Goddess

by Fiona McIntosh

“Gods be praised!” Lazar said, relieved that he no longer had to keep his knowledge of Pez secret.

  The Valide kept her own counsel, although her eyes showed she was more bemused by her son’s childish pleasure than delighted by the news itself.

  “I told the Grand Vizier this is the first reason I’ve had to smile in a while,” Boaz admitted.

  “I’m pleased for you, son,” the Valide finally deigned to say. “Keep him away from here, though. Lazar is not well enough for the dwarf ’s antics.”

  “I don’t believe Pez will be up to any antics, Mother,” Boaz said. “The desert took its toll on all of you. He’s lucky to be alive and essentially doing little more than drooling at present,” he lied, turning to wink at Lazar.

  “How?” Lazar croaked. It was the most he could say amidst his dizziness and nausea, but knew Pez would be expecting the Zar to craft his lie fully.

  Boaz gave a confusing version for his mother’s benefit, just enough to suggest that he had managed to make some sense of what the dwarf had been through although most of it had been gibberish. “The fact is, he did survive, and that’s all that matters to me,” he said to his mother, whose eyes were filled with query.

  “Tens of men died,” she exclaimed, shaking her head. “How did that pathetic, befuddled dwarf survive?”

  “None of us will ever know.”

  “How did he have the sense to know in which direction Percheron lay?” She turned to Lazar, who had already closed his eyes. This conversation was lies within lies: he was lying to Boaz about Pez, Boaz was lying to his mother about the dwarf, and Pez, he was sure had lied to Boaz as well.

  “He muttered something about the Khalid,” Boaz said.

  Lazar, keeping his eyes closed to steady himself on what felt like a floating bed, took up the reins. “They are desert men. They would have known him from our party and perhaps guided him back. That would explain how he found his way.”

  “Yes, I think that’s likely what occurred.” Boaz turned back to his mother and changed the subject. “So, do you know what to do with Lazar? Apparently he’s meant to be given a dose of pure drezden.”

  “I’ve already taken it,” Lazar said. “That was the last of the stocks I had and what has kept me alive thus far. I will need more of the pure poison for the future but now I have to start drinking the tea. The delusions and restlessness will begin any moment.”

  “Mother, here–luck is on our side,” Boaz said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the scruffy-looking parchment. “They found this on Pez. I think he must have stolen it from the belongings of the priestess Zafira. It tells you how to make this tea of drezden.”

  “Ah, how convenient. Again the dwarf triumphs,” Herezah said coolly. Nevertheless she took the parchment, glanced at it briefly. “I can ask Salmeo to organize this.”

  “No,” Boaz said. “I command you not to involve Salmeo in anything remotely connected with our Spur’s welfare. If you are going to take on his nursing, Mother, I insist he is tended to only by the people I appoint.”

  “Why, Boaz?”

  “You know why. Either it’s done my way or not at all.”

  “All right, son. As you command.”

  “And Pez is to have private access to him at all times.”

  “You know that’s ridiculous,” Herezah replied, a petulant note creeping into her otherwise respectful tone.

  Boaz took a breath that was clearly meant to signify soft irritation at the old argument. “Pez made a difference when I was grieving, Mother. It’s hard to explain why or how. But he is someone who transcends the ordinary conversation; sometimes just his presence can have a positive effect on those who like him. I can’t expect you or Salmeo or even Tariq to understand this, but Lazar does. This is another of my commands. Pez has access everywhere in the palace. Lazar’s sick room is no exception.”

  The Valide did not take her grievance further, although it was obvious from her dark expression that she was furious. “He must learn to be quiet whilst the Spur rests.”

  Boaz nodded. “I shall get you all that you need–”

  Lazar heard no more, could feel himself already slipping toward a familiar abyss. He didn’t want to be in the palace but he also didn’t want to die–not yet, not with the unfinished business with Arafanz of the Razaqin. And so with a soft sigh of regret he gave in to the ride down the slippery slope of half consciousness, into the feverish state he remembered all too well. He knew it would be several moons at least before he spoke to these people again with any clarity.

