The Prophet of Akhran

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  “He is a very skilled and powerful wizard,” said Zohra proudly, as though Mathew were her own personal creation. “He has been teaching me. It was by his magic I saw the vision—”

  She was not looking at Khardan; she did not hear him speak or make a sound. But so sensitive was she to his physical presence, she felt rather than saw the tensing of his body, the slight, swift intake of breath.

  The vision, the reason—so she claimed—that she had dragged Khardan unconscious from the field of the battle, hiding him from the Amir’s forces by dressing him in women’s clothing.

  “Since you are so skilled in his magic, wife”—the sarcasm flicked like a whip across her raw nerves—”is there nothing of his you can use to aid him?”

  “I never said I was skilled in his arts,” she retorted in a low, passionate voice, not looking at him, her eyes staring down at Mathew’s still form. “I said he was teaching me. And I swear to Akhran,” she continued, her voice trembling with her fervor, “that I will never use such magic again!”

  Reaching out, she started to smooth the damp red hair back from the young man’s forehead, but her fingers shook visibly, and she hurriedly hid her hands in her lap. For no reason at all, it seemed, tears sprang to her eyes and slid down her cheeks before she could stop them. She could not raise a hand to brush them away; that would have revealed her weakness to him. Swiftly she lowered her head, the black hair falling forward, veiling her face.

  But not before Khardan had seen the drops glistening on the dusky cheeks, sliding down to lose themselves in the curving, trembling lips. The frightful ordeal through which she had been, the long and perilous journey they faced if the djinn did not return—it was enough to daunt the strongest. Khardan took a step near her, his hand reaching out. . .

  Zohra flinched and hastily drew away. “You must leave the tent, husband.” She spoke harshly to mask the tears. Rising to her feet, she kept her back to Khardan. “Mathew rests comfortably. I will change my clothes.”

  She stood stiff and straightshouldered, unyielding. Blinded by the shadows after staring into the glaring sunlight, Khardan could not see his wife’s fingers clench and drive into her flesh. He did not notice the long black hair that fell sleek and shining past her waist shiver with the intensity of her suppressed emotion. To him, she was cold and distant. The piles of obsidian, scattered over the desert floor, gave off more warmth than this fleshandblood woman.

  Words crowded to Khardan’s lips, but in such a tangle of fury and outrage that he could utter nothing coherent. Whirling, he stalked out of the tent, yanking down the flap after him, nearly bringing down the tent itself in his anger.

  It was impossible, he knew it, for it had been months since Zohra had access to her perfumes. He could have sworn he smelled jasmine.

  Fuming, Khardan stalked across the desert sand. The woman was maddening! A shedevil—that bandylegged fisherman had been right! Khardan wanted to take her in his arms and . . . and . . . choke the life out of her!

  The sun was hot, but not hotter than his blood. A high dune rose some distance from him, promising a view of the land. Grimly, he made his way across the cracked earth.

  Inside the tent, safely hidden, Zohra fell to her knees and wept.

  Mathew slept through the heat of afternoon and awoke, rested and alert, near sunset.

  “The djinn, are they back?” he asked.

  No one replied. His words fell into a well of silence so deep and dark he could almost hear them bounce off the walls. Something’s happened. Hurriedly, he sat up and looked around. Khardan was stretched out full length on one side of the tent. Propped up on an elbow, he stared moodily out into the empty air. On the opposite side of the tent Zohra was deftly packing the food the djinn had provided and apparently making preparations to travel. The immortals were nowhere to be seen.

  Mathew felt his throat tighten. The girba lay near him. He picked it up and started to drink, caught Khardan’s sharp, swift glance, and took only a mouthful, though he was parched. Holding the water in his mouth as long as he could, hoping this would help ease his thirst, he swallowed tiny gulps of the precious liquid, making it last as long as possible. Gently he laid the waterskin back down, and Khardan’s dark gaze turned from him.

  “It is only just sunset, after all,” Mathew said uneasily, waving away the small portion of food Zohra offered him. It was too hot to eat. “They’ll be here soon.”

