The Will of the Wanderer

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  “Er no,” said Pukah, feeling somewhat uncomfortable beneath the gaze of those cool, innocent eyes. “We have our share of bodily lust, I’m afraid. I can’t quite picture paradise without it, if you’ll forgive my saying so.”

  “That’s what comes of being around humans so much,” Asrial stated.

  “Well, for that matter,” Pukah added, nettled by her superior tone, “I notice that your talk about ‘your Mathew’ goes a bit beyond that of your everyday bodyguard.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean that perhaps you’re eager to do more than just guard his body. . .”

  “How dare you!” She flounced to her feet, her wings spreading in her indignation. Her face had flushed a deep rose, her eyes sparkled with her anger, the outspread wings fanned the evening air, filling Pukah’s nostrils with the pure, sweet smell of holy incense. He fell to the ground again.

  “I dare because I’m a wretch, a miserable excuse for a djinn, not worthy of you to spit upon!” he cried woefully. “Forgive me?”

  “Will you take me with you?”

  “Please don’t ask that of me, Asrial!” Pukah begged, looking up at her earnestly. “It is dangerous. More dangerous than you can possibly imagine. More dangerous than I’ve let on to Sond,” he admitted shamefacedly. “If you must know the truth, I’m going only because I’ve messed things up around here so badly that I’m afraid my master will turn me over to Akhran for punishment. And all know that while the Wandering God has many faults, showing mercy is not one of them. I hope, by searching for the Lost Ones, I can somehow make I reparation for the serious trouble I’m about to bring down upon my master’s unsuspecting head.”

  “You did not do this purposefully to cause him harm?”

  “No, oh, no!” Pukah cried. “I can say that truthfully, if I can say nothing else to my credit. I meant, all along, only to help him.” Choking, he wiped his eyes, muttering something about sand flying down his throat.

  “Then,” said Asrial shyly, reaching out her hand to him, “together we will work to help your master and my Mathew and save them from the trouble that we both have inadvertently brought to them. Can you put up with me?”

  “If you can put up with me,” Pukah said humbly.

  “Then I may come?”

  “Yes.” Pukah sighed. “Though it goes against my heart. Ah, look. Here is Sond, and with good news by that stupid grin on his face. I better tell you the rest of the story. And—er don’t mention anything to Sond about. . . about what I just said? He wouldn’t understand! The reason we are going is that Sond’s beloved, a djinniyeh named Nedjma, was kidnapped by an evil being known as an ‘efreet. This ‘efreet—going by the name of Kaug—dwells in a most fearsome place beneath the Kurdin Sea, and it is there that we must begin our search for the Lost Immortals.

  “Ah Sond! About time. We were just speaking of you. This is Asrial. She’s coming with us. . . . Yes, she has wings. She’s an angel. . . . Don’t ask questions. We don’t have time. I’ll explain everything to you on the way!”

  Chapter 23

  Zeid was within one day’s ride of the Tel. Khardan, his father, and Jaafar were up early that morning, eyes turning toward the south. The sun rose over the Sun’s Anvil, burning fiercely in the sky. Everyone waited expectantly.

  At length three meharis appeared. But they were not vauntcouriers. They did not ride into camp, which would have been a show of friendly intent. They stood upon a tall sand dune, the sun glinting off the banner of Sheykh Zeid al Saban and off the swords the men held—blades bare—in their hands.

  It was a challenge to do battle.

  Mounting their horses, Khardan and Majiid galloped out to meet them; Jaafar following on an ancient she-camel, who plodded through the sand with extreme reluctance and who managed to carry the Sheykh to the brief parley in time to see it end.

  “What does our cousin mean that he brings war upon us?” Majiid demanded, urging his horse forward until it stood noseto-nose with the lead camel rider—Sheykh al Saban’s standard bearer.

  “We do not come in war, but in peace,” said the mehari formally. “Acknowledge that you are under the suzerain of Sheykh Zeid al Saban and pay him tribute of the following”—the mehari recited a list of demands that included, among other things, thirty fine horses and one hundred sheep—”and we will leave in peace,” the mehari concluded.

