by Melanie Rawn
Alessid could see moving shadows through silk curtains on the ground floor. He dragged a heavy wooden bench over to the doors, blocking them. Only then did he see the runes drawn over Fadhil’s subtle and beautiful patterns, like smears of spoor marking a trespassing animal’s usurped territory.
He ran back to the garden doors and to barricade them toppled two of his father’s prized potted orange trees. For the kitchen door, he used a bench and a pile of large wooden toys the younger children had left in the yard—Zellim’s painted wagon, Azzifa’s rocking horse, Meryem’s doll-cart. At the front of the house, he put his shoulder to the stone pedestal and bronze basin where guests washed their hands before entering the house. None of these barriers would hold for long, but he didn’t need much time.
He ran for the stables. Mazzud and Annif, who slept above, surely should have awakened by now. So, in fact, should the whole of Sihabbah. Silencing the walls was one thing; disguising the sudden blaze of flames and the acrid smell of smoke was quite another. Alessid recalled his father’s tales of how empty the streets of Dayira Azreyq had been, how he had seen no one but the royal guard. There had been no spells then, but there was magic here tonight. The assassins were not Geysh Dushann, and not of the al-Ammarizzad—and they had scrawled Shagara symbols on the walls and doors. Perhaps other symbols had been drawn on other doors and windows tonight, and the people of Sihabbah would not know what had happened until the estate burned to the ground.
Alessid heard horses screaming. The fire would spread, and the horses knew it. He kicked open doors and flung open stalls, and they fled at the gallop. He yelled for Mazzud, for Annif, for anyone at all. There was no reply. Last of all he freed his beloved Zaqia, pausing to bridle her before leaping up onto her back. He tried to rein her around into the streets of Sihabbah, thinking to alert the town to the danger. But she was having none of it; she reared once, whinnied, and her iron shoes struck sparks from the stable yard cobbles in her flight.
She finally slowed, responding at last to his hands and heels, in a forest clearing miles from Sihabbah. She had found others of the al-Ma’aliq herd—in their terror, they had jumped fences previously judged too high for them. Alessid spent a long time gathering strays, usually with only a few sharp whistles that alerted them to his presence. They seemed relieved to find him, and their stablemates, and by daybreak Alessid had rounded up almost sixty horses.
He had watched, hidden in the trees, as solemn women carried his father’s body down from the mountain. He had seen Fadhil weeping as the grave was dug. He had been near to tears himself when Fadhil embraced him with cries of praise to Acuyib for sparing this one last al-Ma’aliq. The scenes played over and over in his memory as he rode farther and farther from Sihabbah. And Alessid ended each repeat of that terrible night with a curse and a vow. He would have vengeance—but not the pale imitation of it his father had exacted. Azzad had only hurt al-Ma’aliq enemies. Alessid would destroy them.
In the months that followed, Alessid became one of the Shagara; but for the darkness of his skin, so unlike their burnished golden complexions, no one would guess that he was not a true son of the tribe. A precocious adolescent, he came to emotional manhood without ever passing through youth. A year after losing his family, his body was just fifteen years old, his face had no beard, and his shoulders had not yet broadened. But the eyes that gazed unflinchingly at the world were those of a man grown, and grown older than the count of his birthdays.
Alessid knew all this about himself. With the example of a charming, thoughtless, carefree fool of a father behind him, a man who would not even have known how to analyze his own character—and would have seen no use for such analysis—Alessid ruthlessly subjected himself to scrutiny. Every motive, every emotion, every action and reaction, all were examined for signs of likeness to his father. And at fifteen, he was satisfied that there was nothing of Azzad al-Ma’aliq in him.
He knew that he had sacrificed charm along with self-ignorance. Smiles had departed when he rejected humor. The characteristics he despised in his father were the very same that had made Azzad capable of winning hearts. Even so, Alessid was sufficiently attractive to have won the most eligible girl in the Shagara tents: Mirzah, daughter of Challa Leyliah and her husband Razhid Harirri. And now that they were both fifteen, they were to be married.