  6

  Ever since the night that Arafanz had told her of his connection to Ellyana, Ana had felt a lessening of the strict rules that governed her care. She had been moved to a different chamber in the fortress, one that was closer to the suite of rooms that Arafanz inhabited. Previously she had ignored her jailers but knew they were constantly rotated; now she noticed a single guard took care of her immediate needs. As his face had become familiar to her, she tried to be friendly.

  “Thank you,” she said as the man, no more than eighteen summers, replenished her water jug and the tiny basin that served for cleaning herself.

  He nodded but didn’t smile.

  “I wonder if I might be permitted to take a walk today?” she asked in the ancient tongue that Arafanz used with his men. She didn’t expect an answer, just the usual dark-eyed stare. It was simply something to say.

  “I shall ask for you,” he surprised her by murmuring before turning to leave.

  “Oh, wait, please,” she begged, leaping up from the cot on which she had been sitting. “Please don’t go. I’m grateful for this chance to talk with someone.”

  “We are allowed to speak freely with you now that our leader is returned, Miss Ana,” the man replied shyly.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I know names are not used here, but am I permitted to know yours?”

  “I was known once as Ashar. I have no name here–he names only a few.”

  “Do you speak only Sharaic?”

  “We all learn it. It’s the language of the fortress. It is what we speak, yes.”

  He had not answered the question. Perhaps Arafanz had taught his men to be evasive as well, she thought. “But that would take years, Ashar.”

  “I have been here many years, Miss Ana,” he said, and she understood that was all he would say about it.

  She nodded in thanks, not wishing to damage this fragile bond by being overly inquisitive. “I look forward to hearing about my walk.”

  She didn’t expect to hear that day but he returned swiftly with the news that Arafanz would be accompanying her.

  “Oh no, I didn’t mean–”

  “He wishes to take you somewhere, Miss Ana,” Ashar said gently, cutting across her protestation. “You are to wear full robes of the desert,” he added, handing her fresh garments before departing.

  She was fetched not long afterward. Ashar led her through various corridors and down stairs, emerging at ground level for the first time. Again she blinked beneath the vicious sun, even though it was barely near the heat of the day.

  Arafanz strode over to greet her, looking entirely comfortable and untroubled by the heat. “We should be doing this in the cool of the dawn or early evening, but I do have to check something and it was the perfect excuse to give you the fresh air you crave. I’m sorry I have not offered until now. We will not walk, but ride. Is that to your suiting?”

  She nodded. “Thank you.”

  “I see you’ve covered your face fully. That is acceptable for the desert but please don’t do it on my account.”

  “I do it for my own comfort,” Ana assured him.

  She saw the ghost of what could have been a smile move briefly over his mouth, crinkle the corner of his eyes slightly. It was gone before she could fully register it, frustrating her. The man was so controlled with his emotion it was almost an insult.

  Arafanz gave orders to the two men who waited with them as Ashar assisted Ana onto her camel. �
��She is called Farim,” the Razaqin whispered. “She is a gentle, beautiful beast, as her name suggests.”

  Ana badly needed an ally at the fortress if she was ever going to escape Arafanz’s clutches. So she took her chance and smiled at Ashar as she ever so gently reached to touch his hand, ensuring that he felt her gratitude. “I shall be gentle with her, thank you, Ashar,” she murmured for his ears only.

  Arafanz led the way, Farim dutifully lumbering after his camel. Months of despair and loneliness began to leach away from Ana as they moved off from the fortress and entered the desert proper. The sun’s heat tried its best to burn through her linens but the fabric took the brunt of the rays bravely and saved her skin. She had wrapped the tail of her headdress about her face as Lazar had taught her. It didn’t feel like a veil, even though it had the same effect; it felt as though dressing this way gave her a connection to Lazar. This is how he had looked just before the heat of each day in the desert. Suddenly she felt at one with the desert–as if she were coming home. Despite the hostility of the sun’s heat and the parched sands, that notion calmed her. Was it because the desert had kept her safe when she had been abandoned as a newborn? Or was it because the desert was where she had finally lain in Lazar’s arms? She could pretend that the man ahead was Lazar, leading her deeper into the sands. A daydream of just the two of them. Another welcoming sand dune, the luxury of the second chance to know each other’s touch, lips, love.

