“I need to get away,” Pukah stated with firm conviction.
“The strain I’ve been under, arranging this. . . uh . . . alliance, has taken its toll on me. Yes, I definitely need to get away! The sooner the better.”
“Then I will go speak to my master right now,” Sond said, disappearing.
Pukah stared after him, his gloomy gaze following the djinn back to the tent where the Sheykhs sat discussing their plans to enlist Zeid’s aid to raid Kich. If they only knew that instead of riding out to be met with kisses on the cheeks they were going to be met with daggers in the guts! . . . Pukah groaned.
He noticed, as he gazed despairingly at the tent, a small figure slipping away from it. But so lost was the djinn in his own fear and misery that he lacked the curiosity to wonder why a woman would have been so interested in what was going on inside that she had paused to listen. Or yet why she was now in such a hurry to leave.
The Amir was in his bathing room. Lying naked on a table, he was suffering untold tortures under the massaging hands of his manservant when a slave arrived to announce that Qannadi’s head wife and the Imam needed to see him on a matter of extreme urgency.
“Ah!” grunted the Amir, propping himself up on his elbows. “They’ve heard from the girl. Toss that towel over me,” he instructed his servant, who was already covering his master’s body. “No, don’t stop. Unless I have misjudged my barbaric desert friend, I will be riding soon and I need the kinks worked out of these old muscles.”
Nodding silently, the manservant began his work again, his huge hands mercilessly pummeling and kneading the muscles in Qannadi’s legs. A stifled cry came from the Amir’s throat.
“The blessings of Quar be upon you,” said the Imam, entering the steamy bathing room. “From the sound, I thought you were being murdered, at the very least.”
“So I am!” Qannadi said, gritting his teeth, sweat pouring down his face. “The man delights in his work. I’m going to make him Lord High Executioner one day. Ahhhf “ The Amir sucked in a breath, his hands clenched over the end of the marble table on which he lay. The manservant, grinning, started on the general’s other leg. “Where is Yamina?”
“She comes,” said Feisal imperturbably. “She has had news.”
“I expected as much. Ah, here is my lovely wife.”
Yamina entered the room, her face modestly veiled with only the one eye visible. Walking delicately to avoid stepping in puddles, she circled the sunken marble bathing pool. Lilies floated upon the perfumed water. Sunlight poured down through a skylight in the ceiling above, comfortably warming the enclosed room, its rays dancing upon the water’s surface.
“You have heard from the girl?”
“Yes, husband,” Yamina replied, bowing to him and bowing yet again to the Imam—the woman’s single visible eye casting the priest a sultry glance that he caught but chose to ignore.
“So she finally seduced the desert prince?”
“We did not discuss the matter,” Yarnina said reproachfully, with an apologetic glance for the Imam for speaking of such sordid matters. “Meryem’s time was short. She is constantly watched,she says, by Khardan’s head wife, whose jealousy of her knows no bounds. Meryem has discovered that what we heard rumored is true. Sheykh Zeid al Saban and his meharis are within three days ride of the Tel. The nomads are meeting now to make plans to”— Yamina paused for effect—”join forces and raid Kich!”
“Ouch! Damn you for a blackhearted bastard! I’ll rip your throat out someday!” Half sitting up, the Amir glared behind him at his manservant.
Accustomed to being sworn at and threatened by Qannadi, who could not get along without him, the manservant merely grinned and nodded, his hands continuing to twist and pound Qannadi’s battle-scarred flesh.
The Amir transferred his glare to the Imam. “It seems you were right, Priest,” he said grudgingly.
Feisal bowed. “Not I, but our God. You do not intend to let them near the city?”
“Of course not! Kich would be in an uproar. I had enough trouble settling the populace down after Khardan’s last little visit. No, we’ll ride out and make short work of this puppy.”
“There is to be as little bloodshed as possible, I hope,” the Imam said earnestly. “Quar would be displeased.”
“Humpf. Quar wasn’t displeased at the blood that was shed taking this city, nor does he seem displeased by the thought of the blood we’re shortly going to be shedding in the south. He’d rather have dead souls, I presume, than no souls at all?”
