and he was alone in the night. The air was bitterly cold, and he groped about in the darkness for something to cover himself. Finding a soft woolen blanket, he wrapped it around his body and lay back down upon the cushions.

  Suddenly, with a pang of fear, he started back up. Thrusting his hand deep inside his robes, he felt frantically for the fishbowl. His fingers closed over its cold surface, the edges of the gold and silver metalwork biting into his skin. Gently he shook it and was reassured by the feeling of motion within the globe. At least the water was still there; presumably the fish were safe and unharmed.

  A light step from outside the tent caused Mathew to hastily thrust the bowl back inside his robes. His heart pounding, wondering what new terror he was going to have to endure, the wizard stared at the tent entrance.

  “Are you awake, mast—er, mistress?” The voice seemed a bit confused.

  “Yes,” Mathew answered after a moment’s hesitation.

  “May I enter?” the voice continued humbly and servilely. “My master has instructed me to make you comfortable for the night.”

  “Are. . . are you from Khardan?” Mathew asked, daring to breathe a little easier.

  “Yes, mas—er, mistress.”

  “Then please, come inside.”

  “Thank you, mas. . . mistress,” said the voice, and to Mathew’s astonishment one of the figures came out of his dream and stepped inside the tent.

  It was the young one, the one who had picked him up with the ease of a man lifting a puppy. Hands folded before him, his eyes cast down, the young man in the white turban performed the salaam, politely wishing Mathew health and joy.

  Mathew stammered out a suitable reply.

  “I have brought a chirak, an oil lamp,” the young man said, producing one out of the night. Setting it down carefully upon the tent floor, he caused it to light with a wave of his hand. “And here is a brazier and charcoal to burn to warm yourself. My master tells me that you are not of this land”—the young man spoke carefully, with elaborate politeness as though fearing to unduly upset Mathew—”therefore I assume you are not familiar with our ways?”

  “N-no, I’m not.”

  The young man nodded solemnly, but—when he thought Mathew wasn’t watching—he rolled his eyes to the heavens.

  “Make certain that you set the brazier here, beneath the opening in the tent, so that the smoke may rise up and out. Otherwise you will not wake up in the morning, for the smoke of the charcoal is poisonous. If you will allow me to arrange your bed”—the young man gently but firmly crowded Mathew into a corner of the tent, out of the way—”I would suggest that you be careful to keep the cushions on the felt rug when you sleep. Neither the scorpion nor the qarakurt will cross felt, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t,” Mathew murmured, gazing in awe at this remarkable young man. “What is a qarakurt?”

  “A largish black spider. You are dead within seconds of its bite.”

  “And. . . you say it won’t walk on felt? Why not?” Mathew asked nervously.

  “Ah, only Hazrat Akhran knows the answer to that one,” the young man said piously. “All I know is that I have seen a man sleep soundly, though surrounded by an army of such spiders, all thirsting for his blood. Yet they would not set one black leg upon his felt blanket. And you must also remember to shake your clothes and especially your shoes out every morning before putting them on, for though the scorpion will not cross felt, he is smart and will wait for his chance to sting by hiding in your garments.”

  Remembering the past nights when he had not cared where he lay and thinking of how he had heedlessly slipped on the women’s shoes each morning, Mathew felt his throat
constrict as he vividly imagined the stinging tail of the scorpion thrusting itself into his flesh. To turn his thoughts from these horrors, he questioned the young man.

  “You are a remarkable wiz—sorcerer,” Mathew said earnestly. “How long have you studied the art?”

  To Mathew’s astonishment, the young man drew himself up very straight and regarded the wizard with a cold eye.

  “I know you are mad,” the young man said, “but I cannot see that this gives you the right to insult me.”

  “Insult you? I never meant—”

  “To refer to me as a sorcerer! To imply that I dabble in that woman’s art!” The young man appeared highly offended.

  “But—the lamp you conjured. And the light. I assumed—”

  “I am a djinn, of course. I am called Pukah. Khardan is my master.”

  “A djinn!” Mathew gasped and shrank back. Apparently he wasn’t the only madman in this camp. “But. . . there are no such things as djinn!”