  Once again, as if he could steal into her thoughts, Arafanz dropped back to ride at her side, cutting into her reverie. “How are you, Ana? Delving into happier memories?”

  She could not help but like his voice. He had an economy with words, too, not dissimilar to the Spur, and like the man she loved Arafanz had the ability to be caustic in one breath, gentle in another. “I’m well, thank you,” she answered, matching his brevity.

  “The child?”

  “My baby grows, perhaps flourishes, in spite of the imprisonment of his mother.”

  “Do you feel many changes? Motherhood has always intrigued me.”

  She twitched a smile, even though she didn’t want to, at the naïveté in his question. “It intrigues me also. I have no experience with it. I feel like I’m still a child myself.”

  “Old enough to conceive,” he said softly, not looking at her.

  “Some men would consider a girl of nine summers old enough. That her body has ripened early does not make her sufficiently mature for the trauma of pregnancy or the trials of parenthood.” She tried to keep her tone even but the words still came out taut.

  “But you are, Ana. You talk like an ancient. I feel sure your maternal instincts are strong.”

  “Do you remember your mother?” she asked, deliberately trying to catch him off guard.

  He smiled gently, not in the least perturbed. “I do. I have been gone a long time from her but I can remember her clearly. She was a quiet, long-suffering, endlessly patient woman–I had eight brothers, you see–and I loved her deeply. I still do; it matters not that she is long dead. She will be the last person I think of as I draw my final breath.” His voice thickened as he spoke.

  Ana felt his candor deserved a response. “I have no memory of my mother. I was orphaned, left in the desert and found by a goatherd, the only man I have known as father, whom I love dearly.”

  “I remember the day you were born.”

  She swung in her saddle to face him, filled with surprise. “You knew me then?”

  “I knew of you,” he corrected. “I was told of the newborn protected by the Samazen.”

  Protected? She had never thought of it that way. Ana had always thought the famed desert wind had killed her family, and although she had been spared, she had never viewed it in a kindly light.

  Arafanz broke into her thoughts. “And your stepmother? Do you love her?”

  “I despise her. But the feeling was mutual. No doubt that is why she sold me into the harem.”

  “Was she jealous of you, Ana? As jealous as the Valide is of you?”

  Ana looked sharply sideways at him. “How do you know about the Valide?” Then she answered her own question. “Ah yes, Razeen, the traitor. It was certainly a surprise to realize he is one of your men. He was known as Salazin in the palace. How did you meet him?”

  “I have known him since he was born.”

  “I heard that he came from the Widows’ Enclave. Found by the Grand Vizier, who was impressed by his fighting prowess and especially the fact that he was mute.”

  “He is not mute.”

  Ana looked at him aghast. “Not mute?” she repeated, imagining all those occasions this past year that Salazin had escorted her to the Zar’s rooms or fetched her from somewhere to meet with Boaz. The young man had never uttered a sound. “But he worked as one of the elite Mute Guard that protected the Zar.”

  Arafanz nodded. “I know. He tricked everyone. That was the point.”

  Ana refused to believe this. “But why?”

  “I needed someone in the palace.”

  “To spy on the Zar?”

  “That was an additional advantage. No, Ana. Razeen’s most important job was to spy on you.”

  She stared at him, bewildered. “But if you have known about me since my birth, been so interested in my welfare, why did you permit me to be sold into the palace in the first place?”

  Arafanz shrugged. “Another of Ellyana’s secrets.”

  Ana couldn’t even begin to think that comment through. There was too much pain attached. She shook her head to clear it of Ellyana’s machinations. “So Salazin betrayed us all,” she said sadly.

