And it wasn’t long before he found out the reason why—an astounding one, as far as he was concerned.
“The magic I have seen you perform is done with charms and amulets—rude ones at best.” The two were resting in the shade of the oasis, letting their tired horses drink and nibble at the dwindling grass. “Where are your scrolls kept, Zohra?” Mathew continued. “That is the key to truly powerful magic. Why do you never use them?”
“Scrolls?” Zohra seemed puzzled and not even really interested for the moment.
Her attention was on the hunting being done by Khardan and the men of the Akar, who were using their falcons to bring down gazelle from a herd that had come to the oasis in search of water.
Mathew, too, paused a moment to watch the chase. He had seen falconry practiced in his own land, but never anything remotely similar to the way it was done here. Like everything else, it was brutal, savage, and efficient. Had anyone told him that a bird could bring down an animal as big as a gazelle, he would have scoffed in disbelief. But he was seeing it and he still couldn’t believe it.
Khardan, falcon on his wrist, removed the hood from the bird’s head. The falcon soared into the air. Flying over the gazelles, it chose its victim and dove for it, aiming for the head of the animal. The gazelle, who could generally outrun packs of hunting dogs, couldn’t outrun the swiftly flying bird. Swooping down, the falcon struck the gazelle in the head and began pecking out the animal’s eyes. Soon blind, the creature tripped, stumbled, and fell to the ground—easy prey for the hunters. Mathew had seen Khardan training his falcons to perform this feat by placing meat in the eye sockets of a sheep’s skull. The young wizard had thought at the time it was some macabre sport, until he saw now that it meant survival.
“Mat-hew! Look at that!”
Zohra pointed excitedly. The falcon of Achmed had made a particularly splendid kill. Mathew, watching, saw Khardan put his hand on Achmed’s shoulder, congratulating the young man and praising his work with the bird. Majiid joined them and the three stood laughing together.
Mathew’s heart ached, his loneliness came near to overwhelming him.
“Scrolls,” he continued grimly, putting it out of his mind, “are pieces of parchment on which you write the spells so that they may be used whenever you need them.”
Zohra’s response confounded him. “Write?” she said, glancing at him curiously. “What do you mean, ‘write’?”
Mathew stared at her. “Write. You know, write down words so that they may be read. As in books.”
“Ah, books!” Zohra shrugged. “I have heard of such things used by city dwellers, who also, they say, burn cattle dung to keep warm.” This in a tone of deep disgust.
“You cannot read or write!” Mathew gaped.
“No.”
“But”—Mathew was bewildered—”how do you read and study the laws of your God? Are they not written down somewhere?”
“The laws were spoken by the mouth of Akhran into the ears of his people and so have been passed from the mouths of his people into the ears of those who came after them. What better way? Why should words go onto paper, then into the eye, and then into the mouth, and then into the ear? It is a waste of time.”
Mathew floundered for a moment in this quagmire of irrefutable logic, then tried again. “Books could have kept the knowledge and wisdom of your forefathers. Through books that knowledge would have been preserved.”
“It is preserved now. We know how to raise sheep. Khardan’s people know the ways of horses. We know how to hunt, where to find the oases, what time of year the storms come. We know how to raise children, how to weave cloth, how to milk a goat. Your books never taught you that!” Mathew flushed. That much was true. His attempts at doing women’s work had proved a dismal failure. “What more is there to know?”
“Books taught me to speak your language, they taught me something about your people,” he added lamely.
“And was it the truth they taught?” Zohra asked him, turning her eyes on him, their gaze steady and unwavering.
“No, not much,” he was forced to admit.
“There, you see? Look into a man’s eyes, Mat-hew, and you can tell if he is lying to you. Books tell lies and you will never know it for they have no heart, no soul.”
There are men whose eyes can lie, Mathew thought but did not say. Men with no heart, no soul. Women, too, he added mentally, thinking of blue, limpid eyes that had been watching the two of them of late—eyes that seemed to be constantly spying on them, yet could never be discovered looking directly at them. Eyes that always glanced away or were cast down in modesty, yet—when he turned—he could feel them, boring through his flesh.
