The Prophet of Akhran

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  Mathew shivered. He had a recollection of a journey by night, but it was accompanied by vague terrors, and he quickly banished it. Having drunk the water, he lay back down.

  “Where is ibn Jad? Did he ride on?”

  “He is here,” said Zobra shortly. “Are you hungry? Can you eat? I made some broth. Drink it, then you should rest.”

  More weary than he thought, Mathew dutifully drank the steaming liquid that had a faint poultry flavor and then drifted again into sleep. When he woke, it was early evening.

  “Have you been here all this time?” he asked Zohra, who held out the bowl of water. “No; you do not need to help me. I can sit myself.” The thought of what other services she must have helped him to perform during his sickness made him flush in embarrassment. “I have been so much trouble,” he mumbled. “And now I’m delaying you. I’m keeping you from returning to your home.”

  Home. He spoke the word with a sigh. He had been dreaming again, pleasant dreams, dreams of his own land. Waking this time had not been a terrifying experience, only a very painful one.

  Zohra sat down beside him. Awkwardly, as though she were unused to such gentle gestures, she patted his hand with her own. “You must miss your home very much.”

  Mathew turned his face in an effort to hide the tears that pain and suffering and his weakness wrung from him. The effort was a failure, for the tears became sobs that shook his body. He gulped them down, trying to stop crying, waiting for the gibe or the sneer with which Zohra always met his lapses. To his amazement she said nothing, and he was further astounded when her hand squeezed his tightly.

  “I know now what it is, to miss one’s home. I am truly sorry for you, Mathew.” Her voice was soft and filled with a pity that did not offend, but eased, his heart. “Perhaps, when all this is over, we can find a way to send you back.”

  “She rose to her feet and left him, saying something about bringing food if he thought he could keep it down. Grateful for his time alone, Mathew managed to get up from the bed, and though his legs wobbled and his head spun, he was able to wash himself and was sitting up on the pallet, combing out the tangled red hair as best he could with his fingers, when he heard footsteps.

  It was not Zohra who came to him, however, but Khardan.

  “Your strength is returning,” the Calif said, smiling. “I brought you this.” He carried a bowl of rice in his hand. “You are to eat as much as you can, according to . . . my wife.” He always spoke those two words with a certain grim irony. “Can you manage yourself?” Khardan asked in some embarrassment.

  “Yes! Thank Promenthas,” Mathew answered fervently, his skin burning. The thought of the Calif feeding him! Taking the dish, glad to have something to occupy his hands and his eyes, Mathew hungrily scooped the rice into his mouth with his fingers.

  Seeming relieved himself, Khardan sat down, his back against the wall, and rubbed his neck with a groan.

  “I am sorry to . . . have delayed your journey,” Mathew mumbled, his mouth full of rice.

  “To be honest, I am not that eager to return to my people,” said Khardan heavily. For long moments he leaned against the wall in silence, his eyes closed. Opening them a crack, he peered at Mathew from beneath his lids. “I need to talk to you, Mathew. Do you feel able?”

  “Yes! Assuredly!” Mathew placed the empty rice bowl on the floor and straightened his back and shoulders to appear attentive.

  “You will tell me, Mathew, if you grow tired?”

  “Yes, Khardan. I promise.”

  The Calif nodded and then frowned, trying to decide how to begin or perhaps if to begin. Mathew waited patiently.

  “This vision. . . my wife. . . had,” he said abruptly.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “It would be more fitting if you asked her,” suggested Mathew, surprised by the question.

  Khardan waved his hand, irritably brushing the notion away from him. “I can’t talk to her. When we come together, it is like setting a flaming brand to dry tinder. Rational discussion goes up in smoke! I’m asking you to tell me of the vision that started all of this.”

  Wondering at the change in the Calif, who had previously scorned the idea that a vision—women’s magic—could have prompted Zohra to act as she did in removing him bodily from the battle around the Tel, Mathew related the story.