Yamina’s eye widened at such sacrilegious talk. Glancing at the Imam, she was not surprised to see his face flush, the thin body quiver with suppressed rage. Drawing near the Imam, her hand hidden in the folds of her silken robes, Yamina closed her fingers around the priest’s wrist, cautioning him to control himself.
Feisal needed no such warning, however. His skin crawled at the touch of the woman’s cool hand pressed against his hot flesh, and he removed his wrist from her grasp as diplomatically and unobtrusively as possible, in the meantime issuing a rebuke to the Amir.
“Naturally Quar seeks the souls of the living, so that he may pour his blessings down upon them and so enrich their lives. He knows to his great grief, however, that there are those who persist in walking in darkness. For the sake of their souls and to free them from a life of wretched misery, he condones the killing of these kafir but only so that they may come to see in death what they were blind to in life.”
“Hunh!” grunted Qannadi, growing uncomfortable as always in the presence of the burning-eyed priest. “Are you saying then that Quar will have no objection if we put these nomads to the sword?”
“Far be it for me to interfere with military affairs,” said the Imam, noting the Amir’s darkening face and proceeding with caution, “but—if I may make a suggestion?”
Feisal spoke humbly, and Qannadi nodded.
“I think I know how we can pull the teeth of this lion instead of cutting off its head. Here is my plan. . . .”
Feisal presented his proposal clearly, succinctly, precisely; his orderly mind had taken care of every detail. Qannadi listened in some astonishment, although he should have known, from past dealings with the priest, that this man was as ingenious as he was devout. When the Imam had finished, Qannadi nodded again grudgingly, and Yamina, seeing her husband bested, cast the Imam a proud glance.
“And if this fails?” the Amir asked gruffly, waving his manservant away. Wrapping himself in the towel, he heaved his aching body off the marble table. “If they refuse to convert?”
“Then,” said the Imam devoutly, “it will be jihad! May Quar have mercy upon their unworthy souls.”
Chapter 19
Huddled in the cool shadows of Mathew’s tent, her feathery white wings drooping, Asrial hid her face in her hands and wept.
It was not often the guardian angel gave way to her despair. Such a lapse in discipline would have brought raised eyebrows and stern, cold stares of reproach from the seraphim and undoubtedly a lecture from some cherubim upon putting one’s trust wholeheartedly in Promenthas, believing that all was the will of the God, and all were working toward the Greater Good.
Thinking of such a lecture, hearing in her mind the sonorous voice, only made Asrial’s tears flow faster. It wasn’t that she had lost her faith. She hadn’t. She believed in Promenthas with all her heart and soul; to work his will upon this material plane was the greatest joy she could know. So it had been for eighteen years, the years she’d been given Mathew to guide and protect.
But now?
Asrial shook her head bleakly. The young man she guarded was not alone in his anguish and misery. Asrial had watched, horrified, as the goums cut down the charges of her fellow angels. She had seen the other angels, helpless to intervene, fall to their knees in prayers to Promenthas and then rise again to comfort the souls of the newly departed and lead them to their safe rest.
Asrial alone had not been content to pray. She loved Mathew dearl
y. She remembered spending night after night, hovering over his crib when he was a baby, taking simple delight in just watching him breathe. To see him foully murdered, dying upon this alien shore. To have to face his bewildered soul and try to wean it away from the life he loved so dearly and had just begun to experience. . .
It was the angel’s unheard prompting that had caused the young wizard to run for his life. It was Asrial’s invisible hand that had snatched the black hood from the wizard’s head, revealing his delicate face and the long coppery-red hair. Why had she done it? She had a wild hope that his youth and beauty might touch the hearts of the savages and that they would leave him in peace. She’d had no idea that the man with whom she was dealing had no heart; that the only emotion the sight of Mathew’s beauty touched was greed.
When Asrial saw the young man taken into the caravan, to be sold as a slave, she knew she’d made a mistake. She’d allowed herself to become personally attached to a human. Inadvertently she’d tampered with the plan of Promenthas, and now her charge was suffering for it. That first night when Mathew had wept himself to sleep in the trader’s caravan, Asrial had flown home to Promenthas. Falling upon her knees before the God, she had kissed the hem of his white robes and prayed for forgiveness and a swift death for the suffering human.
