The Diviner (golden key)

by Melanie Rawn

  “Your father, I am told,” observed Abb Harirri, “planted whole forests.”

  Alessid nodded, and for once in his life was pleased to acknowledge the man who had sired him. “He did, and it was wisely done. And it proves my point. Trees brought from Sihabbah grew happily in many places where such trees had not been known before . . . until the al-Ammarizzad destroyed them. They and their kind are not in their native soil. I say it is time to uproot them. And further, I say it is time to unite all tribes in a single purpose: the obliteration of the al-Ammarizzad from our country.”

  “For your vengeance,” snapped Abb Shagara, no longer bothering to hide his scorn. “What was done to your family—”

  “—was done by apostate Shagara,” Alessid reminded him. “And yet—what drove them to it? They thought that by murdering the al-Ma’aliq, Sheyqir Za’aid would leave off his planned attack. They were wrong. It was thought that with control of Hazganni and a few other towns, Sheyqir Za’aid would leave off his conquests. This also was wrong. It has taken him nineteen years, but now he threatens even the desert. Anyone who thinks that the al-Ammarizzad will stop after a few tents and wagons have burned will be not just wrong, but dead.”

  Abb Azwadh stroked his gray-streaked beard. “Abb Shagara has mentioned that when the northern barbarians invaded a hundred and fifty years ago, the Shagara made hazziri for those who fought. Would it be possible—?”

  “With respect,” Alessid said, “it is not only hazziri we require. We must fight, and there is only one way to do it.”

  “On their terms—on horseback!” exclaimed Jefar from his corner.

  “Out!” snarled his uncle. The boy fled the tent, and Abb Shagara continued, “What you are saying is abominable! I am as proud of the Shagara horses as any of us, and I know of at least a dozen hazziri that will protect in battle—but what you propose is—”

  “—to cast out the usurper,” Alessid interrupted, “and make of this land one nation, so no one can ever again do to us what the northern or the eastern barbarians have done.”

  “It would take time to organize a fighting force,” mused Abb Harirri.

  “Only as long as it takes for your young men to come here and be instructed.” Alessid relished the way they all stared at him. “Come. I will show you.”

  He was further impressed by Jefar when he discovered that the boy had summoned as many members of the cavalry as he could find. Thirty-eight were already saddling their horses, and twenty-six more were hurrying to do the same. Jefar had taken it on himself to saddle Alessid’s own Qishtan, only son of his much-mourned Zaqia. Alessid mounted, nodded his thanks to the boy, and gathered his troops. Desperately excited, ferociously proud that now the long, strict secrecy was ending, they responded with gratitude to his orders.

  First, the smartly executed exercises in controlling their horses to behave as a single unit. Then the individual skills, showing the agility of horse and rider—and what a pair of hooves could do when they lashed out at an enemy, represented by bales of fodder. Finally, twenty men staged an assault against forty-four, and when the dust settled it was seen to be a victory for the smaller group.

  By the time it was over, everyone in the Shagara camp and everyone who had come with Abb Harirri and Abb Azwadh had gathered to watch. When Alessid’s horsemen came galloping back to the outskirts of the tents, the cheers were as loud as the thunder of hooves.

  He had expected it, of course—so spectacular a display could not but produce delighted pride in his people. But he had not expected his own name to be chanted to the skies so even Acuyib must hear.

  “All-ess-eed!”

  As his father Azzad had been spared in Dayira Azreyq nearly forty years ago, so there was a reason Alessid lived when all his family had died. Azzad had failed in Acuyib’s purpose. Alessid would not. He had these people with him, truly with him, praising his foresight and shouting his name.

  “All-ess-eed!”

  And there was nothing Abb Shagara could do about it. As Alessid led his cavalry into the small city of tents, Abb Shagara stood beside an awning, forgotten and furious. All other faces were elated: Abb Harirri and Abb Azwadh, parents who hadn’t a clue what their sons had been up to, boys who clamored to join their elder brothers and cousins, unwed girls who looked on these warrior Shagara with astonished fascination. Even Mirzah could not hide her satisfaction, though she tried very hard to present a composed expression and conceal any unseemly pride. Only Abb Shagara, narrow-eyed and stiff-spined with anger, disapproved.

