Carolyn wiped water from her eyes and pulled the hood of her aba closely over her head. A stableboy came running; he bowed respectfully before the saya, then took her horse when she dismounted. “Where is Tariq?” she asked.
The boy pointed past the tents. “At the Greeting Place, saya, awaiting your arrival.”
Zadek lumbered off his own animal. Roskovitch swung Asif down first, then he gave Sharon his arm, and the Samarkand princess followed as he showed them the way.
They scurried down a street, the only main thoroughfare by the looks of it, Sharon thought, and quickly they were ushered inside a stone edifice with a thatched roof far larger than any of the others around it.
Tariq loped like a young panther on the prowl the moment the canvas flap swung wide. His dark eyes glowed with joy at the sight of his sister, and he threw his arms around her.
“Did it go well?” he asked at length, holding Carolyn by the shoulders at half-arm’s distance.
The saya smiled one of her mysterious smiles, glancing back at the priest and the girl who stood meekly at the door’s entrance, rain dripping from the eaves onto their wet robes. “The holy man did not lie,” was all she said. And Tariq, looking handsome and powerful in his colorful Kazir robe, laughed.
“Come inside,” he said to his hesitant guests. “We have been expecting you.”
The hearth crackled with fresh logs of dried wood; the strangers stepped closer to the flames, holding up their palms to greet the warmth. A tall window at her back let in the only outside light, Sharon saw. A few scattered candles, unlit, protruded from ornate silver candlesticks atop the hand-woven rugs. The walls were bare save for a magnificent Persian tapestry above the fireplace. Worn leather cushions, set around the center legless table, provided the only seats. A scroll and piece of parchment covered the polished tabletop.
Tariq left the saya’s side and stood before his uneasy guests. Politely he greeted them in traditional fashion, fingertips brushing his forehead, head lowered with his chin on his chest. “Welcome, holy man,” he said. “Welcome, Sharon, princess of Samarkand.”
They returned his hospitality with time-honored bows of their own, and took places on the cushions when he gestured for them to sit. “You must all be tired and hungry,” he told them, clapping his hand for a servant.
Carolyn unclasped her aba and laid it down carefully; then she sighed and nodded. “Feed her well, brother,” she admonished, looking down at the frail, slim girl. “She will have need of strength.”
Sharon shifted uneasily, calmed when the reassuring, hand of the mullah closed around her own. She began to say something, but the saya stopped her abruptly. “There will be time for questions later,” she said. “Right now you must eat, then rest. Your own quarters shall be provided.”
Sharon looked briefly at Zadek, then turned back to the somber saya. Her new life was still a confusion; none of it made any sense. Why had she been brought here? What was expected of her?
Carolyn folded her arms over her breasts and gazed at the troubled girl with an emotionless expression. “Soon you shall know all you need to know,” she assured, as if already knowing what was on Sharon’s mind. “For now let it suffice that you are here to be taught.” She smiled secretively again. “And I will be your teacher.”
Chapter Sixteen
“A Kazir must learn to fight,” said Carolyn, with enough dramatic effect to drive the point home. “From the prairie village to the tents of the Steppes, a Kazir learns at the earliest age possible how to protect both home and family.”
In the open yard, Sharon looked on with wonder as small children, both boys and girls, had been coupled and shown how to protect themselves against a Kazir’s many enemies. Across dusty earth the paired combatants fought with wooden knives, parrying, thrusting, feigning blows, while several adults instructed them. Sharon watched with fascination, thinking now of the night Tariq had fought Yasir in the same kind of combat, only they had used blades of flashing steel, not blunted wooden toys.
The place was hot beneath an unrelenting sun, shadeless, and swirling dust, kicked high into the air by the ever-shifting mock combatants, filled their lungs. Kazir parents showed no pity for their young, Sharon realized; they forced them to learn in the worst, most brutal conditions possible. “A necessity,” Carolyn had said. “Our enemies show no mercy; we must teach the children accordingly.”
Harsh but true; yet there was a rough desert wisdom to all this. These children would grow up strong, unafraid of any man or beast, and fully adapted to a way of life born out of desperation — just as it had been for Tariq a decade before and for Shoaib before him.