  “I was teaching Zohra a magical spell my people know that allows us to see into the future. It is called scrying. You take a bowl of water and place it before you. Then you clear your mind of all thoughts and outside influences, chant the arcane words, and if you are fortunate, Sul will give you a picture in the water that can foretell the future.”

  Mathew paused, half expecting to be met with a laugh or a snort of derision. But Khardan was silent. Looking at him intently, Mathew tried to discover if the Calif was simply too polite to make the rude comments that were in his heart, or if he was truly struggling to believe and understand what he was being told. Khardan’s face was hidden by the gathering shades of evening, however, and Mathew was forced to continue on without any idea of what the nomad was thinking.

  “Zohra performed the magic perfectly. Your wife is very strong in magic,” Mathew took a moment to add. “Sul has blessed her with his favor.”

  This occasioned a reaction, but not quite what he’d expected. Instead of scathing denial, Mathew heard Khardan stir uncomfortably and make a warning sound deep in his throat as if to indicate Mathew was to keep to the main path and avoid any side journeys. Knowing nothing about Zohra’s creation of water from sand—a spell Mathew himself had taught her, but which she had always been terrified to perform—the young wizard shrugged to himself and continued.

  “Looking into the water, she saw two visions.” He closed his eyes, concentrating hard to remember every detail. “In the first it is sunset. A band of hawks, led by a falcon, fly out to hunt. But they end up fighting among themselves, and so their prey escapes. Distracted by their own quarreling, they are set upon by eagles. The hawks and the falcon fight the eagles, but they are defeated. The falcon is wounded and falls to the ground and does not rise again. Night falls. Now, in the second vision—”

  Seeing the scene again in his mind, caught up in the fascination magic always held for him, Mathew had forgotten his listener. He was suddenly jolted back to reality.

  “Birds!” The word fell like a thunderbolt. Springing to his feet, Khardan glared down at the young man, who was staring up at him with wide eyes. “She did this to me because of birds?”

  “No! Yes! That is—” Mathew stammered. “The pictures are . . . are symbols that the magus interprets in his heart and his mind!” He groped frantically for an image he could use to help the man understand. No good relating symbology to letters and words, as had been taught Mathew in school. The nomad could neither read nor write. Many of the legends of Khardan’s people were parables or allegories, but—while the nomads understood them in their hearts—Mathew wasn’t at all certain that they thought them over in their minds. In any event, he could not now try to explain that the beggar in the tale actually represented Akhran and that the selfish Sultan was mankind. How could he make Khardan understand?

  “I can explain it like this,” Mathew said, suddenly inspired by the symbols themselves. “It is the same as teaching your falcon to hunt gazelle.”

  “Bah!” Khardan turned and seemed prepared to walk out of the room.

  “Listen to me!” Mathew pleaded desperately. “You don’t send the falcon after the gazelle without training. You put hunks of meat in the eye sockets of a sheep’s skull and teach the bird to attack the gazelle by first attacking the meat in the skull! That skull represents—it symbolizes—the gazelle! Sul does the same with us. He uses these pictures we see as you use the sheep’s skull.”

  Interested in spite of himself, the Calif had paused in the doorway. He was no more than a large shadow, shapeless in his flowing robes in the darkness. “Why does Sul do this? Why not just say what he means?”
/>   “Why not send the falcon after the gazelle without training?”

  “The bird would not know what to do!”

  “And so it is with us. Sul does not want us to accept his vision too glibly, without ‘training.’ He wants us to look into our hearts and ponder the meaning of what we see. The hawks are your people. They are led by the falcon—that is you.”

  Khardan nodded solemnly, not out of pride, but merely an acceptance of his own worth. “That makes sense. Go on.”

  Mathew began to breathe easier. Although the Calif remained standing, at least he was listening and seemed to be comprehending what the young wizard was trying to teach. “The hawks— your people—are fighting among themselves, and thus their prey escapes them.”

  Khardan muttered irritably, not liking this that was, after all, nothing more than the truth. Hiding a smile, Mathew hurried on. “The eagles attack—those are the Amir’s troops. You are wounded and fall out of the sky and do not rise again. Night settles over the land.”