Promenthas had been on the verge of promising her just what she’d asked, but then they had been interrupted by Akhran, the Wandering God—a frightful being to Asrial. Trembling, she had crept into the nave to wait impatiently until the Gods had finished their conversation. Already she was imagining Mathew’s release from his dreadful life, the look of peace that would come upon his face, the joy when he knew that his soul was, at last, to return home.
And then, after talking with the barbaric Wandering God, Promenthas had changed his mind! Mathew was to live, it seemed. Why? Of course Asrial had not been given a reason. Faith. Trust in the Lord. She must do what she could to keep the young man alive, and not only that, but somehow she must place him in the hands of those who worshiped Akhran.
Bitterly disappointed, feeling Mathew’s terror and misery wrench her heart, Asrial had nevertheless obeyed the commands of her God. It was she who alerted the guard to the fact that Mathew was slowly starving himself to death; she who touched Khardan with her feathery wings so that he would turn his head and see the young man about to be sold into slavery.
And all for what? So that Mathew could now, under the guise of a woman, live among people who considered him mad! What was Promenthas thinking? What could this one human, this eighteen-year-old boy, do to end the war raging in the heavens. . .
“Child!”
Asrial started and looked up in fear, thinking perhaps that the barbaric, savage djinn who had been pursuing her had discovered her at last. Instantly she began to fade away.
“Child, do not go!” came the voice again, and it was soft and gentle and pleading. Asrial stopped, her wings shivering in terror.
“What do you want of me? Who are you?”
“Look to your feet.”
Asrial glanced down and saw the small crystal globe containing the two fish lying upon the floor of the tent. She stared at it, alarmed. It should not be sitting about in the open like this. Mathew was always so careful. She was certain he had concealed it safely in the pillow before going out to ride with Zohra this morning. Hastily she started to pick it up and return it to its hiding place, but the voice stopped her.
“Do not touch the globe. It might waken him.”
Asrial, kneeling down beside it, could see that one of the fish—the black one—was asleep, floating inertly, eyes closed, near the bottom of the globe. The other fish, the golden one, swam in circles near the top, keeping the water moving in lulling, hypnotic ripples.
“Who are you?” asked Asrial in awe.
“I cannot tell you. To speak my name would break the spell.
He would awake and know what I have done. Now listen and obey me, child. We haven’t much time. My power wanes. There are two within this camp who prepare to go seek the Lost Ones. You must go with them.”
Asrial gasped, her wings fluttered. “No! I cannot! I dare not leave my charge!”
“You must, child. It is for him you do this. If not, he faces a cruel fate. He will die slowly by the most foul means man can devise—a sacrifice to a Dark God who thrives on pain and suffering. Your human will linger for days in hideous agony, and at the end his soul will be lost, for in his final moments, in the madness of his pain, he will renounce Promenthas. . .”
“But I cannot leave him.” The angel wept and covered her ears with her hands. But this did not blot out the voice that continued to whisper within her heart.
“You can. He will be safe as long as he carries us. He is the Bearer and as such cannot be harmed. He will be safe until the one who seeks him finds him again!”
“The man in the palanquin!” Asrial cried, a prey to terror. “Yes. Already he comes searching for him. Every moment that passes, the danger draws nearer.”
“I must talk to Promenthas!”
“No!” Though the fish continued to swim in seemingly unconcerned, lazy circles around the globe, the voice was insistent, stem, commanding. “No one—least of all a God—must know, or all will be ruined. Go with them, child. It is your protege’s—and perhaps the world’s—only chance.”
“Chance! Chance for what?” Asrial cried desperately. But the fish spoke no more. Around and around it swam, its gills moving in and out, its graceful tail and fins sending the water washing in gentle waves against the sides of the crystal, rippling around its slumbering companion.
Afraid to touch the globe, Asrial dropped a silken scarf over it, then sank back upon the cushions of Mathew’s bed.
“What should I do?” she murmured, distractedly plucking out small pinfeathers in her wings. “What should I do?”
