The Will of the Wanderer

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  “Very well,” Mathew mumbled as best he could through her fingers.

  She patted him, as one does an obedient animal, and withdrew her hand. But she continued to watch him anxiously, her gaze straying from him more than once to the tent entrance. It suddenly occurred to Mathew that she was truly frightened, truly expecting this God of hers to hurl aside the tent flap, draw his flaming sword, and carry out Mathew’s wish on the spot.

  How personally these people take things, Mathew thought, feeling even more alien and alone. How close they are to their God, involving him in every part of their lives. They argue with this Akhran, they curse him, they bless him, they obey him, they ignore him. A goat fails to give milk, a woman breaks a pitcher, a man stubs his toe. . . They cry out to their God with their petty woes. They blame him for them, although—Mathew had to admit—they were equally generous in their praise of him when things went right. This Akhran is more like a father than a God— a father who was as human as themselves, with all a human’s failings. Where is the awe, the reverence, the worship of One who is without fault?

  One who is without fault. . .

  “Promenthas! Heavenly Creator,” Mathew sighed, “forgive me! I have sinned!”

  “What. . . what do you say?” Zohra regarded him suspiciously. He had unconsciously spoken the prayer in his own language.

  “It is by your holy will I am here. Promenthas! It is by your will that I am alive!” Mathew gazed up into the heavens. “And I have not seen that! I have been lost in pitying myself! I did not realize that, in so doing, I was questioning you! You brought me here for a reason—but what reason? To bring knowledge of you to these people? That can’t be! I am not a priest! Your priests died, and I was spared. For what purpose? I don’t understand. But I am not meant to understand,” Mathew counseled himself, remembering his teachings. “Mortal mind cannot comprehend the mind of the God.” Yet these people seem to, easily enough.

  “Matchew!” Zohra cried fearfully, tugging on his sleeve. “Matchew!”

  Blinking, he stared at her. “What?”

  “Don’t talk in those strange words. I don’t like it. I am certain it will offend Akhran.”

  “I-I’m sorry,” he said flushing. “I was, I was praying. . . to my God.”

  “You can do that at night. I want to learn another spell. And, Matchew”—she cast him a stern glance—”do not try to kiss me again!”

  He smiled wanly. “I’m sorry.” He drew a deep breath. . . And Zohra, you have been speaking my name. . . just fine.”

  “Of course,” she said, shrugging. “I knew I was saying it right, Mat-hew. It was you who were not hearing it right. Sometimes”—she regarded him gravely—”I think you are mad. But only a little,” she added, stroking his arm soothingly.

  “Now,” she continued, scooting the bowl toward him. “You say that we can see pictures in the water. Show me how to work this spell. I want to see pictures of this home of which you speak.”

  “No! I can’t!” Mathew drew back, truly alarmed. “I don’t want to be reminded!” If he saw his homeland, his parents’ dwelling, standing among the pines upon the high cliffs, the rose-red clouds of sunset, his heart would break. He might go truly mad, more than just a little.

  “I was wrong in what I said before,” he continued steadfastly. “My God told me that I am here to do His bidding, whatever that may be. Longing for something that I am obviously not meant to have is . . . is sacrilege.”

  Zohra nodded, her dark eyes grave. “I have long seen this sickness in you,” she said. “Now perhaps you will heal. But what can we see in the bowl?”

  “We will look into the future,” Mathew said. He thought this would please her and he was right. Rewarded by a warm, eager smile, he pushed the bowl of water over toward her. “You will perform the spell. We will look into your future and that of your people.” Truth to tell, he didn’t much want to see into his own.

  Zohra’s eyes glistened. “Is this the way?” she asked, kneeling before the bowl.

  “You are too rigid. Relax. There. Now listen to me carefully. What you will see are not ‘pictures’ of what will happen. You will see symbols that represent events looming in your future. It will be up to us to interpret these symbols, in order to understand their meaning.”

  Zohra frowned. “That seems silly.”