  Khardan stirred. “We cannot wait,” he said, his voice deep and cold as the well that had drowned Mathew’s words. “The moment the sun is gone, we must start walking. We have to reach Serinda before day dawns tomorrow.” Looking at Mathew, he let his stern face relax somewhat. “Do not look so worried. It is not far. We should make it easily.” He gestured. “You can see the city walls from the dunes.”

  Stiffly, as though he had been lying in one position for a long time, Khardan rose to his feet. He had changed his clothes, putting on the full pants, the tunic that tied around the waist with a sash, and the long, flowing robes of the desert. The haik, held in place with the agal, covered his head, the facecloth dangling down across his chest. Soft slippers, designed for walking in the shifting sand, covered his feet. Zohra was attired in a woman’s loose robes, longsleeved bodice, and pants that fit snugly around the ankle. A veil covered her head and face. With a sidelong glance at Mathew, her eyes studiously avoiding Khardan, she slipped out of the tent, carrying the food with her.

  “Get dressed,” Khardan ordered, pointing to two piles of clothing lying in the center of the tent. Mathew recognized the silken folds of a woman’s chador in one, the other appeared to be robes similar to those worn by the Calif. Not knowing what sex the strange madman might choose to be today, Pukah had thoughtfully left attire for either. Mathew stretched his hand toward the men’s clothes, then stopped. Flushing, he looked at Khardan.

  “Am I permitted?” he asked.

  A fleeting smile touched the Calif ‘s lips and warmed the dark eyes. “For the present, Mathew. When we return to the Tel, you may have to resume your role as”—a hint of bitterness—”my wife.”

  “I will not mind,” Mathew said quickly, thinking only to ease Khardan’s obvious pain. Realizing too late how his words and tone might be misconstrued, Mathew flushed more deeply still and sought to clarify his statement. But before he could do more than stammer, Khardan had left the tent, courteously giving Mathew privacy.

  “Fool!” Mathew cursed himself, fumbling with the yards and yards of material. “Why not just shout your feelings to the four winds and be done with it!”

  When he was finally dressed, he went outside to find the other two standing far apart, backs turned slightly, each staring intently into the west where the sun had vanished over the horizon. The air was cooling already, though the collected heat of day radiated up from the ground and made Mathew I feel as though he had stepped into a baker’s oven.

  “I’m ready,” he said, and was startled to hear his voice sound small and tight.

  Khardan turned and without a word reentered the tent. He came back with the girba slung over his shoulder and began walking westward, never glancing behind him. Zohra followed after Khardan, careful, however, to keep clear of his footprints, cutting her own path in the sand. By this and the set of her shoulders, she made it plain that though she traveled the same direction, it was by her choosing, not his.

  Sighing, Mathew trudged along behind, his own footsteps, clumsy in the shifting sand, often stumbling across, overprinting, interconnecting, the two separate tracks that marched along on either side of him.

  Chapter 4

  From the top of the sand dune, staring into the western sky that was a cloudless, oppressive, ocherous hue, Mathew saw the city of Serinda. He knew its history, legends of the dead city being popular among the nomads.

  A hundred years before or maybe longer, Serinda had been a thriving metropolis with a population numbering in the several thousands. And then, suddenly, according to legend, all life in Serinda h
ad come to an end. No one knew the cause. Raiders from the north? The plague? The poisonous fumes of the volcano Galos? Gazing at the city walls—a graywhite, lacy border of mosque and minaret against the yellow sky—Mathew felt the stirrings of curiosity and looked forward eagerly to entering the gates that now were never closed. Perhaps he could solve this mystery. Surely there must be clues.

  The city looked to be near them, Mathew thought, his spirits lifting. Khardan was right. A walk of a few hours should have them across this desert. They would be in Serinda before morning.

  Night’s deep blueblackness washed over the land. Mathew reveled in the coolness. Invigorated, his journey’s end in sight, he moved ahead so swiftly that Khardan was forced to remind him curtly that they had hours of walking before them.

  Meekly slowing his pace, Mathew looked around him instead of ahead, and once again marveled at the strange, savage beauty of this land. No moon shone, but they could see their way clearly by the lambent light shining from the myriad stars that sparkled in the black heavens. Though Mathew knew it was the stars that cast the eerie, whitish glow upon the sand, it seemed to him as if the land itself radiated its own light, as it radiated the heat it had stored up during the day.

