The Diviner (golden key)

by Melanie Rawn

  In time, the desert had been forced back. Trees, always more trees—added to bushes and succulents and herbs and anything that would root and hold and nourish the soil—these had kept Dayira Azreyq safe from the greedy sands. But Hazganni—

  “Fools!” Azzad slid off Khamsin’s back and looped the reins around his hand, walking between rows of dead trees. Shameful, a scandal, an affront to Acuyib Himself, who had battled Chaydann Il-Mamnoua’a over a chadarang board to see how much of the land would be green. “I’ll replant these with my own hands if need be,” he vowed, “and stay with them until they’re established—and cut off the fingers, one by one, of anyone who neglects them!”

  In his mind he saw a thousand trees, and another thousand, and the desert was forced back, and beneath the trees children played and young people flirted and old people dozed in the shade. There was a reservoir with ditches leading out from it to water the trees, and fountains splashing coolness into the air, and—and—

  “And right now,” Azzad muttered, “all I’ve got is a hundred dead trees.” Khamsin tossed his head so the silver on his bridle jingled. Azzad faced him, caressing his ears. “But by next spring, Acuyib witness my oath, a hundred living trees!”

  Swinging up into the saddle, he rode back to the house of al-Gallidh, where he was privileged to see Meryem and Jemilha returning from the zouqs. Behind them, at a respectful remove, was a crowd of young men.

  Azzad took the greatest pleasure in greeting the two ladies loudly and familiarly. “So few packages? I would have thought you’d buy out every shop, Meryem!”

  “I was tempted,” she admitted, and the sparkle in her eyes told him she knew exactly what he was doing.

  Azzad glanced at their entourage. Every last one of them showed chagrin that this man could speak freely to such beauties; one or two frowned as if trying desperately to remember if more than a casual acquaintance could be claimed with Azzad. He grinned cheerfully at them, dismounted, and escorted the ladies inside the courtyard.

  “How long has this been going on?” he asked as he swung the gates closed.

  “All morning,” Meryem said at the same time Jemilha replied, “Almost three years.”

  Azzad blinked. Jemilha glared as if daring him to disbelieve, then went into the house, her silks aflutter.

  Azzad turned to Meryem. “What did I say?”

  “What did you not say?” she countered. “And to think my son admires your way with any and every woman!”

  “Jemilha isn’t any woman,” he heard himself say. “She’s Jemilha.” Meaning the leggy little scrap of a girl who had insulted Khamsin’s foals.

  “Ayia? Those men outside have a different opinion.” And with that, Meryem followed Jemilha into the house, leaving Azzad to wonder what she meant.

  “You did rightly in giving the finest of our donkeys to the esteemed Harirri,” said Bazir. “But it seems poor payment for such magnificent horses.” He smiled, pouring more qawah for Azzad and another cup of herbal chiy for himself. “Moreover, white horses! That will please Jemilha.” Sipping, he arched heavy brows in surprise. “What does the Lady Meryem do that this is so much better than what my cook prepares for me?”

  “I’m sure she’ll share her secret, to please you.” He grinned. “Surely you’ve noticed, al-Gallidh, that you’ve made a conquest?”

  “And it took nothing more than my books, whereas in years past it needed music, recitations of poetry, languishing glances, and an expedient gift of jewelry.” He sighed dramatically, dark eyes dancing. “If I’d known in my youth that it was so easy, I would have canceled my elocution lessons—and my account at the gem cutter’s.”

  Azzad laughed and drank more qawah, and they settled to business again. Fields, orchards, horses, donkeys, timber, mining, fishing, trapping—all the varied enterprises of the al-Gallidh estates that Azzad had been managing were discussed in detail. Bazir declared himself satisfied—and then brought up a different subject entirely.

  “Azzad, how old are you now?”

  “Twenty-four this summer.”

  “Not so great an age, to one of my years,” al-Gallidh sighed. “But to you, it must seem rather advanced.”

  “Not at all.” He had no idea where this conversation might be going. “I believe a man grows wiser as he grows older—for in my former home, those who were unwise did not live long enough grow old.”