  Pukah gave Mathew a pitying glance. “Mad as a foamingmouthed dog,” he muttered. Shaking his head, he continued to plump up the cushions. “By the way, mas-mistress. When I came to find you this night and discovered you lying senseless upon the ground, there was an immortal—one of my kind—bending over you.”

  Eyes glowing with the memory, Pukah forgot what he was doing and slowly sank down upon the cushions. “Yet she wasn’t of my kind, either. She was the most beautiful creature I have ever seen. Her hair was silver. She was dressed in long white robes, soft feathery white wings grew from her back. I spoke to her,” the djinn said sadly, “but she vanished. Is she your djinniyeh? If so,” he continued eagerly, “could you tell her that I truly mean her no harm and that I want just one moment, one second with her to speak of my adoration—”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Mathew interrupted. “Djinniyeh! That’s ridiculous! Although”—he hesitated—”what you describe sounds very much like a being we know as an angel. . .”

  “ ‘Angel’!” Pukah sighed rapturously. “What a beautiful word. It fits her. Do all in your. . . uh . . . land have such creatures to serve you?”

  “Angels! Serve us!” Mathew was shocked at the sacrilege. “Absolutely not! It would be our privilege to serve them if we should ever be fortunate enough to see one.”

  “That I can believe,” said Pukah gravely. “I would serve her all my life, if she were mine. But then, if you never see these beings, how do you communicate with your God?”

  “Through the holy priests,” Mathew said, faltering, his thoughts going painfully to John. “It is the priests—and only the highest ranking of their Order—who talk with the angels of Promenthas and so learn His Holy Will.”

  “And that is all these angels do?”

  “Well”—Mathew hesitated, suddenly uncomfortable— “there are such beings known as guardian angels, whose duty it is to watch over the humans in their care, but. . .”

  “But what?” Pukah prodded inquisitively.

  “I—I never really believed. . . I mean, I still don’t. . .”

  “And you do not believe in me, either!” the djinn said. “Yet here I stand. And now”—Pukah rose gracefully to his feet—”if there is nothing further I can do for you, I must return. My master undoubtedly needs me. He attempts nothing without my advice and counsel.”

  “No, that—that is all,” Mathew mumbled, his thoughts in confusion. “Thank you. . . Pukah. . .”

  “Thank you, mas—mistress,” rebuked the djinn, bowing, and melting into the smoke, he disappeared as if sucked out the tent flap.

  Catching his breath in amazement, Mathew stared blankly at where the djinn had been standing. “Maybe I am mad,” he muttered, putting his hand to his head. “This isn’t real. It can’t be happening. It is all part of a dream and I will soon waken—”

  Someone else was outside his tent. Mathew heard a clashing of jewelry, a silken rustle, and smelled the sudden sweetness of perfume. “Are you awake?” came a soft whisper.

  “Yes,” Mathew answered, too dazed to be frightened.

  “May I enter? It is Zohra.”

  Zohra? He had a dim impression that this was the woman who had announced that he was to be taken into the harem. He vaguely remembered hearing someone refer to her by that name. This meant, from what he’d gathered, that she was Khardan’s wife. “Yes, please do. . . .”

  The tent flap darkened, a figure shapeless in a silken caftan entered. The lamplight gleamed off bracelets and rings, its flame reflected in the black, flashing eyes barely visible above her veil. Entering swiftly, Zohra carefully shut the tent flap behind her, making certain that no chink of light escaped. Satisfied, she seated herself upon the cushions, knelling with easy grace, staring at Mathew, who remained crouched in the corner of the tent where he had been driven by the djinn.

  “Come within the light,” Zohra ordered, making a commanding gesture with her arm, her bracelets clinking together musically. “There, sit across from me.” She pointed to a pile of cushions opposite her, keeping the charcoal brazier and the oil lamp between them.

  Doing as he was bidden, Mathew came to sit on the cushions. A pool of warm yellow from the flame of the lamp encircled them both, illuminating their faces, setting them against a backdrop of shadows that moved and wavered with the flickering of the flame. Slowly Zohra lowered the veil from her face, her eyes, all the while studying Mathew intently.