  Mathew hid his smile. “It is Sul’s way of forcing you to think about what you see and study it, not just accept it and go on. Remember, too, that what you see may never come to pass, for the future is shaped by the present.”

  “I am beginning to wonder why we bother!”

  “I did not promise this would be easy! Nor is it a toy to play with,” Mathew responded sternly. “There is a danger involved in scrying, for—if we see something bad happening—we have no way of knowing if we should alter the present so as to change the future or to continue as we are.”

  “If we see something bad, we should try to stop it!”

  “Perhaps not. Look,” Mathew said patiently, seeing her mounting frustration, “suppose you look into the water and you see yourself riding your horse. Suddenly your horse stumbles and falls. You are thrown from the animal and break your arm. This is a bad thing, right? And you would do what you could to prevent it from happening?”

  “Of course!”

  “Well, let us say that if the horse doesn’t fall, he carries you into quicksand and you both die.”

  Zohra’s eyes opened wide. “Ah, I understand,” she murmured, looking at the water with more respect. “I’m not certain I want to do this, Mat-hew.”

  He smiled at her reassuringly. “It will be all right.” He felt safe, knowing that the symbols were generally obscure and complex to decipher. She probably wouldn’t understand them at all, and it might take Mathew days to figure out what Sul meant. Meanwhile the scrying would entertain her and turn her thoughts from. . . other matters.

  “Relax, Zohra,” he said softly. “You must clear your mind of everything. Empty it so that Sul may draw his images upon it as a child draws in the sand. Close your eyes. Begin to repeat this phrase.” Slowly he spoke the arcane words of the spell. “You say it.”

  Zohra stumbled over the words, speaking it clumsily. “Again.”

  She said it again, this time more easily.

  “Continue.”

  She did so, the words coming to her lips easier each time.

  “When you believe you are ready”—Mathew lowered his voice almost to a whisper so as not to disturb her concentration—”open your eyes and look into the water.”

  At first, despite his instructions, Zohra’s body was stiff and tense from nervousness and excitement. It was a natural reaction and one reason that the chant was repeated—to force the mind into calm waters where it could drift until Sul claimed it. Mathew saw Zohra’s shoulders gradually slump, her hands cease trembling, her face grow peaceful, and he felt a true sense of pride and accomplishment, knowing that his pupil had succeeded. She had entered the trance. Mathew had often wondered why powerful archmagi should spend their time in teaching young people when they could, for example, be managing royal kingdoms. Now he was beginning to understand.

  With a deep sigh Zohra opened her eyes and stared into the water. A tiny line of irritation creased her brow.

  “At first you will see nothing,” Mathew said gently. “Be patient. Keep looking. “

  Zohra’s eyes blinked, she caught her breath.

  “Tell me what you see.”

  “I see”—her voice was hesitant—”birds of prey.”

  “What kind of birds?”

  “Hawks. No, wait, there is one falcon among them.”

  That symbol was easy enough to interpret, Mathew thought.

  “What are they doing?”

  “They are hunting. It is aseur, after sunset, night is falling.”

  “What do they catch?”

  “Nothing. They fight among themselves and so their prey escapes.”

  That certainly wasn’t unexpe
cted. There wasn’t a day went by that some minor squabble didn’t break out between the two tribes camped around the Tel. Mathew nodded, “Go on,” he said wryly.

  “Other birds are coming. Eagles! A great many. . .” Zohra suddenly gasped. “They are attacking!”

  “What are?” Mathew asked, alarmed.

  “The eagles! They are attacking the hawks! Scattering them across the sky! The falcon. . . Ah!” Zohra put her hands over her mouth, her eyes staring into the water in horror and shock.

  “What?” Mathew almost shrieked. It took all his willpower not to grab the bowl of water and stare into it himself, despite the fact that he knew he wouldn’t be able to share her vision. “What happens, Zohra? Tell me!”

  “The falcon falls to the sand. . . his body pierced by sharp claws. . . The hawks are destroyed, killed or carried away by the eagles to their nests. . . to feed. . . their young. . .”