  “What contributes to this wisdom, do you think?”

  “Attention to work and responsibility, of course.” Azzad thought for a minute. “Learning from friends and superiors. Studying as his interests take him.”

  “Ayia, I quite agree. But you have forgotten marriage to a clever woman.”

  “I—I have no opinion on the subject, al-Gallidh.” He could now see the destination of this chat, and did not much like the scenery.

  Bazir continued with exquisite casualness, “My own opinion is that a man should marry when he is old enough to have established himself in his work but young enough to need a woman’s brain to help him, so that he is grateful for her presence as well as her person.”

  Azzad took a deep breath. “Is it your wish, al-Gallidh, that I look for a wife?”

  “By Acuyib’s Glory, no!” He laughed, as if at some private joke.

  Confused by the change in direction, Azzad frowned. “If not, then—”

  “Have you no wish for a house of your own?”

  He thought of Beit Ma’aliq, to which no other home could compare—and wondered which of Nizzira’s progeny lived in it now. If, indeed, it had been rebuilt at all, or still remained as a burned scar in the city. “No, al-Gallidh. I am content.”

  “But I am not. It is therefore my intention that you shall live from now on in my house in Sihabbah.”

  “Al-Gallidh—I am honored, but—I cannot, it would not be right—”

  “Nonsense. That great empty house does nothing but gather dust. The servants are idle, and the town is desolate—for as you know, I used to give entertainments. But my home has been silent, and I do not like to think of it that way.”

  “You—you are very generous, but it is not my house, I am not al-Gallidh—”

  “Ayia, there is that, I suppose.” The old man eyed him.“But if you became part of my family . . .” He paused.

  Azzad abruptly realized that this was all leading to a place he hadn’t envisioned.

  “Is the idea so displeasing to you?” ask al-Gallidh.

  “No—not at all. She is beautiful, and—and—” He gulped for air. “But she—”

  “Do not say she is too far above you, al-Ma’aliq descendant of sheyqirs.”

  “Here, she is infinitely my superior,” he said frankly. “Here, I am nothing.”

  “Nonsense!” Bazir declared once more. “Your ‘nothing’ is a hundred times any other man’s ‘something.’ You are intelligent, ambitious, clever. You work hard and manage my estates wisely. And through your own efforts—and those of your Khamsin!—you will be a very rich man.”

  Azzad heard the list of his virtues with no small perplexity of soul. His parents would not have recognized the description of their rascal son; had he changed so much in the nearly four years since he’d escaped the poison and axes and swords?

  “Consider it, Azzad,” murmured Bazir al-Gallidh. “I ask this most humbly of you, my friend. I want you in my family. I want to know that when my brother and I are dead, Jemilha will have the best husband we could wish for her. I want to know that the houses of the al-Gallidh will be filled with my brother’s grandchildren and great-grandchildren, descended from sheyqirs.”

  “What about Jemilha?” he blurted. “What does she say about—”

  Again Bazir laughed, this time until he nearly choked. “Ayia, did you not know? It was she who demanded that I speak to you!”

  “She did?”

  “She thinks you will make a very good husband.”

  “She does?”

  The old man grinned. “And she likes the way you look on a hors
e.”

  “She—” He swallowed the rest. So much for his intelligence and cleverness.

  “Go riding, Azzad,” al-Gallidh advised kindly. “It always helps you to think.”

  But even miles away from Hazganni, into fields and orchards not yet threatened by sand, where all was lush green life as Acuyib had intended, he had no clear thought beyond the stupefied realization that he was going to have to marry Jemilha al-Gallidh.

  Just why he had to do this was a mystery to be untangled at some later date, when he had his wits about him again. He only knew that marry her he must—and as he rode back to the city through the golden dusky gloom of spring, he decided that perhaps this would not be so bad a thing after all.

  “Lady,” Azzad said, “your uncle tells me it would not come amiss with you—that you would not object—that you—Chaydann take it, I don’t know what to say!”