Abb Shagara would preside over the ceremony. It would in all probability be his last official act. Though not yet forty, he looked and moved like a man twice that age. His chosen successor, who spent most of his time trying to hide his eagerness for authority, was a young man proud of his full black beard and abundant black hair, prouder still of his position in the tribe, and proudest of all of the name the Shagara had gained as breeders of horses. Alessid considered him a fool. But Alessid considered almost everyone a fool.
The exceptions were Chal Fadhil, Challa Meryem, Challa Leyliah, her husband Razhid Harirri, and their daughter, Alessid’s bride. Yet even the three healers had not his total respect, for they remembered his father with affection and sadness, and spoke of him often. Alessid thought of him only with contempt, and talked about him not at all.
The other exception was Abb Shagara. When it was learned that the al-Ma’aliq had been murdered by apostate Shagara, everyone else cried out in horror. Grimly silent, Abb Shagara stared long and hard at Fadhil, then went to the private tent where he did his work. Two days later he emerged, exhausted by his labors—for though he was not yet forty, he had not been young for many years—and ordered every close friend and near relation of the renegades brought before him. To each of these people in turn he gave a weighty silver bowl, newly made, studded with lapis. And then he asked his questions.
Did you know of their plans?
Did you help them in any way?
Are there others who believe as they believe?
What are their names?
In this manner he discovered twelve who knew, four others who helped their friends without knowing what their friends were truly doing, and the names of six Shagara not present at the inquiry who secretly supported the rebels.
Alessid watched it all, part of him believing in Abb Shagara’s method, part of him howling that Fadhil’s hazziri had not saved his family, and still a third part knowing that it was no fault of Fadhil’s, for the renegade Haddiyat had obliterated his work with their own. As the questions were asked, he sensed Meryem observe him closely, probably expecting rage or tears or cries of hatred or some other emotional display; he kept his feelings to himself, as his father had never bothered to do, and stood in silence at Fadhil’s side. Meryem could worry about him as she pleased. As Challi Dawa’an, that was her function in life. His was to wait until he was older.
That same evening he was summoned to Abb Shagara’s tent.
“Alessid. Take this.” Fadhil gave him the silver bowl.
Abb Shagara, reclining on cushions, regarded Alessid narrowly. “Lie to me, boy. How old are you?”
He started to say “Thirty-nine.” What came out of his mouth was, “Fourteen.”
“Does Khamsin still live?”
He tried to say “Yes.” What he said was, “No.”
Abb Shagara poured from a pitcher of hot, sweet qawah. His fingers were shaking a little, and his face was haggard with weariness. “Alessid, do you believe that this hazzir can pry the truth out of even those most determined to tell lies?”
This time he didn’t bother to attempt a lie. “Yes.”
Fadhil took the bowl from his hands, and bowed to Abb Shagara.
“The guilty will be executed,” said Abb Shagara. “Haddiyat or no, they deserve death for what they have helped to do. Those who assisted but did not understand will be watched by special hazziri until their loyalty is no longer in doubt. Does this satisfy you?”
“Yes,” Alessid replied. But it was as well that the bowl was no longer in his hands, for what he was thinking was, “No.”
The reason his father had been a fool was that he had allowed himsel
f to be distracted from the true work of his life by the pleasures life could offer. These had been given him in abundance: family, friends, wealth, influence. Jemilha el-Gallidh had given him children and the power that came with land and money. His time with the Shagara had given him an invaluable asset in friends—and their magic. But Azzad had stumbled blindly into all of them, as if the most potent hazzir for luck ever made had rested against his skin from birth.
Alessid saw the world very differently: not as a marvelous place in which one might discover unexpected joy at any moment, but as a place filled with things and people to be used.
Children were meant for marriage alliances. Wealth’s power was meant to be hoarded until it would be spent most effectively. And brotherhood with the Shagara meant access to their magic, which was the greatest power of all.