  Majiid’s brows bristled in anger. “Tell Sheykh Zeid al Saban that I would sooner place myself under the suzerain of Sul and that the only tribute I will pay him will be in blood!”

  “So be it!” the mehari said grimly. He pointed to the south where the Sheykhs and the Calif could see the vast army of meharistes assembled. “We will be waiting to collect.”

  Raising their sabers, the camel riders saluted their foe, then turned and dashed off, the tassels that hung from the camels’ saddles bouncing wildly about the animals’ long, thin legs.

  Hastily Khardan and the Sheykhs returned to camp—Majiid grinning broadly at the prospect of a battle, Jaafar groaning and moaning that he was cursed. Khardan, his face dark with fury, stalked into his tent and kicked the basket where Pukah lived.

  “Come out, you miserable wretch, that I may yank off your ears!”

  “Have you forgotten, Brother?” Achmed peered in the tent flap. “You gave him permission to leave.”

  “Yes, and now I understand the reason why he was so eager to be gone before this day dawned!” Khardan muttered with an oath. “I wonder how how long he’s known Zeid meant to attack us.”

  “Still, Khardan, it is a fight!” Achmed could not understand his brother’s anger.

  “Yes, but it’s not the fight I wanted!” Khardan’s fist clenched.

  “Ah, well,” said Achmed with the philosophy of one who is seventeen, possessor of a new sword, and about to ride into his first major battle, “we attack the camel riders today, Kich tomorrow.”

  Khardan’s stern face relaxed into a smile. Putting his arm around his brother, he hugged him. “Remember what I’ve taught you! Make me proud!”

  “I will, Khardan!” Achmed’s voice broke, excitement and emotion overcoming him.

  Seeing his embarrassment, Khardan cuffed the boy affectionately across the face. “And don’t falloff your horse!”

  “I was a child then! I haven’t done that in years! I wish you’d just shut up about that!”

  Achmed shoved his brother. Khardan shoved him back, harder. Their friendly tussle was broken up only by the sound of a ram’s horn.

  “There’s the call!” Achmed’s eyes shone.

  “Go along. Get ready,” Khardan ordered. “And don’t forget to visit your mother. “

  “Will she cry?”

  Khardan shrugged. “She’s a woman.”

  “I don’t think I can take that,” Achmed muttered, his eyes cast down, face flushing.

  Khardan permitted himself a smile, knowing his brother would not see it. He remembered himself at seventeen, bidding his mother good-bye. There had been tears then, too, and it had not been his mother alone who cried. The memory had shamed him for days. Now he was older and could understand. He had a difficult visit of his own to pay.

  “You are a man now,” he told his brother severely. “It is for you to play a man’s part. Would you go into battle without your mother’s prayers?”

  “N-no, Khardan.”

  “Then leave!” Khardan shoved him again, this time in the direction of Majiid’s harem. “I will see you when we ride. You are to be on my right.”

  It was the place of honor. His face glowing with pleasure and pride, Achmed turned and raced across the compound to Majiid’s tents.

  Khardan stared in that direction longingly, his thoughts not on his mother. Although it would not be considered proper, since they were not married, he still meant to bid Meryem good-bye. But there were other farewells he had to make first, much as he disliked it.

  Turning, he left his tent. Walking the short distance across the compou
nd to the dwellings of his wives, he glanced about, instinctively studying the weather, and noticed a darkening in the western sky. Odd time of year for a storm. It looked to be far off, however; probably over the foothills. He thought little of it. Often the clouds never left the hills. Their moisture sucked out of them by the desert heat, they generally dwindled away. His attention was drawn away by a shouted question from one of his spahis. Answering that, Khardan did not give the storm another thought.

  The camp was in an uproar—men sharpening their blades on the whirring grindstones, gathering up saddles and bridles, bidding their families good-bye, receiving crude charms and protective amulets from their wives. Khardan, pausing, watched a father gather his small children in his arms and hold them close.