  He glared at his own face in the mirror, disgusted that the glib seducer had turned into a tongue-tied imbecile. He was lamentably out of practice. He could excuse himself with the fact that bedding had always been his goal, not wedding. Besides, Jemilha was a lady. He had to find just the right words, just the right tone of voice—

  “Lady, it has come to my notice—you have come to my notice—”

  Oh, yes, his haughty and august notice, as if he’d inherited all the alMa’aliq land and money. He tried again.

  “Lady, your uncle and I have spoken, and he says that marriage—”

  He stopped when he saw the expression on his face: that of a man about to recite the devotions at his own funeral. He rearranged his features into serious, gentle lines—or so he hoped—and took a breath.

  “Lady, it has been suggested that you and I—”

  No, that made it sound like a business proposition—which, after all, it was in a way, but it would never do to say such a thing to a young girl.

  “Lady—”

  “You could try using my name, you know.”

  He pivoted on one heel, horrified to find Jemilha standing in his doorway. She wore a robe of white silk belted over a long crimson tunic, with embroidered gold slippers and a matching gold scarf tying up her hair. Abruptly he did not wonder why all those young men had followed her today—or why they had been doing so for almost three years. The skinny little girl with the unruly braids had been transformed. But how and when had she become beautiful?

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I did not mean you to hear—”

  “—until you had perfected your little speech?” She raised a sardonic eyebrow.

  Sighing, he rubbed the back of his neck and shrugged. However long she’d been listening, she’d heard more than enough. So he plunged in. “Your uncle and I have spoken of marriage—”

  She gave him a sweet smile. “I hope you’ll be very happy together.”

  “Jemilha!”

  “Good—my name. Now we make a start.” She entered his room, leaving the door open, and sat on the chair beside the window. A breeze through the carved wooden shutters plucked at the scarf and toyed with tendrils of her black hair. “Uncle Bazir told me that you and he talked yesterday. Now you and I will talk. Yes, I have it in mind to marry you. My uncle and my father approve of my choice. I know you do not love me, and neither do I love you—but love is nothing to the point in such matters, don’t you think?”

  “I—”

  “A moment, Azzad, I’m not finished. Uncle Bazir told you why he and Father approve, but I will tell you two other things. I trust in your capacity for friendship—Fadhil and Meryem are devoted to you, and they are both persons of quality, so there must be something substantial to you after all. And the second thing is that I think you and I will make very interesting children.” She folded her hands in her lap and looked up at him expectantly. “Ayia, I’m done. Your turn.”

  His tongue wasn’t just tied, it was tethered. “L-Lady—”

  “I thought we had decided that I do indeed have a name.”

  He knew how to accomplish a seduction. The self-possessed girl sitting before him now was, to all appearances, not seducible. “Rubbish!” snapped his grandfather’s voice. “Any woman who isn’t dead below the neck—”

  But this wasn’t any woman. This was Jemilha of the tart tongue and untidy hair and—and the huge dark eyes and lithe quick body and—

  —and a father and an uncle who would do unspeakable things to him—and very slowly, too—if he hurt her in any way.

  “Jemilha,” he said at last, “are you certain you want me? You could have any man.”

  “You are not just any man, Azzad.”

  He crossed to her, holding out both hands. She allowed him one of hers. It was small and warm and dry, and the pulse in her wrist was perfectly steady. He could hear his grandfather’s cackling laughter in the back of his mind: “You’ll soon change that, boy, or you’re not my grandson!”

  “Jemilha, it would be a greater honor than I deserve if you would consider taking me for your husband.”

  She looked up at him through thick, blunt lashes. “Would you consider taking me for your wife?”

  “Did I not just say so?”

  “No.”

  Up until now, he’d had the uncomfortable feeling she was secretly laughing at him. The expression on his face evidently made keeping the laughter secret impossible. Hers was not a girl’s giggle, but a woman’s full-throated chuckle. For a moment he was annoyed. But as her lips parted to reveal dazzlingly white teeth, fine and even but for a bottom front tooth set slightly askew, he found himself thinking two things. First, that he hoped Jemilha laughed at him often, for she had a lovely laugh; and second, that he wanted nothing more in this world right now than to run his tongue over that slightly crooked tooth.