  Abb Harirri and Abb Azwadh went to the guest tents without saying anything to Alessid. Leyliah attended her husband’s kinsman, and Meryem escorted Abb Azwadh—who once, long ago, had thought to marry her. Alessid gave Qishtan over to Jefar’s care. He had no wish to join his troops in celebrating their triumph among themselves as they unsaddled and walked and rubbed down their horses—for the achievement truly was theirs, and they would enjoy it more freely without him. He wished to be alone for a time away from everyone else, to provide ample opportunity for discussion before he began to answer any questions.

  So he went to his wife’s tent, where a question was waiting for him.

  “Ayia, husband, I assume you wish your children to eat something hot for dinner and not starve, so may I—Jemilha, Za’arifa, you will hush while I talk to your father!—may I also assume there must be some very good reason why my firepit is half demolished?”

  “Say rather that it is half finished, Mirzah.”

  “A pretty point of distinction,” she retorted. “I suppose my father will allow us to borrow his fire to cook dinner. Go inside and hear the girls’ lessons. Not that they’ll make much sense, after the spectacle they just witnessed.” And, to belie her sharpness, she leaned up in full view of anyone with eyes to look and kissed Alessid on the lips. “I am proud of you, husband.”

  “You will be prouder yet, wife.” He stroked her cheek with one finger, a rare gesture of tenderness, and went inside the tent.

  “I am less surprised than others that you’ve kept all this secret.” Meryem nodded acceptance of the qawah Alessid served her but declined the candied fruit and nuts Mirzah offered. “The Shagara are, after all, accustomed to keeping their mouths shut.”

  “But for ten years?” Leyliah asked.

  “Nearly seventeen,” Alessid replied blandly. “At first I disguised my intent as lessons in the full extent of their horses’ capabilities.” He poured for Leyliah, then sat down on a small leather cushion usually occupied by one of the children. Tonight, the carpets and silk pillows were for their guests.

  “A pity my son is not alive to see this,” Meryem said. “He would have enjoyed it appallingly.”

  “And Fadhil,” murmured Leyliah.

  “I regret this, too—more deeply than I can say.” Alessid sipped at his cup, then set it carefully on the low table. “I still miss them.”

  “And even more so now, when you have a fool for an Abb Shagara?” She eyed him shrewdly.

  “How large is the company of horseman, husband?” Mirzah spoke blandly, from mere idle curiosity, it seemed. But Alessid appreciated the two things she accomplished: deflecting an uncomfortable topic of conversation and letting Leyliah know that Mirzah was ignorant of his work. A lie of omission to one’s mother was as bad as a direct falsehood. Alessid understood that; he had never been able to lie to his own mother, Jemilha.

  “At present, nearly a hundred, as you saw today.”

  Leyliah’s gaze was as astute as Meryem’s. “And the number trained to war, who no longer camp with the Shagara? This is something Abb Shagara has not yet considered, I think.”

  “He may be close to guessing, but he won’t know for certain until I tell him.”

  “Neither will we,” snapped Meryem, flinging her long, silver-black braid over her shoulder. “So speak up.”

  He repressed a smile. “Those who married into the Harirri, thirty-three. Five more than that with the Azwadh. Nineteen with the Tallib, twenty w
ith the Tabbor, thirteen with the Tariq, and seventeen with the Ammal.” After a slight pause, he finished, “And those within the Shagara, who are trained but do not speak of it, two hundred and eighty-six—not including those you watched today.”

  None of these three women ever revealed more of her thoughts or emotions than she wished. But as Alessid spoke the numbers, beautiful black eyes widened, and full lips parted, and golden skin flushed across high cheekbones—and Alessid realized all over again how supremely lovely Shagara women were.

  “More than five hundred,” he finished, and gave them time to recover by pretending to be absorbed in selecting the perfect honeyed fig.

  “How—?” was all Leyliah seemed able to say.

  “The Shagara know how to keep a secret,” he answered calmly.