  He, in turn, looking at her, thought that he had never before seen a woman so beautiful or so wild.

  My wife is more of a man than this one!

  Khardan’s bitter words came back to Mathew, and—looking into the face of the woman who sat opposite him—he could well understand them. There was something masculine about the face in its unbending pride, the fierce anger that he could sense smoldering beneath the surface. Yet he had the feeling that the lips could soften, the eyes could be tender if she chose.

  “I want to thank you, madam,” Mathew said evenly, “for the part you played in saving my life.”

  “Yes,” was the woman’s unexpected reply, her eyes never leaving Mathew’s face. “I came to find out why I did. What is there about you that moved me to intercede in your behalf? What is your name?”

  “M-Mathew,” the young man answered, startled at the abruptness of the question.

  “M-Mat-hew.” Zohra stumbled over it, her lips forming the unusual sound awkwardly.

  “Mathew,” Mathew repeated, feeling a certain joy at hearing his name spoken by another human being. It was the first time anyone had asked him.

  “That is what I said. Mat-hew,” Zohra replied loftily. “And so, Mat-hew, can you tell me why I saved your life?”

  “N-no,” replied the young man, startled at the question. Seeing that Zohra obviously expected an answer, he fumbled for words. “I . . . can only assume that your woman’s heart, feeling pity. . .”

  “Bah!” Zohra’s contempt burned brighter than the lamp. “Woman’s heart! I have no woman’s heart. And I do not feel pity. If anything”—she cast him a scornful glance—”I feel contempt!” Angrily she tore at her gown, her sharp fingernails rending the fragile fabric. “If I had a man’s body, I would never hide in this . . . this winding sheet!”

  “And you would not have done what I did to save my life,” Mathew said. Ashamed, he lowered his head before her scathing gaze. “And neither would he,” he added softly, so softly he did not think she heard. But Zohra caught the words, pouncing on them like a diving hawk.

  “Khardan? Of course not! He would die the death of a thousand daggers before hiding in woman’s clothing. As for me, I am trapped in them. I die the death every morning when I wake and put them on! Perhaps”—now it was she who was speaking to herself—”perhaps that is why I saved you. I saw them looking at you, saw them staring at you the same way they stare at me. . .”

  Mathew, with a flash of insight, suddenly understood. The pride in the handsome face masked a gnawing pain. But why? What is wrong here?
He did not understand, he had no way of knowing about the age-old enmity between the two tribes, of the marriage forced upon them by their God, of the brown and dying plant upon the Tel. He knew only because he saw it in her face that this woman was—like himself—surrounded by people and desperately lonely.

  Now it was he who pitied her, pitied her and longed to help. And for the first time, the fear he had lived with for those torturous weeks since his capture began to fade to the back of his soul, replaced by a feeling more blessed—a feeling of caring. Yet he was wise enough to know that he must guard against revealing this feeling to her or endure the stinging lash of her pride.

  “I do not believe you are mad,” she said suddenly, and Mathew felt the fear return. “Yes,” she added, seeing it flare in his eyes, “you must continue to make others believe you are insane. I shouldn’t imagine that will be too difficult.” Her lips twisted. “They are, as you have seen, fools.”

  “What. . . about Khardan?” Mathew hesitated, feeling his face flush. “Does he . . . think me mad?”

  Zohra shrugged her slender shoulders, causing the silk to rustle around her, the perfume to drift lightly on the warmth spreading through the tent. “Why do you suppose I should know—or care—what he thinks?” Her eyes challenged Mathew to answer.

  “No reason, except”—the young man faltered, uncomfortable at this discussion of intimate affairs between man and woman—”except that you are . . . his wife. I thought that he must—”

  “Spend his nights in my company? Well, you are wrong.” Zohra drew her robe around her as if chilled, though the heat radiating from the charcoal brazier was rapidly becoming stifling in the small tent. “We are man and wife in name only. Oh, that is no secret. You will hear it around the camp. You take a great interest in Khardan,” she said suddenly, her eyes piercing Mathew’s heart with a suddenness for which he was unprepared.

  “He saved me from the slavers,” Mathew said, his skin on fire. “And he saved me again this night. It is only natural—”