The Prophet of Akhran

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  The alter ego—having always found the end of Saad to be particularly gut wrenching—heaved a sigh of relief and went to sleep.

  Above the djinn, beneath him, and all around him, the mountain known as Sul’s Curse rumbled and quaked with the ‘efreet’s rage. Those few hardy nomadic tribes of the Great Steppes, who raised longhaired goats at the mountain’s feet, fled with their flocks in terror, convinced that the mountain was going to split wide open.

  The mountain remained intact, however. Encased in iron, Kaug had lost his power to do anything except to rage and storm. There was no possible way he could escape.

  From that time on it became a joke among the Gods to refer to the mountain as Kaug’s Curse.

  But to Sond and Fedj and the immortals of Akhran and one loving angel of Promenthas, the mountain was henceforth known as Pukah’s Peak.

  The Book of Promenthas

  Chapter 1

  Reluctantly Achmed rolled off his pallet. A soft arm twined about his neck, urging him to come back. Warm lips brushed against his throat, whispering promises of yet untasted pleasures. Succumbing, Achmed buried his head in the shower of golden hair that fell over the pillows at his side and let himself be enticed by the lips and the flesh for several breathless moments. Then, groaning as he felt the desire surge up within him again, he rose hurriedly from his bed and went to dress himself.

  Propping herself upon one arm, languishing among the cushions, her nakedness covered with only a thin blanket, Meryem gazed at Achmed through the tousled hair that shone like burnished gold in the lamplight.

  “Must you go?” she asked, pouting.

  “I am officer in charge of night watch,” Achmed said shortly, trying to keep from looking at her but unable to resist gazing hungrily at the smooth, white skin.

  Buckling on his armor, his hands fumbled and slipped, and he muttered a brief curse. Rising from the bed, the blanket sliding to the tent floor, Meryem came to him.

  “Let me do that,” she said, pushing aside his shaking hands.

  “Cover yourself! Someone will see!” Achmed said, scandalized, hurriedly blowing out the flame of the lamp.

  “What does it matter?” Meryem asked, shrugging and deftly fastening the buckles. “Everyone knows you keep a woman.”

  “Ah, but they don’t know what a woman!” Achmed replied, clasping her close and kissing her. “Even Qannadi said—”

  “Qannadi?” Shoving him back, Meryem stared up at him in fear. “Qannadi knows about me?”

  “Of course.” Achmed shrugged. “Word spreads. He is my commander. Don’t worry, my beloved.” His hands ran over the body that was trembling with what he thought was passion. “I told him that I found you in the Grove. He shook his head and said only that it was all right to lose my heart, just not to lose my head.”

  “So he doesn’t know who I am?”

  “He knows nothing about your true identity, gazelle eyes,” said Achmed fondly. “How could he? You keep your face veiled. Anyway, why should he recognize you as the Sultan’s daughter? He must have seen you for only a few moments at most when his troops captured your father.”

  “Qannadi has seen as much of me as you, fool,” Meryem muttered beneath her breath. Aloud she murmured coyly, “And have you lost your heart?” Her arms twined around his waist.

  “You know I have!” Achmed breathed passionately.

  “Meryem, why won’t you marry me?”

  “I am not worthy—” Meryem began, drooping her head.

  “It is I who am not worthy to slipper your foot!” Achmed said earnestly. “I love you with all my heart! I will never love another!”

  “Perhaps, then, someday I will let you make me your wife,” Meryem said, seeming to relent beneath his caresses. “When Qannadi is dead and you are Amir—”

  “Don’t talk like that!” Achmed said abruptly, his face darkening.

  “It is true! You will be Amir! I know, I have foreseen it!”

  “Nonsense, my dove.” Achmed shrugged. “He has sons.”

  “There are ways to handle sons,” Meryem whispered, reaching her arms up to his neck.

  Achmed pushed her from him. “I said not to talk like that,” he responded, his voice grown suddenly cool. Turning his back on her, he reached for his sword that hung from the tent post.

  Though she saw she had gone too far, Meryem smiled—a cunning, unpleasant smile that was hidden by the darkness. “No, you are not ready yet,” she said to herself. “But you will be. You are getting closer every day.”

  Putting her head in her hands, Meryem began to weep softly. “You do not love me!”

  There could be only one answer to this, and Achmed, his anger melting beneath her tears, gave it—with the result that he was about half an hour late relieving the officer on watch and was summarily and sternly reprimanded, the only thing saving him from a more severe punishment being the common knowledge that he was the Amir’s favorite.