The saya brushing dust from her blue-dyed tunic, nudged Sharon’s elbow, and the two of them walked openly among the children practicing their lesson. All were too busy fending off opponents to pay any attention to either the saya or the “stranger,” as Sharon had come to be called during these first weeks in the Stronghold.
In front of them, Asif had been paired with a hefty youth of about eleven, with curly black hair and olive skin. He caught his opponent off balance and wrenched him to the ground. The other child jerked away and, leaping like a mountain cat, pounced on Asif and pinned him by the shoulders. Then he struck with the wooden weapon at Asif’s belly.
“Strike for the heart!” Carolyn reprimanded. “Your enemy would do no less. The heart, boy, the heart!”
The boy stood up and bowed to the saya apologetically for his error. Sharon shuddered at Carolyn’s lack of mercy; it seemed to her that, after all, the contest was only for sport, not to be taken so seriously.
There was something of a sneer on the saya’s lips when she turned to her companion. “You think me cruel, don’t you?”
“Not cruel, but bitter, like all Kazirs — hateful of anyone and anything that doesn’t conform to your desert ways.”
If eyes could kill, then surely Carolyn’s glare would have taken life from the princess. “When I was seven,” she said coldly, as if giving a lesson, “I saw my village ravaged by soldiers — Samarkand soldiers. Every able-bodied man was butchered, and the women led off like chattel to serve as slaves in your city. My own mother took her life rather than face what lay before her. Can you understand that, outsider? Our duty here is to see that it cannot happen again.”
Sharon bit her lip and mutely let the confrontation pass without further quarrel. She knew that there was nothing she could say that might even remotely begin to change a lifetime of bitterness.
They walked from this yard out toward a field where the same sort of intense instruction was being given, only this time to youths slightly older than the last group. A few of the pupils seemed almost to be men, and their weapons were given accordingly. They fought with long, curved scimitars, glistening in the sunlight, and small, rounded desert shields — the weapons of Kazir cavalry.
“What else do Kazir children learn?” Sharon asked, shading her eyes from the intense brightness.
The saya looked at her curiously, as though she did not understand the question. “Everything that needs to be taught,” she replied cryptically. “To care for the land, to tend the flocks, to recite scriptures from the Book.” She looked at Sharon, smiling thinly. “And you? What is a princess taught?”
Sharon mused thoughtfully before answering. There had been so many things: art, music, poetry and philosophy, the history of her empire, as well as that of Persia and Islam. She’d been indulged by some of the best tutors in the world, pampered and spoiled, shown nothing but luxury, taught subjects and feminine skills a Kazir could never dream of. Yet, it had been her world that now lay destroyed, not the saya’s. Carolyn had made her point very well indeed. Samarkand’s children were dead, while the Kazirs continued on as they always had.
“How am I to help you, then?” she asked in open frustration.
The saya’s answer was unexpected but straightforward. “Today you cannot, but soon you shall. You bear the Mark. Zadek has said it; the witches have agreed. You ar
e the One chosen, the One to regain for us all we have lost.”
Sharon shook her head slowly and sadly. Chestnut hair fell in front of her eyes and she pushed it back with a single stroke. “I am no use to you,” she admitted, feeling a sensation of helplessness sweep over her. “If the truth were to be told, had it not been for Zadek, I doubt I could have fled my way out of Samarkand.”
“That no longer matters. You are here now, among us, one of us —”
The girl laughed bitterly. “Look at me, saya. How can I lead you? I know nothing of this way of life.” She tilted her head and stared behind at the children in their war games. “Even they understand more.”
Carolyn agreed. “Perhaps; but you can be taught.”
“Then teach me.” Her eyes were sincere.
The saya turned about, the hem of her robe swaying with the breeze. She looked slowly at the city fortress, pride still in her eyes, but with the certain knowledge that even this way of life was nearing its conclusion. For a century her people had endured their solitude; now the time was close for it to end. How could she explain to this girl of Samarkand how much they needed her, needed not what she was at this moment, but rather what she was destined to be — a force that would wrench them from this existence and bring them back out into the light?