  The Calif felt a swift spasm of pain contract his heart. He wanted children of his own. As he was the eldest of Majiid’s many offspring, one of the greatest pleasures in Khardan’s life had been helping to raise his younger brothers, teaching them horsemanship and warfare. To pass these skills on to sons of his own would be his proudest moment. And then to have a little girl (he pictured her with blue eyes and blond hair) clinging to him. To keep her safe from the harshness of the world, protected in the shelter of his strong arms. And when she was older, he could envision her coaxing a new bauble or a pair of earrings from him. Her teasing voice, her gentle hands. . . so like her mother’s. . .

  Khardan shook his head, his gaze going to his destination— Zohra’s tent. His face dark and grim, he thrust aside the tent flap and entered.

  She had been expecting him. This was a visit he was required to pay before leaving to fight. Tradition demanded it, despite the fact that they had not spoken and only rarely even looked in each other’s direction since the night he had brought Meryem into camp and into his father’s tent.

  Zohra, her face cold and impassive, rose to her feet to greet him. She did not bow, as was customary between husband and wife. Someone else in the tent rose, too. Khardan was surprised to see Mathew present, as well, and he looked at Zohra in some astonishment, amazed at her thoughtfulness and foresight in sparing him the humiliation of entering the tent of the madman and bidding him good-bye like a true wife.

  This unexpected solicitude on her part did not deter him from his true purpose in coming here, however. Seeing them together increased his anger. He was beginning to think that Hazrat Akhran was playing some sort of cruel joke upon him—giving him one wife who was still a virgin and another wife who was a man. The crimson stain on the bridal sheet had saved him from shame in regard to Zohra. Everyone in both tribes knew that he did not visit her tent at night, and there was not a person in either tribe—including Zohra’s own—who blamed him, considering how unwomanly she acted. He was spared shame, too, in the case of the madman. But this did not ease the bitter knowledge deep within him that—to all effect—his two wives were more barren than the desert, for the sands at least bloomed in the spring. His wives were like that accursed, dried-up, withering Rose that had brought them here in the first place.

  This will end, he said to himself. This will end when Meryem comes into my tent. And then it suddenly occurred to the Calif that maybe this was what Akhran intended all along. Khardan was meant to conceive children with a Sultan’s daughter! The blood of sheep would not run in the veins of his sons!

  Zohra had dressed herself in a chador of deep-blue silk edged with gold. Her face was not veiled, her jewelry sparkled in the light of day that sifted through the tent. Fire smoldered in her dark eyes, as it always did when she confronted her husband. But it was not the fire of desire. Whatever attraction these two had felt had seemingly died—a casualty of the Calif ‘s journey to Kich. Resentment, hatred, jealousy, shame—this was the dagger that separated them now, a dagger whose edge was sharper and cut deeper than any blade forged by the hands of man.

  “So, it is to be war,” Zohra said coldly. “I trust, husband, that you are not here to receive either my tears or my blessing.”

  “At least, wife, we understand each other.”

  “I do not know why you bothered to come at all then.”

  “Because it is expected and would not look right,” Khardan returned. “And it gives me the opportunity to discuss a I matter of serious import with you. I do not know the details because Meryem, gentle and loving soul that she is, refused to tell me. But I know that you have done or said something to frighten her. By Sul!” His voice grated. Taking a step nearer Zohra, his fist clenched, he stared at her intently, eyes flaring in anger. “You do anything to her, you say anything to her, you harm a single strand of golden hair on her head, and I swear by Hazrat Akhran I’ll—”

  Swiftly, silently, without a scream, without breathing a word, Zohra hurled herself at her husband, her sharp nails flashing like the claws of a panther. Her reaction took Khardan by surprise, caught him completely off guard. He had expected an angry denial or perhaps the haughty silence of one who is guilty but considers herself justified. He had not expected to be fighting for his life.

  Catching hold of her wrists, he wrested her hands from his I face, but not before four long, bloody scratches glistened on his left cheek. She lunged at him again, her hands clutching at his throat. Zohra’s strength was above that of the average woman. Add to this the fury, the surprise, and the swiftness of her attack, and Khardan might have been in serious trouble had not Mathew joined in the fray. Grabbing hold of Zohra, the young wizard dragged her off Khardan.

  The woman fought and struggled to free herself, kicking and spitting like an enraged cat.