Thinking of Meryem had distracted his thoughts. Resolutely he forced them back to the moment. Books were not, apparently, the way to introduce Zohra to the study of magic. He came about on a new tack, sailing his ship into what he hoped were calmer waters.
“Scolls aren’t books,” he began, fumbling for an explanation that would convince her. “Magical scrolls aren’t, at least. Because Sul decreed that magic be based in material objects, writing down the spells on scrolls was the only way the sorcerers could make their spells work. Before that—according to the histories—all they had to do was pronounce the arcane words and the minion of Sul was summoned, or the wood burst into flame; or whatever you wanted happened. Now the sorcerer must write the words upon parchment. When he reads them aloud, he obtains—hopefully—the desired result.”
Now Zohra was watching him with eager interest, the hunt forgotten. “You mean, Mat-hew, that all I have to do to summon a servant of Sul to come perform my bidding is to write down these words upon something, read them, and the creature will come?”
“Well, no,” Mathew said hastily, having a sudden terrifying vision of demons running loose through the camp. “It takes many years of study to be able to perform magic as powerful as that. Each letter of the words you write must be perfect in shape and form, the exact wording must be used, and then the sorcerer must have rigid control or the servant of Sul will turn the sorcerer into a servant of Sul. But there are other spells I could teach you,” he said quickly, seeing Zohra’s interest begin to wane.
“Could you?” Her eyes flared, bright and dangerous.
“I—I’d have to think about it. To recall some.” Mathew stammered, pleased that he had kindled her interest. “When can we start?”
“I need parchment, preferably sheepskin. I need to make a stylus, and I need ink.”
“I can get you all that today.”
“Then I’ll need some time to practice, to draw my thoughts together. It has been some time and much has happened since I have used my magic,” Mathew said wistfully, feeling the wave of homesickness sweep over him once more. “Perhaps, in a few days. . .”
“Very well,” Zohra said. Her voice was suddenly cold. “Let’s go. We should be returning to camp before the heat of afternoon.”
Mathew sighed, his feelings of loss and loneliness—almost forgotten for a moment—returning.
Who was he fooling? No one but himself. What could he ever be to Khardan except a coward who had saved his skin by dressing as a woman and pretending to be mad? Certainly he could never be a friend, never a companion—like a younger brother. And Zohra. He thought her beautiful in the wild and savage way this land was sometimes beautiful. He admired her in much the same way he admired Khardan, envying her strength, her pride. He had something he could offer her, and he hoped it would gain her respect and admiration for himself. But it was obvious, she was using him for her own purposes—to ease her own loneliness, to learn more about magic.
No, he was alone in a strange land and he would always be so.
The thought struck him a blow that literally took his breath away.
Always.
He had not looked into his future in this land because—up until now—he did not think he had one. He had looked forward only to death.
Always.
Now h
e had life, which meant he had an “always”—a future.
And a future, no matter how bleak, meant hope.
And hope meant that perhaps, somehow, he could find a way to get back home.
Chapter 16
As the days passed and Meryem spent more time among the nomads, she began to fear that her attempt to seduce Khardan would fail. Honor was the nomad’s single most valued possession—one that belonged to rich and poor, male and female alike. A man’s word, a woman’s virtue: these were more precious than jewels, for they could not be traded or sold, and once broken were lost forever. Honor was necessary to the nomad’s survival—he had to be able to trust his fellow man on whom his life depended, he had to be able to trust in the sanctity of the family on whom his future depended.
This was not something Meryem could easily explain to the Amir, however. Qannadi was not a patient man. He expected results. He did not tolerate excuses. He had sent his concubine to gather information, and he expected her to succeed. Khardan possessed the information Meryem needed. Once in her bed, his head pillowed on her soft breast, lulled by the touch of her skilled hands, he would reveal to her anything she wished.