  “And when—” Meryem paused for a large swallow of qawah to clear her throat. “When these others have instructed more young men—”

  “I would guess the total would be about eight hundred,” Alessid remarked. “A more than respectable force, if correctly used.”

  “How many does Sheyqir Za’aid have?”

  “About a thousand in Hazganni. Thrice that spread around in the towns and villages.”

  “And you know this because—?”

  “I keep my ears open.”

  “They believe us weak,” Meryem said slowly. “It is insulting—a mere four thousand warriors, for a land this size.”

  “Yet they’ve held almost all of this country for seventeen years,” Alessid pointed out. “And what has anyone done about it?”

  “You’ve been doing something for seventeen years,” Meryem said. “But you waited. It was not the training of men and horses that took so long, it was the uniting of the other tribes in outrage.”

  He said nothing. She searched his eyes for a time, then shook her head.

  Again Mirzah spoke, again quite mildly. “Of course, some of those who own suitable horses will be too old to fight. For the good of the tribes they must give up their horses to younger men who can—” She glanced at the closed tent flap, distracted by a polite rattling of the wooden chime. “Enter,” she called out, and to everyone’s astonishment, Abb Harirri came into the tent. Mirzah sprang to her feet, welcoming her grandfather with an embrace.

  “Child, you’re looking more beautiful than ever. Leyliah, Challa Meryem, I swear to you that if I were not already married, I would carry one of you off to my tent. Or perhaps not, for how could I possibly make a decision to take one and not the other?”

  The two women smiled, for, as time-honored as such extravagant compliments were, Abb Harirri truly meant what he said.

  “No, I want no qawah or sweets, thank you. Abb Shagara gave me a dinner tonight that staggers me still. What I wish, if convenient, is a private talk with Alessid. With your permission, Mirzah?”

  A few minutes later the two men were outside, walking through the soft spring night toward the thorn fences. Alessid waited for the older man to speak, but the words were a long while coming.

  At last, when they were far from the tents, Abb Harirri said, “Tallibah is still without a child. I am afraid that she may have to divorce Kemmal.”

  Expecting conversation about the horses and the cavalry and Sheyqir Za’aid, it took Alessid a moment to rearrange his thoughts. When he did, he was both disappointed and pleased. Only the former was expressed to Abb Harirri, though.

  The older man nodded. “I too am sorry, but what can be done? Our friendship is separate from our kinship, Alessid—I hope you know this—but for reasons both of affection and of family I had hoped . . .” He ended with a shrug. “But you understand.”

  “Yes.”

  “I will of course support you in everything that benefits the Harirri.”

  “My wife’s father is Harirri, and my children are of that blood. Whatever I do, it will be with the Harirri in my mind.”

  “Then we understand each other.” Abb Harirri stretched widely, his brown silk robe glinting by moonlight with a delicate tracery of gold embroidery. “Tomorrow will be a strenuous day, I think. Discussions begin early. I will retire now.”

  “Sururi annam,” Alessid said, and watched him return to the tents. For himself, he walked for a while longer in the fragrant night, considering this new information.

  Neither Kemmal nor Kammil had sired a child. Alessid now was certain that they never would. And whereas he wished they could have given him grandchildren, they were of even more use to him for what they had proven: that the Shagara blood was strong in his line. The twins’ infertility was proof that Mirzah had borne two Haddiyat sons. When one of her daughters bore one as well, Alessid’s position with the Shagara would be secured. It would mean that the bloodline ran true.

  But he could not wait for his girls to grow up and marry and have sons— and then wait for the sons to grow up and marry and be divorced. The time was now. He was thirty-three this summer. He had already waited nineteen years for his vengeance—the same amount of time Azzad al-Ma’aliq had waited. But Alessid had put those years to much better use than had his frivolous, charming father. Where Azzad had created an empire of trade, Alessid would create an Empire.

  He walked slowly back to his wife’s tent. A little ways from it, he encountered Meryem. He would have nodded a good night, but what he had just heard from Abb Harirri and what he would do and say on the morrow made him stop.

  “Challa Meryem,” he said formally, “I have just discovered that my two eldest sons are almost certainly Haddiyat. I think it might be time for me to learn precisely what this means.”