  Clasping his arms around her upper body, pinning her flailing hands to her side, Mathew glared at Khardan.

  “Get out!” he cried.

  “She is a witch!” Khardan said, breathing heavily, his fingers upon his face. Drawing them back, he saw the blood and cursed.

  Zohra tried to fling herself at him again, but Mathew held on to her firmly.

  “You cannot understand!” Mathew shouted at Khardan angrily. “Just get out!”

  The Calif stared at him in some astonishment, amazed to see the young man’s face so pale and threatening. Dabbing at the bloody marks with the hem of his sleeve, Khardan cast a final, piercing glance at his wife, then turned upon his heel and left her tent.

  “Let me go! Let me go!” Zohra shrieked, foam flecking her lips. “I’ll kill him! He will die for this insult!”

  Mathew continued holding Zohra, now more out of concern for her than from fear she might harm Khardan. He was right to be alarmed. Her body went suddenly stiff, rigid as a corpse. She stopped breathing.

  She was having some sort of fit. Mathew glanced about in desperation, looking for something. . . anything. . . Catching sight of a waterskin hanging on the tent pole, he snagged it with a free hand and dashed the liquid into the woman’s face.

  Zohra caught her breath in shock, sputtering and gasping as the water ran down into her mouth. Half-collapsing, she staggered against the sides of the tent. Mathew went to help her, but—with unexpected strength—she shoved him away.

  “Wait! Zohra!” Cursing the confining folds of the caftan that wrapped around his legs, nearly tripping him, Mathew managed to catch hold of the woman’s wrist just as she was about to storm out of the tent. “You can’t blame Khardan! He didn’t know she tried to kill you! You can’t expect him to understand. And we can’t tell him!”

  Zohra came to a stop. She did not turn to look at Mathew, but he knew she was listening to him at least, though her body shook with fury.

  “We’ll find a way to prove it!” Mathew gasped. “After the battle.”

  Now she looked at him, her eyes cold.

  “How?”

  “I—I don’t know yet. We’ll. . . think of something,”

  Mathew muttered. He had never in his life seen any person— man or woman—so enraged. And now she was suddenly cool and calm. A moment before she had been fire, now she was ice. He would never understand these people! Never!

  “Yes,” Zohra sai
d, lifting her chin, “that is what we will do. We will prove to him that she is a witch. The Sheykh will order death. His men will hold her down upon the sand and I will bash her head in with a rock!”

  She’d do it, too, Mathew thought with a shudder. Mopping chill sweat from his face, he felt his legs give way and sank back down weakly onto the cushions.

  “What was it you came to tell me?” Zohra asked. Seating herself before a mirror, she picked up a bracelet and slid it over her wrist.

  Mathew had to get hold of his scattered thoughts before he could relate in any sort of coherent fashion the reason for his visit to her tent this morning.

  “I’ve been working out the symbols in the dream. And I need to discuss them with you, especially now that it seems there could be a war.”

  At the mention of the vision Zohra’s hand began to shake. Hurriedly she lowered the mirror she had been holding. Glancing back at him with a troubled look, she put her hand to her head, her brow creased in pain.

  “No,” she said, her voice suddenly hollow and fear-laden. “This is not it. I would know. I would feel it inside me—a cold emptiness.” She pressed a clenched fist over her heart. “Like I felt when I looked into that cursed water. I don’t want to talk about it, Mat-hew. Besides”—she tossed her head, banishing the darkness—”this is not war, not really, though they call it that. It is”— she shrugged—”a game, nothing more.”

  “A game?” Mathew gaped. “But. . . then. . . no one will get hurt? No one will die?”

  “Oh, yes, of course,” Zohra said, slipping a sparkling ring onto her finger, admiring the flash of the jewel in the light. “They will slash each other with their swords and knock each other from their mounts and some will undoubtedly die, more by accident than anything else. Perhaps Zeid will prove the stronger. He and his meharis will drive our men back to camp. He will gloat over his victory, then return to his homeland. Or perhaps our men will drive him back to his homeland, then they will sit and gloat over their victory. The dead will be proclaimed heroes and songs sung over them. Their brothers will take their wives and children into their households and that will be that.”