“A flower cannot grow without sunlight and water,” she said after a time, knowing that her companion would not yet understand. “Without these, a garden cannot bloom.”
The children, their lesson finally done, began to laugh and frolic, the way children the world over always do. Sharon’s attention was caught by their laughter, by the joy in their eyes and the warmth of their smiles. She’d been brought up to believe them her mortal enemies, just as Carolyn had been taught to think of her. That had changed now, though, at least on her part. If there was any way to be of service to these rough but gentle people, she would gladly render it.
She put a hand on the saya’s shoulder; Carolyn momentarily flinched. They had led such disparate lives, Sharon knew; it would be difficult for them to become friends. Still, there was little reason for them to remain enemies — not now, not while a much worse and deadly foe threatened them all. “Show me what I need to know, saya,” she said, an honest humility in her voice that could not be missed. “And if I can help you, I shall.” Carolyn sighed deeply, her eyes on a bird flying overhead, a sparrow, young from the nest, finding its first wings. “It will not be easy for you,” she warned, returning her gaze to Sharon.
“I don’t want it to be.”
“Then you think you are ready?”
Sharon looked up at the tiny winged creature now. You and I have much in common, she thought. We must both learn to fly. But first I think I had better learn to walk.
Chapter Seventeen
Carolyn, her clipped hair severely pulled behind a tight kerchief, edged in from her place upon the dusty soil, the wooden knife’s blade horizontal with her eyes. Sharon self-consciously backpedaled, unsure of her footing. The saya came at her quick as lightning, sinuous as a desert snake. She slashed upward. Sharon’s arm lifted to parry, but by the time her knife hand came down, the saya was no longer there; from somewhere came a small, exuberant cry, and Sharon turned to find Carolyn right behind her. The wooden knife poked deeply into her ribs, and as Sharon wheezed with the sting, the fast-moving saya tripped her and sent her sprawling.
Sharon lifted herself up slowly from the dirt, spitting dust, flexing a painful jaw. Her eyes cleared to see a handful of Kazir children formed nearby in a cluster, silently watching her as she staggered to her feet, their eyes filled with amusement at the clumsy stranger. It was rare for a Kazir child to see an adult who could not protect himself in combat, and Sharon could feel them laughing at her.
“Again,” said the saya suddenly.
Before Sharon could respond, Carolyn was circling her once more, pressing in close, while the wooden blade cut lightly into the hot, stagnant air. With slow and uncertain movements, the Samarkand princess kept her opponent in full view, determined not to fall for the same trick twice. Yet, no sooner had Carolyn lunged than Sharon’s vision lost track of the target and the next thing she knew, she was on the ground again, eating dust. This time the children were laughing openly.
The saya stood over her triumphantly, her antelope horn catching sunlight and shining. This time a hand was offered to Sharon, a rough hand that gruffly yanked her upright and left her standing dumbly in the open space of the bare yard.
“Want to try me again?”
Sharon slitted her eyes. The saya was taunting her purposely, she knew, realizing that the match was less than equal. Still, there was the same stubborn pride in the princess as within the fierce and wild Kazir saya. Without replying, she began to circle, remembering to use the same motions Carolyn had been using. The saya was well aware of this; she smiled and compensated for it by shifting her own stance, forcing Sharon to come at her with the sun in her eyes.
The wooden blade smacked into Sharon’s soft belly. Air rushed out of her lungs, and she tottered, her own weapon slipping from her grasp when the saya tripped her for the second time.
She spit the dust out of her mouth with a scowl. Carolyn threw back her head and roared with laughter. Hands on hips, she said, “You have spunk, sister — at least for a city woman.” Her tanned skin crinkled with her math. “Come on, then, one more time.”
Sharon grudgingly got up, scooping up her weapon. Her ribs ached; her legs felt like lead. The taste in her mouth was foul, and her lungs were clogged with the ever-present desert dust that swirled over the high walls of the Stronghold. Her heart was pumping madly; she could feel humiliation rise with temper as the surefooted saya danced circles around her.