  He gazed up, fascinated, at the stars. There were so many more of them, visible in this clear sky, than he could have ever imagined in his land. Having become accustomed already to the shifted positions of the constellations in this hemisphere, Mathew soon located the Guide Star that gleamed in the north sky and pointed it out to Zohra.

  “They teach the children of my land that an angel of Promenthas stands there with his lantern to guide travelers through the night.”

  Zohra glanced at him skeptically. “Your people follow this— what was it?”

  “Lantern, like a lamp or a torch. A light in the sky.”

  “Your people pick out a light and follow it and it leads them where they wish to go?” Zohra regarded him with narrowed eyes. “And the people of your land actually succeed in getting from one place to another?”

  “Not just any light, Zohra,” Mathew said, seeing her mistake. “That one particular star that always shines in the north.”

  “Ah! The people all travel north in your land!”

  “No, no. When you know the star is in the north, you can tell if you’re going east or west or south. Just as in the day you can tell which way you’re going by the position of the sun. Don’t your people do this?”

  “Does Hazrat Akhran keep a chirak in the sky to guide him? And let his enemies know where he sleeps?” Zohra was scandalized. “Our God is not such a fool, Mathew. He knows his way around heaven. We know our way around earth. We follow not only that which we can see, but what we hear and smell. What do your people do when the clouds hide the sun and”—she gestured vaguely skyward—”that star?”

  What would she say if I told her that the star was a sun? Or that our sun was a star? Mathew smiled to himself, picturing giving Zohra an astronomy lesson. Instead, he began to explain another marvel to her. “Our people have a . . . a”—he fumbled for a word in the desert language—”device with a needle inside it that always points toward the north.”

  “A gift of Sul,” she said wisely.

  “No, not magic. Well, in away, but it is not Sul’s magic. It is the magic of the world itself. You see, the world is round, like an orange, and it spins, like a top, and when it spins, a powerful force is created that draws iron toward it. The needle in the device is made of iron and it—What are you doing?”

  “Drink some water, Mathew.”

  “But Khardan said not to—”

  “I said drink!” Zohra glowered at him above the veil, her eyes glittering more brightly than Promenthas’s Guiding Lantern.

  Mathew obediently swallowed a mouthful of the warm water that tasted faintly of goat and seemed as sweet as the clearest, purest snow water that bubbled among the rocks of the stream behind his home.

  “Now, Mathew, relax,” said Zohra earnestly, patting his cheek with a gentle hand. “You do not need to act crazy around us. We will not harm you. Khardan and I know you are mad.”

  Smiling at him reassuringly, Zohra turned to follow the Calif, who was keeping to their path unerringly, without a glance at the stars.

  They stopped to rest only briefly, Khardan pushing them forward at an exhausting pace that Mathew could not understand. Serinda was so near. Why couldn’t they take an hour to rest aching legs and burning feet? But Khardan was adamant. The Calif spoke little during the journey; he kept his face covered by the haik, and it was impossible to tell what he was thinking. But if his expression matched his voice during those times when he did speak, Mathew knew it must be grim and dour.

  Eventually Mathew ceased to wonder why they couldn’t stop. He ceased to wonder anything but whether he would take that next step or collapse. His early energy had drained from him. Reaching the point of exhaustion, he had pushed past it. The chill air dried the sweat on his body, and he shivered from the cold. His feet had blistered, and walking was agony. The muscles of his legs ached and twitched from the effort of attempting to keep his footing in the shifting sands of the dunes that crossed their path.

  Once, at the top of one, he slipped, and had neither the strength nor the will to catch himself. Down the steep side he rolled, sand scraping the skin off any parts of his body not protected by the folds of enveloping cloth. At the bottom, where he came to a slithering halt, the youth lay still, enjoying the cessation of movement, not caring much whether he ever moved again. Khardan caught hold of him by the arm, hauled him to his feet, and gave him a shove, all without speaking a word. Mathew limped forward.

  Where was Serinda? What had happened to it? Had Khardan got them lost? Mathew glanced heavenward, searching dizzily for the Guide Star. No, there it was, on his right hand. They were traveling westward. Promenthas was guiding them.