Thus Alessid would marry Mirzah Shagara. They would have many daughters, who would marry men of strength and authority; they would also have many sons, who would bring kinship with important tribes. One of these sons might be Haddiyat—possibly even becoming Abb Shagara in time—and Alessid hoped this would be so. What such sons did not produce in grandchildren would be more than compensated for by their magic.
On the night of his wedding, he dressed in a new white wool robe and donned the two rings that would be his only jewelry until Abb Shagara placed the marriage hazziri on his wrists, he did not think as any other young man would about the night to come. He did not think of his bride’s sweet young body, or the wealth of her soft black hair, or the best ways to please her. He thought about the results of this night, or a night in the near future, and wondered if he would sire a son first or a daughter.
His father’s ring, the only keepsake of the al-Ma’aliq he possessed, glinted from his right hand. From his left glowed Bazir al-Gallidh’s pearl, given by that noble man to Azzad and taken, like the topaz carved with a leaf, from his dead hand by Fadhil. Both had since become hazziri through the efforts of Fadhil. The pearl gave health, purity, and wisdom; the topaz was for wealth, long life, and fame. Alessid intended to make specific use of his health, wealth, and long life. Fame would come as it would; he cared nothing for it, except as it would provide confirmation of his destiny. Of wisdom he had no need. He was already wise enough at fifteen to reject his father’s example—no, to set his father up before him as an example of how not to live his life. As for purity—pure was the purpose of his life’s journey, and marrying Mirzah Shagara was its first step.
For the al-Ma’aliq, he would take final revenge on Sheyqa Nizzira.
For himself, he would take back what was his.
And he would take the Shagara and their magic with him.
On the night of his wedding, Alessid waited calmly inside his tent until dusk. At length Razhid Harirri shoved aside the tent flap. Alessid glanced up quickly from the book in his hands. The ceremony had begun.
Mirzah’s father was dressed in a black robe and headcloth and carried a long knife in each hand. These blades he pointed threateningly at Alessid, who pushed past him out into the dusk. A dozen other men in dark clothes were there, also armed. After a few moments of turning this way and that, seeking a way out, Alessid capitulated. Mirzah’s eldest brother, another Fadhil, tied his hands before him, and Razhid forced him to walk forward at the points of both knives at his back. A crowd of women assembled quickly—whistling, stamping their feet, and calling out ribald remarks on Alessid’s youth, looks, and probable sexual prowess. He forbade himself to blush.
When they reached a newly made tent, woven of sand-pale wool and decorated with gifts of hazziri, Abb Shagara emerged from it, wearing a robe of embroidered golden silk.
“Who is this man?” he demanded.
Razhid replied, “He is called Alessid, from the tribe al-Ma’aliq. I think he will do for my daughter.”
“For what reason?”
“He is a Believer in Acuyib’s Glory. He is of an age with Mirzah. He is strong. He is rich in horses, though not in sheep or goats.”
“You may think he will do for your daughter,” scoffed Abb Shagara, “but what does her mother think?”
Leyliah came out of the tent, arrayed in all her finery—including a white silk scarf embroidered with snowflakes. She took a torch held out to her by Meryem and made a great show of inspecting the captive. “He seems acceptable,” she said at last, and winked at Alessid.
“Will he please your daughter?”
“If he doesn’t, I will have his head on a brass plate with his skewered balls for garnish,” growled Razhid, expertly flourishing both knives.
The crowd applauded with whistles and more laughter. Abb Shagara held up a hand, and they settled down, anticipating the next act in this little drama.
“Bring your daughter,” he ordered, and Leyliah clapped her hands twice, and Mirzah came forth. “Do you accept this man?”