  “And this means?”

  “Your people are defeated and vanish into darkness.”

  “You are saying that if I had died, my people would have been vanquished. But I did not die!” Khardan stated triumphantly. “The vision is wrong!”

  “It’s what I tried to tell you at the beginning,” said Mathew patiently. “There were two visions! In the second, the falcon is hit by the eagles and he falls to the ground, but he manages to rise again, even though . . .” Mathew hesitated, uncertain how to phrase this, uncertain how the Calif would react. “Even though—”

  “Even though what?”

  Mathew drew a deep breath. “The falcon’s wings are covered with filth,” he said slowly. “He has to struggle to fly.”

  Silence, brooding and heavy, followed. Khardan stood very still; not a rustle of cloth broke the profound quiet. Mathew held his breath, as if that small noise could be a distraction.

  “I return. . . in disgrace,” Khardan said finally. “Yes.” Mathew let his breath out with the word.

  “Is that all? The only difference in the two visions?”

  “No. In the second vision there is no night. When you return, the sun rises.”

  Chapter 16

  “It was not an easy decision for Zohra to make, Khardan,” Mathew argued earnestly. “You know her! You know her courage! She herself would have preferred to die fighting the enemy rather than run away! But that would have meant the end of your people. That was what mattered to her most. That was why we rescued you from Meryem—”

  “Meryem!”

  Mathew had known this would surprise the Calif. “Yes,” continued the young man, trying to keep all emotion from his voice, knowing that Khardan must come to realize his own truth about the woman. “She was carrying you away on horseback—”

  “She, too—trying to save me.” Khardan spoke fondly, and Mathew grit his teeth to keep the sarcastic words locked behind them.

  “She had given you a charm to wear around your neck—”

  “Yes, I remember!” Khardan put his hand to his throat. “A silly thing, women’s magic. . .”

  “That ‘silly thing’ rendered you unconscious,” Mathew said grimly. “Do you also remember fighting, then feeling a strange lethargy come over you? Your sword suddenly becomes so heavy you cannot lift it. Ground and sky are mixed up in your vision. The enemy attacks, but you are so weak you cannot defend yourself. The blow falls but bounces off harmlessly.”

  “Yes!” Though Mathew could not see him, he knew Khardan was staring at him in amazement. “Is this more scrying? How did you know?”

  “I know the charm she used,” Mathew said. “I know its effects. She wanted you safe and unharmed and unable to fight. With help, she carried you out of the battle—”

  “Help? Do you mean Zohra’s?”

  “No. When we found you with that woman, Meryem was riding one of the Amir’s magic horses. How else could she have escaped that battle except with the help of the Amir’s soldiers??”

  “There are many ways,” Khardan said. “What she did, she did out of love. Misguided, perhaps, but she is a woman and does not understand such things as pride and honor.”

  Oh, don’t women? thought Mathew, but he said nothing.

  This was no time to argue.

  “At least you cannot say my wife acted from the same motive,” the Calif stated.

  “What Zohra did, she did for your people,” Mathew said with more heat than he intended. “Dressing you as a woman was the only way to get you past the soldiers. She didn’t do it on purpose to disgrace you! And it wasn’t her fault that our plans didn’t work out. It was mine. Ibn Jad came searching for me. Blame me, if you must.”

  There was a long silence, then Khardan said, “It wasn’t anybody’s fault. It was the God’s choosing.”

  Astonished, Mathew stared intently at Khardan, wishing he could see the man’s face through the darkness. He heard the Calif, who had remained standing all this time, settle himself back down on the floor and lean against the wall.

  “I have been thinking, Mathew. Thinking of what you said to me the night. . . the night that they were torturing me.” The words were laden with remembered pain. “You said, ‘Maybe your death isn’t what your God wants! Maybe you’re of no use to him dead! Maybe he’s brought you here for a reason, a purpose, and it’s up to you to live long enough to try to find out why!’ I didn’t understand then. But when I came to Akhran, when I saw his face, then I knew. He gave my life back to me to help him fight and win this war. I can do nothing to aid him in heaven, but I can do something on earth.