  “Anything else?” Mathew demanded impatiently.

  Zohra shook her head. “The sky is dark now. It is night. I can see nothing more. Wait. . .” She stared into the bowl in perplexity. “I’m seeing this all again!”

  Mathew, confused and fearful, trying to make some sense of this terrifying vision, looked up at her quickly. “Exactly the same as before?”

  “Yes.”

  “Exactly!” he said insistently. “Any change? No matter how slight. . .”

  “None. . . except that it is fedjeur, before morning. The hawks and the falcon are hunting at sunrise.”

  Mathew breathed a shivering sigh of relief. “Go on,” he said almost inaudibly.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’ll explain later.”

  “The hawks are again fighting among themselves. The prey escapes. The eagles are coming. They are attacking. I can’t watch!”

  “Yes, you can!” Mathew came near shaking her and dug his nails into his palms to control himself. “What now?”

  “The eagles strike the falcon. He falls. . . but not into the sand! He falls. . . into a pit of . . . mud and dung. . . He lives and struggles to rise up out of the pit. He yearns to fight. But the eagles fly away, pursuing the hawks.”

  “The falcon?”

  “He is hurt. . . and his wings are caked with. . . filth. . . But he is alive.”

  “ And?”

  “And the sun is shining.”

  She fell silent, peering intently into the water.

  “Nothing else?”

  Zohra shook her head. Slowly, blinking her eyes, coming back to herself, she turned to look at Mathew. “That was very bad, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” he answered, averting his face.

  “What does it mean?”

  “I . . . I must study it,” he answered evasively.

  “No,” she said. “There is no need to study it, Mat-hew. I know what it meant. I know in my heart. A great battle is coming! My people will fight and they will die! Isn’t that what it means?”

  “Yes, partly,” Mathew said. “But it is not that simple, Zohra! I warned you it wouldn’t be. For one thing, Sul is offering you hope! That is why there were two visions.

  “I see no hope!” she said bitterly. “The hawks are attacked and they are killed!”

  “But in the first, it is sunset, then night. In the second, it is sunrise, then the sun is shining. In the first, the falcon dies. In the second, Khardan lives.”

  “Khardan!” Zohra stared at him.

  Mathew flushed. He hadn’t intended to stay that. Zohra’s lips pressed firmly together. She stood up and stared for the tent entrance. Twisting to his feet, guessing her intention, Mathew caught hold of her arm.

  “Let go of me!” Her eyes flared dangerously.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To tell my father, to warn them.”

  “You can’t!”

  “Why not?” Angrily she shook free of him and started to shove past.

  “How will you explain it?” Mathew cried. Catching hold of her again, he gripped her arms, forcing her to look at him. “How will you explain the magic, Zohra? They won’t understand! You’ll put us both in danger! And we don’t know what Sul is trying to tell us yet!”

  Promenthas forgive me my lie, he prayed silently.

  “But we are going to be attacked!”

  “Yes, but when? It could be tonight. It could be thirty years from tonight! How can you tell?”

  He felt the bunched muscles in her arms start to ease, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He released his hold on her. Turning her back to him, Zohra brushed her hand across her eyes, wiping away tears he was not intended to see.

  “I wish I’d never done this thing!” Frustrated, she stamped on the water bowl, shattering the crockery and deluging cushions, robes, and the tent floor.

  Mathew was about to say something comforting—meaningless, perhaps, but comforting—when a cloud of smoke appeared in the tent, coalescing into the large, flabby body of the djinn. Usti glanced around at the destruction gloomily. “Princess,” he said in a quavering voice, “it is customary to take laundry to the water, not bring the water to the laundry. I suppose I will be asked to clean up this mess?”

  “What do you want?” Zohra snapped.

  “A little rest, if you do not mind, madam,” Usti said plaintively. “I have been watching the woman, Meryem, for days now, and the most exciting thing she has done is learn how to milk a goat. And while spending twenty-four hours a day with the constant sight of a nubile white body and golden hair before my eyes would have been the dream of my youth, I find that at this age my mind turns to thoughts of broiled mutton, a nice bit of crispy lamb, sugared almonds. All to be digested pleasantly while lying stretched out upon my couch. . . .”