Alessid, who had gone along with the absurd ritual so far out of respect for the Shagara, forgot his own part entirely when he saw his bride. Mirzah was a small girl, lightly made, with a pure golden skin and her father’s subtle, heavy-lidded eyes. To Alessid, she had never looked older than twelve. But tonight her mother had dressed her in amber-colored silk embroidered in gold, and enough jewels to purchase the finest seaside mansion and all its lands besides. Covering her was a gigantic silver scarf, a transparent silken glimmer that covered her from head to knees, as if she walked within a cloud. Suddenly Alessid was minded of the Lessons of Acuyib about the essential mystery of Woman, veiled to Man until the moment of their joining. And that moment was suddenly too far off for his liking.
Someone in the crowd hooted, and everyone else laughed, and Alessid knew his reaction to her was on his face. Disturbed, bewildered, he told himself this was just Mirzah, familiar and, if not precisely beloved, then at least dear to him for the children they would have. He regained control of his expression and told himself he was a man, and it was only proper that a man look with desire on the wife he would sleep beside all the rest of his nights.
But he could not deny his sudden eagerness for this first night to begin, and not only because a son might come of it.
“Ayia, daughter,” Razhid said, “I’ve brought you a husband. Look him over, and tell me if he is to your taste.”
Advice both practical and indelicate was shouted from all around as Mirzah inspected him from behind the sheer silvery veil. He hoped he had never done anything to offend her—because she could legitimately retaliate now by telling her father she wanted to see Alessid stripped naked. And this was precisely what the women of the tribe were encouraging her to do.
The ceremony of taking a husband was a relic of a long ago time when Shagara fathers raided other tribes, brought the men to their daughters, and asked if they would suit. If a man was rejected, he was sent around to other tents where any unwed girl could claim him if she wished. If there were no takers at all, he was given food, water, and directions back to his own tribe’s camp. Razhid Harirri had been famously wed to Leyliah in this manner—after choosing him, she had arranged for Abb Shagara to take him to every other woman in the tribe before finally coming to her tent, and then she pretended great reluctance in accepting him. He had entered into the teasing with zest, making a great show of pleading with each girl to take him as her husband, “For surely the last unwed girl Abb Shagara offers me to will be the ugliest, stupidest, least desirable of all!” Razhid and his wife shared a sense of humor that to Alessid was utterly incomprehensible. And as he stood there while Mirzah walked slowly around him, he was afraid that their daughter might similarly indulge herself.
There was a completely different ritual when Shagara married Shagara. Fadhil had argued for Alessid’s right to this—an infinitely more dignified process—but Abb Shagara had sulked and complained that they hadn’t had a real abduction marriage all year and he wanted to have some fun.
Mirzah seemed determined to provide him with it. As the women yelled demands to strip Alessid (“Make sure exactly what you
’re getting, girl!”), she circled him slowly, drawing out the moment. He stood frozen, a muscle in his jaw twitching, and flinched when a trailing edge of her scarf brushed his hand.
At last she stood in front of him, looking up at him through silver silk, and smiled just a little before turning to Abb Shagara. “I suppose he will do.”
There were groans of disappointment and cheers of approval, and Abb Shagara waited them out before saying, “Then the man Alessid of the tribe al-Ma’aliq is accepted by Mirzah Shagara as husband. He shall live in her tent, and father her children, and become our brother. Do you agree to this, my people?”
None but shouts of approval now, and Alessid felt a soft, stirring warmth inside him. Something deep, and profound, and more exciting even than Mirzah’s tantalizing glance at him from beneath her silvery veil. These people were his people now. They accepted him for his father’s sake, yes, but now, after this year with them, also for his own.
Abb Shagara gestured, and Alessid remembered that now he was supposed to lift his bound hands. As he did so, Abb Shagara said, “Alessid alMa’aliq, you may choose to accept this marriage freely, and take the Shagara as your own tribe. Or you may resist, and be forced to wear hazziri to bind you to her and to us. Whichever you choose, never doubt that you are well and truly married to this girl, and the only means of separation is a divorce of her choosing, not yours. Shall you be free, or bound?”
“Free. I accept the Shagara as my own tribe, and Mirzah as my wife.”