  Ruefully, he smiled back. “I wish very much for you to be my wife.”

  All at once her mirth vanished and she bit her lip. “Azzad—”

  “Yes, Jemilha?”

  “I risk much in telling you this—you may lose all respect for me—”

  “Never.”

  The dark eyes flashed up at him. “Don’t interrupt me when I’m trying to tell you I’ve thought of nothing but marrying you since I first set eyes on you!”

  He gaped at her again. “You have?”

  “Yes. And I accept you as my husband.” But as he bent to press his lips to her wrist, as a proper lover ought, she drew her hand away. “Now that it’s settled, there are other things to discuss. What are your plans for the new horses? And what about all those poor dead trees? And—” Here she fixed him with a pair of suddenly fierce dark eyes. “—and I tell you now, Azzad al-Ma’aliq, that if ever you think to amuse yourself with other women—even Bindta Feyrah, whom I rather like—I will have your testicles served to you on a golden plate with white wine sauce.”

  He stared; she really meant it. Wordlessly, he nodded.

  “Just so we understand each other. Now, sit down, Azzad—no, not so close to me, we’re not yet wed—and tell me about planting trees.”

  Azzad and Jemilha were wed that summer. By the next summer Azzad greeted his first son, Alessid. In 617 Jemilha bore him a second son, named Bazir for the uncle who—despite all Fadhil’s efforts—lived only long enough to learn he had a namesake. Two years later, Kallad was born, and Zellim after him. Next came two daughters, Azzifa and Meryem, and then Yuzuf.

  By then Jemilha’s father too was dead, and Jemilha inherited all that the al-Gallidh owned. In 621, the year of Zellim al-Gallidh’s death, this included 62 half- and quarter-breed horses. By 627, the year of Yuzuf’s birth, due to the sale of these and other horses, the total alGallidh wealth had tripled.

  And yet Azzad is not known as Il-Izzahni, the Bringer of Horses. Instead, history has named him Il-Kadiri: the Bringer of Green. For as his fortune and his influence increased, he used both to purchase land around Hazganni. On this land he planted trees. He did so in other towns as well, and after a time the wisdom of trees was accepted. The forests and groves and orchards everyone no
w takes for granted are Azzad al-Ma’aliq’s enduring legacy.

  As he neared his thirty-seventh year, he possessed great riches, magnificent horses, fine houses, a wife he had grown to treasure, and seven children he adored.

  What he did not yet have was his vengeance.

  —FERRHAN MUALEEF, Deeds of Il-Kadiri, 654

  8

  “ Husband,”said Jemilha, “I don’tlike this.”

  Azzad glanced up from the account books. There were seven large leather-bound volumes, one each for notes and figures on timber, crops, orchards, trapping, mining, fishing, and horses. An eighth book, twice the size of the others, was written in Jemilha’s precise and dainty script, recording trade in all these things. Beside the desk was a carved wooden lectern holding a ninth ledger; this was for the yearly total of profits and losses in all endeavors. In the years that Azzad and Jemilha together had managed the al-Gallidh estates, there had been no entries under Losses.

  Jemilha resettled the matron’s silk shawl across her shoulders—a new fashion introduced by traders from Rimmal Madar, with whom Azzad did much business using the al-Gallidh name. At thirty-one, Jemilha was seven times a mother and looked as if she had borne not a single child. Azzad no longer wondered why he had felt compelled to marry her. He would have been a fool not to. She had given him more happiness than he had ever thought to receive and more good advice than he deserved. Something in him that was wiser than his brain had prodded him into marrying her. Now—thirteen years, five strong sons, and two beautiful daughters later—he thanked Acuyib daily for that wordless certainty. She was worthy, and more than worthy, of the pearls he had placed around her slender throat on their wedding day. Back then, the necklace had been his only wealth. But in that instant, his wealth had become Jemilha. He adored her even when she laughed at him . . . but she was not laughing now.