  “What is she doing now?” Mathew interrupted the djinn’s blissful ramblings.

  “Sleeping through the heat of the afternoon, sidi.” said Usti morosely, “as should all sane people. I make no disparaging remark on your affliction,” the djinn added, bowing.

  Mathew sighed and glanced at Zohra. “I suppose it won’t do any harm to ease up on watching her,” he said. “As Usti says, days have passed and she hasn’t tried anything. I wonder why. . .” Here was yet another problem to ponder. “What do you think?”

  “Mmm?” Zohra looked around at him. Obviously she hadn’t heard a word. “Oh.” She shrugged. “I don’t care. I grow bored with this chasing after nothing anyway. Leave the girl alone.”

  “At least for the afternoon. I’ll clean this up,” Mathew offered, still feeling the sense of unreality and uneasiness he always experienced talking to a being he wasn’t fully convinced he believed in. “You may go.”

  Usti granted him a grateful look. “Akhran’s blessings on you, madman,” he said fervently, and quickly disappeared before anyone could change his or her mind.

  “My head throbs,” Zohra said heavily, putting her hands to her temples. “I am going to my tent to think what must be done.”

  “Hope, Zohra,” Mathew said to her softly as she walked past him. “There is hope. . .”

  The dark eyes stared into his searchingly, their gaze warm and intense. Then, without a word, she stepped around him and left his tent, gliding across the empty compound that was baking in the hot sun.

  Turning back, Mathew began listlessly picking up fragments of the water bowl. Holding the broken pieces in his hands, he came to a stop, staring at them unseeing. Hope? he thought bleakly. Yes. Hope to save Zohra and her people from the night, hope to save them from annihilation.

  But only if Khardan plummets from the sky. Not to die in glory, but to live. . .

  To live in shame and degradation.

  Chapter 21

  Usti was correct in reporting that Meryem hadn’t done anything remarkable in the past few days—or at least anything that had been discovered by the djinn. This was due to several factors, not the least of which was Meryem’s discovery of Usti. The bumbling djinn was no clever spy, and it had been easy for the sorceress to discern she was being
watched and by whom. Of course this told her all she needed to know: somehow Zohra had survived the murder attempt, her suspicions were aroused, and she now believed Meryem to be a sorceress of considerable power. Meryem guessed, although she did not know for certain, that she had the madman to thank for all this. She intended to see that he received her compliments.

  Meanwhile, knowing she was being watched forced her to take extra precautions. She was still no nearer marrying Khardan, and it began to look as if she must fail in her assignment when—by Quar’s blessing—she happened to pass Majiid’s tent just as the men were informed of the approach of Sheykh Zeid and his meharistes from the south. A few minutes spent listening told her all she needed to know.

  A swift call summoned Yamina to the mirror, and it had been a simple matter to impart the vital information Meryem had learned to the Amir’s wife while sharing the news with Majiid’s wives at the same time. Since spying on their menfolk was accepted practice, none of the wives questioned Meryem’s having overheard such important news or her right to spread it. They found it most welcome and discussed it and its implications far into the night.

  Yamina sent Meryem a message in return, stating that the Amir had received the news and was making his plans accordingly. The message also added that he looked forward to welcoming Meryem into the seraglio. Meryem, who should have been gloating like a miser over newfound wealth, suddenly discovered that the gold had turned to lead. In particular, the thought of sharing the Amir’s bed—which had before been her highest goal—was distinctly unappealing. It was Khardan she wanted.

  Never before had a man taken such possession of her mind and soul. She didn’t like the feeling. She fought against it. And not a day went by but that she didn’t find some opportunity to see him, to be near him, to make him aware of her, to watch him in secret. She did not love him. Hers was not the nature to love. She was consumed by desire for him; a physical yearning that she’d felt for no other man in her life.