“He is, after all, only a man,” Meryem argued with herself. “Yamina is right. A man’s brains are between his legs. He cannot resist me.” Impatiently she watched and waited for just the proper moment, and at last she had her chance.
It was twilight. Walking wearily through camp after another day’s pointless arguing with his father and the other tribesmen, Khardan glanced up to see Meryem come out from behind a tent and start across the compound, her slender shoulders bent beneath the weight of a yoke from which dangled two full skins of water. This was typically women’s work, and Khardan, pausing to watch and admire the grace of the diminutive figure, thought nothing of the burden she bore until he noticed her steps falter. Meryem let the skins down slowly to the ground so as not to lose a drop of the cool water. She lifted a limp hand to her forehead, her eyes rolling upward. Springing forward, Khardan caught her just as she was falling.
His own tent was closest. Carrying the unconscious woman inside, he laid her down upon the cushions and was just about to go and get help when he heard her stir. Returning, he knelt down beside her.
“Are you all right? What is wrong?” He looked at her in concern.
Meryem, half sitting up, gazed around her dazedly. “Nothing is wrong,” she murmured, “I . . . just felt faint suddenly.”
“I’m going to call my mother.” Khardan started to rise.
“No!” Meryem said rather more loudly than she had intended. Khardan looked at her, startled, and she flushed. “No, please, don’t trouble your mother on my account. I am much better. Truly. It is . . . so hot.” Her hand artfully disarrayed the folds of the caftan she wore so that a tempting expanse of throat and the swelling of her smooth, white breasts could be seen. “Let me rest in here, where it is cool, for just a moment, then I will return to my work.”
“Those skins are too heavy for you,” Khardan said gruffly, averting his gaze. “I will mention this to my mother.”
“It isn’t her fault.” Meryem’s blue eyes shimmered with tears. “She. . . she told me not to do it.” The soft hand reached out and clasped Khardan’s. “But I do so want to prove to you that I am worthy of being your wife!”
Khardan’s skin was swept by flame, his blood burned. Before he quite knew what was happening, Meryem was in his arms, his lips were tasting the sweetness of her lips. His kisses were eagerly returned, the girl’s body yielding to his with a passion rather unexpected in the Sultan’s virgin daughter. Khardan did not notice. His mouth was on the milky white throat, his hands seeking the softness beneath the caftan’s silk, when it suddenly occurred to the Calif what he was doing.
Gasping for breath, he pushed Meryem away from him, almost throwing her back into the cushions.
Khardan was not the only one losing control. Consumed by a pleasure she had never before experienced in the arms of a man, Meryem grasped Khardan’s arm.
“Ah, my love, my darling!” she breathed, drawing him back down upon the cushions, forgetting herself and acting with the wantonness of the Amir’s concubine. “We can be happy now! We don’t have to wait!”
Fortunately for Meryem, Khardan was too immersed in his own inner battle to notice. Tearing himself free of her hold, he rose to his feet and staggered to the tent entrance, breathing as though he had fought a deadly foe and just barely escaped alive.
Hiding her face in the cushions, Meryem burst into tears. To Khardan, they seemed the tears of offended innocence, and he felt himself a monster. Actually they were tears of anger and frustration.
Mumbling something incoherent about sending his mother to her, Khardan hastened from the tent. After he’d gone, Meryem managed to compose herself. She dried her eyes, twitched her clothes into place, and was even able to smile. The smoldering coals of Khardan’s love had just burst into a raging fire, one that would not be quenched easily. Blinded by his desire, he would be prepared to believe any miracle that would suddenly make it possible for them to marry.
Leaving his tent, Meryem met Badia, who was hurrying to her side. In answer to her future mother’s worried questions, Meryem said only that she had fainted and that Khardan had been kind enough to stay with her until she felt better.
“Poor child, this separation is torturing both of you,” said Badia, putting her arm comfortingly around Meryem’s small waist. “A way out of this dilemma must be found.”
“Akhran willing, it shall be,” said Meryem with a sweet and pious smile.