This time Sharon feinted a few thrusts of her own. Most fell wide off the mark, but one, the last, saw the edge of her knife whistle inches by Carolyn’s face. The saya pulled back, looking startled; then she grinned. She crouched, hunching her shoulders, her brown eyes sparkling with tiny fires. A cry of lusty jubilation roared from deep in her throat. All Sharon knew next was that her well-held weapon had skitted from her grasp, and she grunted, head ringing with bells, as her shoulder hit the earth forcefully beside the sober-faced children.
Someone handed her a cup of water; Sharon took it gratefully, gulping it down in great swallows, unaware — and not caring — of who had brought it for her. When she caught her breath, and her eyes stopped stinging, she peered up to see a tall, dark figure over her, blocking out the noon sunlight.
It was Tariq, the grin on his face stretched from ear to ear, tanned features shaded by his turban. He gave her his hand and eased her up slowly.
Sharon pouted. “It isn’t funny,” she said.
Tariq nodded. “No one said it would be —”
“She’ll learn,” said the saya, purposely stepping between her brother and the panting princess. There seemed a glow of satisfaction in her eyes when she spoke, and Sharon resented it — hated her for it. And all she could think of was somehow turning the tables on her smug and complacent instructor, finding some way, some trick, to make her be the one to eat dust next time.
“Let her rest for a while,” said Tariq to his sister.
Sharon stiffened and shook her head. “No. I’m ready now,” she blurted, regaining some of her strength.
Carolyn looked at her with some surprise, measuring her anew and, if nothing else, giving her credit for her dogged determination.
Tariq, though, frowned. He called to the waiting Roskovitch, and the barbarian from Rus grinned as he walked from the picket fence, where he had been quietly observing, and strode to the center of the yard. There he took the wooden knife that Tariq held out and smiled at the Samarkand fugitive.
“Watch us well,” Tariq advised Sharon. “We’re going to demonstrate how it’s done.”
Roskovitch stamped his feet and curled his body, shoulders swinging at a low angle while Tariq, playing the part the saya had, came at him. When Tariq’s blade s
liced close. Roskovitch danced lithely away, bouncing back upright in a single fluid motion. Then, with a quick series of lashes, he not only forced Tariq to retreat, but sent him reeling off balance as well.
“Did you see that?” Tariq panted.
Sharon nodded slowly.
“Watch again.”
The trick was repeated, this time with variation. The fighters moved faster, becoming blurs, but when they were done, the barbarian from Rus had left his attacker lying prostrate upon the ground. Tariq laughed and leaped to his feet like a cat. “There’s a trick to knowing how to fall as well,” he said, and he lunged for Roskovitch, agilely balancing as he kicked, twisting his opponent’s legs and causing him to fall. Roskovitch, taken by surprise, thudded on his rump loudly.
Sharon laughed. Childlike, the barbarian shared her mirth. Then he sprang up and the procedure was reenacted, this time, though, with Roskovitch ready for the blow, fending it off successfully and, in one wrenching movement, twisting Tariq by the arm and hurtling him to the ground.
“Think you’re ready to try it?” Tariq asked, accepting Roskovitch’s extended hand and pulling himself up.
The Samarkand princess held out her hand, balling her fist around the sweaty wooden hilt. She faced the saya boldly, saying, “Come at me again.”
Carolyn complied, weaving a slow pattern around her. “Not like that,” said Sharon, “the way you did before.”
The saya glanced at her brother; Tariq nodded, and with a broad smile Carolyn came at her. She feinted, then lunged. Sharon was ready. Exactly as she had seen Roskovitch do, she moved into a crouch, back-stepping momentarily until she was sure of her footing, then came forward, her knife cutting through the air. The saya’s hand closed on her wrist; they grappled, and Sharon could feel the weight of Carolyn’s lithe body press against her as she tried to sweep her legs up from under her. Sharon successfully pushed her away and, losing no time, went back on the offensive.
Samarkand the Omnibus: Books 1-2 Page 17