  “The question is”—Khardan continued, sighing—”what? What can we do against the might of the Amir? Even if we had all our people banded together—which we don’t. Even if they accept me on my return. . .” He paused, obviously expecting a response.

  Mathew could not give him the reassurance he wanted, and so kept silent. His silence answered louder than words, however, and Khardan stirred restlessly. “The falcon rising from the filth. Very well, I return in disgrace. A coward who has obviously been hiding for months, if nothing worse is spoken of me. You are wise for your years, Mathew. It was this wisdom that helped you survive the slave caravan, this wisdom that freed us from that evil castle. I am smart, courageous,” Khardan spoke simply, a statement of fact, “but I begin to realize that I am not wise. I came tonight to ask your advice. What should I do?”

  A warmth flooded over Mathew. He thought at first it might be the fever returning, but this was a wonderful sensation, and he did not respond at once but let himself savor it and bask in it—though he did not feel at all that he deserved it.

  “I—I don’t know. . . what to say,” Mathew stammered, thankful for the darkness that concealed his embarrassed pleasure. “You underestimate yourself. . . overestimate me. I don’t—”

  “You need time to think about things,” Khardan said, rising to his feet. “It is late. I have kept you talking too long. If you sicken again, it will be my fault. Zohra will claw out my eyes.”

  “No, she wouldn’t,” Mathew said, believing the Calif spoke in earnest. “You don’t know her, Khardan! She is proud and fierce, but she uses her pride like a ring of fire to protect herself! Within she is gentle and loving, and she imagines this to be a weakness instead of a very great strength—”

  He spoke fervently, forgetting himself and to whom he talked until Khardan drew closer to him and, kneeling beside him, fixed him with an intense look. Lambent light from stars and desert glittered in the Calif ‘s dark eyes.

  “You admire her, don’t you?”

  What could Mathew say? He could only look deep into his heart and pluck out the truth. It was not the whole truth, but now was not the time—if that time ever came—for speaking the whole truth.

  “Yes,” Mathew answered, lowering his head before those piercing eyes. “I am sorry if that displeases you.” He looked up again quickly. “And I would never touch her, never think of her in any way t
hat was not proper—”

  “I know.”

  Mathew was trembling in his earnestness and Khardan rested his hand soothingly upon the boy’s shoulder. “And I cannot blame you. She is beautiful, isn’t she? Beautiful—not like the gazelle—but like my falcon is beautiful. Courageous, proud. The fire you speak of flares in her eyes. That fire could burn a man’s soul to ashes or—”

  “—warm him for the rest of his life?” Mathew suggested softly when Khardan did not finsh his sentence.

  “Perhaps.” The Calif shrugged. He rose to his feet. “Right now, in her sight, I am a smoldering cinder. It may be too late to save either of us. She speaks the truth, however, when she says it is our people who matter. Rest easily, Mathew. I go to stretch my legs, then I will return and guard your sleep. You must get your strength back. In two days’ time, we will begin the journey to the Tel.”

  The journey to our doom, be it good or evil, thought Mathew. He was weary. The mixed emotions that had assailed him throughout the conversation had drained him of energy. Lying down, he heard Khardan’s footsteps echo through the corridors and his voice raised in conversation with another.

  Auda ibn Jad.

  Maybe He’s brought you here for a reason. A purpose. Or maybe not. What if I’m wrong?

  Chapter 17

  By next morning Mathew was able to walk with Zohra around the house. His interest in the dead city of Serinda revived as he viewed the wonders of the dwelling and marveled again at what terrible tragedy could have occurred that would destroy a people while leaving their city intact. When he attempted to expound on the mystery to Zohra, she evinced little interest, however, and Mathew realized after a few moments that she was leading him somewhere. There was an air of shy, quiet pride about her, much different from her usual fierce arrogance, and he found his curiosity growing.