  She was silent for a long while. Then: “I think you are right, Alessid.” And she led the way to her own tent, where she talked and he listened until dawn.

  There were not quite enough horses. But when Alessid and seventy riders of the Shagara made their first raid against the Qoundi Ammar, thirty horses were captured—and thirty more men of the Za’aba Izim were mounted on stallions trained for war.

  All during the spring, young men came to the Shagara camp. Mirzah had the great joy of having all three of her sons back in her tent, and with them came men of the Tallib, the Azwadh, and the Harirri. They were taught battle maneuvers, and all but a few returned to their tribes to teach the same to their kinsmen. Some stayed with the Shagar, to become their tribes’ contribution to Alessid’s force.

  By midsummer, he had more than four hundred skilled riders at his personal command. And as these mounted warriors swept across the land, led by a man on a stallion the color of sun-gilt cream, Sheyqir Za’aid al-Ammarizzad began to hear of a Golden Wind. But he was not yet afraid.

  —RAFFIQ MURAH, Deeds of Il-Nazzari, 701

  13

  It was a clear, bright summer’s night when Alessid watched his son Addad, qabda’an now of his own hundred warriors, ride away to return to his wife’s tent at the Azwadh camp. The twins, Kemmal and Kammil, stayed.

  “You know now what you are,” Alessid told his sons, who walked beside him through the sparse grassland where flocks grazed. Washed gray and silver by starshine, the shadows shifted with the intricacies of the breeze. “The first year, you did not suspect. The second year, perhaps you thought about it. But it is nearly the third year, and your wives have borne no children.”

  He paused beneath a wool awning set up for the comfort of those who watched the goats and sheep. All the herders were out gathering the animals for the move tomorrow to a more remote location, the better to evade Sheyqir Za’aid’s soldiers. Two hundred of them had been reported at Ouaraqqa, the last town before the wastes began. Once all the Shagara wagons were safely distant . . .

  Seating himself on a firm leather cushion, he put aside his plans for his enemies in favor of his plans for his sons. He took out his waterskin and drank briefly, then passed it to them. Their faces were impassive, and entirely identical but for the tiny scar above Kammel’s right eyebrow, memento of the only time he had ever fallen off a horse. Their skin was not quite as golden as Mirzah’s, b
ut they had inherited the subtle eyes of her father Razhid. For the rest, their long noses, long limbs, and wide mouths were al-Ma’aliq. Handsome youths, sought in marriage by many girls, had they not been Haddiyat, they would have fathered many children.

  Had they loved their wives? Would they miss the girls they had married? He did not know. He guessed it might be painful for them if he asked. So he decided he would never ask.

  “Neither of you has any aptitude for medicine, nor are you skilled in the crafting of hazziri. The best I ever saw either of you do was pound out a reasonably round pair of copper cups for your mother’s birthday.” He smiled a little, partly to show their lack of skill did not trouble him, partly to show his affection for them, and partly because Mirzah treasured those cups as if they had been set with jewels by Abb Shagara himself. Wobbly, comically dented, the talishann for warmth lopsided and clumsy, they had never functioned as intended—though now she knew this was not because her sons had no Haddiyat gift, only that they had no talent.

  “Abb Shagara has told me he is waiting for the results of certain tests. We know what those results will be, you and I. The usual work of the Haddiyat is neither to your aptitude nor to your liking. So it may appear to you that your gift is no gift at all, and useless to the tribe. But I tell you now, my sons, you are absolutely essential to me.”

  Kemmal wrapped his arms around his knees and swayed slightly back and forth. Alessid recognized it as a habit of childhood when he was thinking very hard. “You want us to work hazziri of a special, particular kind, a kind that Abb Shagara would probably not approve.”

  “I do.”

  Kammil was nodding slowly. With the measured style of speech of the noblemen he descended from, he said, “This summer we have reviewed with the mouallimas the lessons of long ago. What we did not fully remember took us but a short time to relearn. They have taught us more, and more esoteric, knowledge. Give us leave, Ab’ya, to consult with each other for a day, and we will tell you what can be done and not done.”