Chapter 20
“No, you read it,” Mathew insisted, putting the scroll back into Zohra’s reluctant hands. “Go ahead. Read the words.”
“Isn’t it enough that I wrote them?”
Zohra smoothed the parchment out upon the floor of the tent, her eyes fixed upon it with a gaze of mingled pride and awe and dread. Drawing a deep breath, she lifted the scroll and held it over the bowl of sand. Then, at the last moment, she shoved it toward Mathew.
“You!”
“No, Zohra!” Mathew pushed the scroll away. “I’ve told you. It is your spell. You wrote it. You are the one who must cast it!”
“I can’t, Mat-hew. I don’t want it!”
“You don’t want what?” Mathew said softly. “The power?”
The power that will make you a great sorceress among your people? The power to help them. . .”
Zohra’s eyes flashed. Her lips compressed, the hand holding the parchment let it fall to the floor, and her fingers clenched into a fist. “The power to rule them!” she said fiercely.
Mathew sighed, his shoulders slumping. “Yes, well”—he gestured at the bowl of sand—”you won’t be able to do anything until you overcome this fear—”
“I’m not afraid!” Zohra said angrily.
Snatching up the scroll, she carefully smoothed it out as Mathew had taught her. Holding it above the bowl of sand, she slowly and deliberately repeated the arcane words. Mathew held his breath, averting his eyes, unable to watch. What if the cantrip failed? What if he had misjudged her? What if she didn’t possess the magic? Picturing her disappoittment, he shuddered. Zohra did not handle disappointment at all well. . .
A quick intake of breath from Zohra caused Mathew to look back at the scroll. Relief and pride flooded through him. The words were beginning to writhe upon the parchment. One by one they slid off, tumbling into the bowl. Within seconds the sand had been transformed to cool, clear water.
“I did it!” Zohra cried. Transported with delight, she threw her arms around Mathew and hugged him. “Mat-hew! I did it!”
No less elated than his pupil, feeling for the first time sinc
e he’d come to this terrible land a tiny surge of joy bubble up through the barren desert of his soul, Mathew clasped Zohra close. The human contact was intensely satisfying. For an instant the bleak wind did not blow quite so coldly. Their lips met in a kiss that, for Zohra, was laced with fire but was—for Mathew—a kiss of heartbroken loneliness.
Zohra sensed this. Mathew felt her stiffen, and she thrust him away from her. The young man lowered his head, swallowing the shame, the guilt, the sense of loss whose bitter bile was choking him. Glancing at the woman, he saw her face—cold, stern, proud, and contemptuous. . . The open wound inside him bled freely, its pain overcoming him.
“Can’t you understand!” he shouted at her, suddenly angry. “I don’t want to be here! I don’t want to be with you! I want to go home! I want to be with my own people in my own land! To see . . . trees again! To walk on green grass and drink water—all the water I want—and then to lie in the middle of an icy-cold stream and let it wash over me. I want to hear birds, leaves rustling, anything, except the wind!” He tore at his hair, gazing around the tent in his frenzy. “My god! Doesn’t it ever quit blowing?”
He gasped for breath, the pain in his chest suffocating him. “I want to sit in the blessed silence of the cathedral and repeat my prayers and . . . and know that they are going to the ears of Promenthas and not being scattered like so much sand by this damnable wind! I want to continue my studies! I want to be with people who don’t look away when I approach, then stare at me when I am past. I want to talk to people who know my name! It’s Mathew, Mathew! Not Mat-hew! I want . . . my father, my mother. . . my home! Is that so wrong?”
He looked into her eyes. She lowered her long lashes almost immediately, but he saw there what he had expected-scorn, pity for his weakness. . .
“I wish Khardan had killed me that night!” Mathew burst out in bitter agony.
Zohra’s response startled him. She reached out hastily and placed her hand upon his lips. “No, Mat-Matchew!” Her struggle to pronounce his name correctly touched him, even through his despair. “You must not say such a thing. It will anger our God, who blessed you with life!” Fearfully she glanced about. “Promise me you will never say such a thing or think it,” she whispered insistently, not moving her hand from his mouth. .
The Will of the Wanderer Page 39