“Usti, what are you doing out of your dwelling? I did not send for you!” Zohra poked the fat djinn in his belly as he lay napping upon the cushions. “And what is that thing upon the floor?!’
With a startled snort Usti sat bolt upright. His mounds of flesh rolling and rippling in waves, he blinked at his mistress in the light of her oil lamp. “Ah, Princess,” he said, frightened. “Back so soon?”
“It is just past dinnertime.”
“I take it you have dined?” he asked hopefully.
“Yes, I dined with the madman. And I ask you again what this is, you lazy excuse for a djinn.”
“A charcoal brazier,” said Usti, glancing at the object sitting upon the floor.
“I can see it’s a charcoal brazier, djinn-with-the-brains-ofa-goat!” Zohra fumed. “But it isn’t mine. Where did it come from?”
“Madam should be more specific,” he said plaintively. Seeing Zohra’s eyes narrow dangerously, Usti added hurriedly, “It is a gift. From Badia.”
“Badia?” Zohra stared at her djinn. “Khardan’s mother?
Are you certain?”
“I am,” Usti replied eagerly, pleased to have—for once— impressed his mistress. “One of her own servants brought it over and said distinctly that it was for ‘her daughter Zohra.’ I have been waiting up to deliver it to you.”
“ ‘Daughter’ . . . she said. . . ‘daughter’?” Zohra asked softly.
“And why not? You are her daughter, if only in the eyes of the God.”
“It’s just. . . she never sent me anything before,” Zohra murmured.
Kneeling down, she examined the brazier. It was made of brass, of truly fine workmanship and design, like nothing she had ever seen before. Three legs, carved to resemble the feet of a lion, supported the pot. Ornately carved holes around the lid emitted the smoke. Peering inside, Zohra saw six pieces of charcoal nestled in the brazier’s brass belly. Since trees were scarce, the charcoal itself was a gift nearly as valuable as the brazier.
Instantly the idea came to her that the brazier came from Khardan. “The man is too proud to give it to me himself,” she guessed. “He fears that I would refuse it, and so he uses this ruse to present it to me.”
“What did you say, madam?” asked the djinn, nervously stifling a yawn.
“Nothing.” Smiling, Zohra ran her finger along the delicate swirls and curlicues of the lid. “Ret
urn to your own brazier. I have no need of a fat djinn this night.”
“Madam is all kindness!” remarked Usti. With a relieved sigh he transformed himself into smoke and fled gratefully to the peace and tranquility of his own dwelling.
Kicking the djinn’s brazier aside with her foot, ignoring the pitiful lament of protest that came from within, Zohra placed the new brazier upon the floor beneath the tent opening. Lighting the charcoal, she was aware of a faint perfumelike fragrance in the smoke, perhaps the wood of a rose or lemon tree. She had never smelled anything like it before.
Undoubtedly Khardan has given it to me, she thought as she made ready for bed. Lying down, she watched the smoke from the brazier drift upward through the tent flap. But why? What can be his motive? He is—to all appearances—furious with me for having supplanted the blond rose he plucked from the Sultan’s garden. He has not spoken to me, not one word since the night of his return. Perhaps his anger has cooled and he does not know how to show it except in this way. I will show him that I, too, can be magnanimous. After all, once again I have been the victor. Tomorrow perhaps I will smile upon him. . .
Perhaps.
Smiling now at the thought, Zohra extinguished the oil lamp and lay down among the cushions, drawing the woolen blankets over her. The charcoal in the new brazier continued to burn, spreading a soothing warmth through the tent, banishing the chill of the desert night.
Hiding in his own brazier, Usti picked up his scattered furniture and comforted himself for his hard life by drinking plum wine and consuming large quantities of sugared almond paste.
The night deepened. Zohra sank into a dreamless sleep. The smoke from the brazier continued to rise through the opening in the tent, but it no longer drifted upward in a thin, wavering line. Slowly, imperceptibly, the smoke came to life, curling and twisting in an evil, sinuous dance. . .
The Will of the Wanderer Page 36