  But my angel is gone, Mathew thought dazedly, reeling as he walked.

  My angel. My guardian angel. A year ago I would have scoffed at such a childish notion. But a year ago I did not believe in djinn. A year ago I trusted myself. I had my magic. A year ago I did not need heaven. . .

  “Now I need it,” he muttered to himself. “My angel has left me, and I am alone. Magic!” He gave a bitter laugh, staggered, nearly fell, and stumbled on ahead. “I know how to make water out of sand. It is a simple spell.” He had taught it to Zohra and nearly frightened the wits out of her.

  “I could make this place an ocean!” Mathew gazed about dreamily and imagined himself swimming, floating upon cool water, splashing it over head and body, drinking, drinking all he wanted. His hand fumbled at the scrolls of parchment curled up neatly in the pouch at his belt. “Yes, I could make this place an ocean, if I had a quill to pen the words, and ink to write them, and a voice left in this raw and parched throat to speak them.

  “A boon to the traveler,” he imitated the Archmagus’s droning voice. “No need to worry about fresh water. No need to drink at a stream that might be impure.”

  Hah! In his land, water was never more than a few steps away. In his land, they cursed it for flooding their crops, washing away the foundations of their houses.

  “In such a place, I can conjure water!”

  Some irritating person was laughing uproariously. Only when Mathew saw Khardan stop and turn to stare at him and Zohra come to stand beside him, her eyes shadowed by weariness and concern, did Mathew realize that the irritating person was himself.

  He blinked and looked around. It was dawn. He could see the sweep of the dunes beginning to take on color, the light of Promenthas’s Lantern start to fade. Raising his eyes, hope flooding his body with strength, Mathew looked eagerly to the west.

  The white city walls, catching the sun’s first, slanting rays, glistened against the dark background of waning night. Glistened far away. . . far, far away. . .

  “Serinda! What’s happened to it?” Mathew cried irrationally, clutching frantically at Khardan’s robes. “Have
we been walking in circles? Standing still? Why isn’t it closer?”

  “A trick of the desert,” said Khardan softly, with a sigh that no one heard. “I was afraid of this.” Suddenly angry, he pried Mathew’s hand loose and shoved the young man away from him. He started off down the side of the dune on which they had been standing. “We can walk another two hours, before the heat sets in.”

  “Khardan.”

  Refusing to look around, the Calif kept walking, his own legs stumbling tiredly in the sand.

  “Khardan.”

  Glancing around, he saw Zohra standing unmoving behind him. Silhouetted against the burning ball of the rising sun, she had one arm around Mathew’s shoulders. The youth sagged against her strong body, his head bowed, shoulders slumped. His breath came in ragged gasps.

  “He can’t go any farther,” Zohra said. “None of us can.”

  Khardan looked grimly at her. She stared just as grimly back at him. Both of them knew what this meant. Without more water, stranded out here in the open, they would never live through the scorching heat of coming day.

  Tossing the nearly empty waterskin onto the sand, Khardan flexed his aching shoulders. “We will wait for the djinn,” he said evenly. “They will meet us here.”

  Now was the time for Zohra’s triumph, bitter though it may be. She eased Mathew down onto the desert floor, then lifted her head to look upon the face of her husband; a face she could not see for the cloth that swathed it.

  But she could see the eyes.

  “Yes, husband,” she said softly. “we will wait for the djinn.”

  Chapter 5

  A blink of an eye took the three djinn and the angel from the desert to the realm of the immortals. Sond led them, and it was at his insistence that they found themselves materializing in a pleasure garden—the very garden, in fact, where Sond had sneaked in to meet Nedjma that fateful night when he’d clasped what he’d supposed was his beautiful djinniyeh to his arms, only to find his face pressed firmly against the hairy chest of the ‘efreet, Kaug. The garden belonged to one of the elderly immortals of Akhran, a djinn who claimed to remember when time began. Too old and far too wise to have anything at all to do with humans anymore, the ancient djinn had established himself in a mansion whose bulbousshaped towers and graceful minarets could ordinarily barely be seen through the lush, flowering trees and bushes of his garden.