  “Not at all. He protected you all, in fact. It was Razeen who fought courageously against his brothers when the attack on your camp came; he was the one who kept a formidable ring of protection around you, the Valide, and the Grand Vizier until Spur Lazar arrived. And it was Razeen who once again killed his own in order to keep the Valide and Vizier alive long enough for the Spur to deal with their pursuers.”

  Ana was stunned by the ruse. She took a few moments to find her voice. “And did Razeen continue to ensure their safety?”

  “I know you’re eager to find out about the welfare of your companions, Ana.”

  “Only about the health of the Spur,” she corrected.

  Beneath his beard, she saw Arafanz smile. “I know. Razeen made sure they were all alive and then sadly succumbed to his wounds,” he said sardonically.

  “He was injured?”

  “He suffered many cuts but he inflicted a wound upon himself–in his belly–that would have looked fatal at the time. They had to leave him behind and I made sure he was picked up as soon as they had departed.”

  Ana shook her head at Arafanz’s complexity and cunning. “How interesting that you would go back to save the life of a fallen warrior and yet you cast so many to their unnecessary death. Is Razeen special?”

  “No more special than any of the other men who commit their lives to Lyana’s cause.”

  The heat was intensifying around them and Ana recalled how Lazar during their journey had often suggested that silence conserved energy. But despite today’s sapping temperature, she was not about to let this topic drop. It galled her that Arafanz had controlled them all with such ease. And worse, she had always liked Salazin; so his betrayal cut even deeper. “You left the dying in the desert after the attack. I heard a few of your men groaning. Did you go back for them or was their ‘Glory’ calling?” she asked, her tone scornful.

  Arafanz did not rise to her bait. In his calm, steady voice he answered, “No, they had already pledged their lives. Razeen’s work is not yet done on this plane. He was saved for another day, for he still has an important duty to perform.”

  “And what is that?”

  “I do not know. I know only that his life is precious and he is still in the service of Lyana.”

  “Why was he chosen? Why is he so different from any of the other men who have pledged their lives?”

  “
I had no say. He was selected and groomed from birth.”

  “By Ellyana?”

  He nodded and she sensed for the first time a tiny indication of discomfort in her captor’s manner.

  “So you took Razeen from his mother’s arms and committed him to this crusade of yours. Did she have any say in this?”

  “His mother is dead,” he replied, his tone flat. Ana was secretly surprised that he was being so honest. She was also beginning to suspect that this man shared another quality with her lover; like Lazar, he preferred to deal only with truth. Lazar had lived with a lie for so long it had made him distant, cold, perhaps even constantly hating himself. The candidness Arafanz was showing now, she believed, was far closer to the real man than the tricks and subterfuge that the leader of the Razaqin had used to beguile them in the desert.

  “And his father?”

  “He’s alive,” he said, sitting up straighter on his camel and scanning the rock face they had been following. “We are close.”

  “And Razeen’s father is happy about his son’s vocation?”

  “He is.”

  “And when Razeen dies, as he surely will?”

  “Then he has glorified himself for Lyana.”

  “And you will feel glorified, too?”

  Arafanz hesitated. “No. I will mourn him, if I’m alive.”

  “Mourn him?” she scorned, breathing hard with anger. “And what of the other young men whose deaths you’ve ordered on a whim?”

  He turned, his eyes also blazing with the anger she had wanted to provoke. It thrilled Ana to see that she had finally pushed him into revealing a true emotion.

  “Mourn Razeen?” she persisted. “Why?”

  “Because he’s my son,” he said. His voice cracked ever so slightly, and Ana glimpsed the sorrow in his gaze before he turned away.

  All the fury went out of her in a gust. “I’m sorry,” she murmured.

  “Don’t be. He’s not. He’s the most committed of Lyana’s followers.” He sighed. “I knew even before Razeen entered the palace that the Zar’s mother feared you.”

  “She had nothing to fear from me.”