  When Achmed was finally gone, Meryem sighed in relief. Washing off the sweat of passion, she dressed herself, looking with disfavor on the poor caftan of green cotton she was forced to wear, dreaming longingly of the silks and jewels , she had been wont to wear in the palace.

  “Someday,” she said resolutely, talking to Achmed’s robes that lay in a heap in a corner. “Someday I will have all that and more, when I am head wife in your seraglio. And yes, you will be Amir! If Qannadi does not die in this war, which seems unlikely now that it is won, then perhaps he will meet with a fatal accident back in Kich. And then, one by one, his sons, too, will fall ill and die.” Reaching her hand into her pillow, she slid forth a bag containing many scrolls, rolled tight and tied with variouscolored ribbons. Caressing these and smiling, she pictured in her mind the various deaths of Qannadi’s sons. She pictured Achmed receiving the news as he rose higher and higher in the Emperor’s favor. She saw him glance at her and bite his lower lip but remain silent, knowing that by this time—though he might rule millions—he himself was ruled by one.

  Meryem smiled sweetly and dressed herself in the green caftan. It had been a gift from Achmed and therefore—poor as it was, though it had cost Achmed more than he could afford—she was forced to wear it. Then she drew forth her scrying bowl and filled it with water. Clearing her mind of all disturbing thoughts, she began the arcane chant, and soon an image formed in the bowl. Staring at it, Meryem muttered most unwomanly words. Hastily twisting to her feet, she wrapped a veil of green and gold spangled silk around her head and face—another gift from the besotted youth—and slipped out of Achmed’s tent.

  Chapter 2

  “I tell you I must see the Imam!” Meryem insisted. “It is a matter of greatest urgency.”

  “But madam, it is the middle of the night!” remonstrated one of the soldierpriests who now served Feisal in place of slaves, ordinary men being considered unworthy of attending to the Imam’s personal needs. “The Imam must rest—”

  “I never rest,” came a gentle voice from the depths of night’s shadows that crowded thick behind the candlelit ram’shead altar. “Quar watches in heaven. I watch on earth. Who is it that needs me in the dark hours of the night?”

  “One who calls herself Meryem, My Lord,” answered the priest, hurling himself to the floor and prostrating his body as he would have if the Emperor himself had entered the room. Or perhaps he might not have groveled this low for the Emperor, who, after all—Feisal was now teaching—was only mortal.

  “Meryem!” The gentle voice underwent a subtle change. Nose to the floor, the soldierpriest did not hear it. Meryem did, and from her place on the floor, whither she had thought it politic to drop herself, she grinned in triumph. “Let the woman come forward,” Feisal said with dignity. “And you may leave us.”

  The soldierpriest sprang to his feet and bowed himself out. Meryem remained on the floor until he had gone; then, hearing the rustle of Feisal’s robes near her, she raised her head and peered into the shadows.

  “I have seen him!” Meryem hissed
through her veil.

  She heard a swift intake of breath. Stepping into the light cast by the altar candles, Feisal made a motion for the woman to rise and face him.

  The priest’s face appeared cadaverous in the altar light—the cheeks hollow, the skin waxen and tightly drawn over fragile bones. The robes hung from his wasted body, his neck thrust up out of them like the scrawny neck of a newhatched bustard, his arms seemed nothing but bone covered by brittle parchment. No wonder his followers believed him to be immortal—he looked as if Death had claimed him long ago.

  “Whom have you seen?” the priest asked indifferently, but Meryem was not fooled.

  “You know well who I mean!” she muttered to herself, but said smoothly, “Khardan, Imam. He is alive! And he has returned to his tribe!”

  “That is not possible!” Feisal clenched his fist, the bones of his fingers gleamed white in the altar light. “No man could survive crossing the Sun’s Anvil! Are you certain?”

  “I do not make mistakes!” Meryem snapped, then caught herself. “Forgive me, My Lord, but I have as much or more at stake here as you.”

  “I sincerely doubt that,” Feisal said dryly. “But I will not argue.” He raised a thin hand to prevent Meryem from speaking. Thoughtfully he began to pace back and forth before the altar, glancing at it occasionally as if—had the woman not been here—he would have found consolation in discussing the matter over with his God. The answer he sought apparently came to him without need for prayer, however, because he suddenly halted directly in front of Meryem and said, “I want him dead, this time for good.”

  Meryem started and glanced at him from beneath her long lashes. “Why should you bother, Holy One?” she said diffidently. “He is, after all, only one man, leader of a ragtag rabble—”

  “Let us say I mistrust anyone who rises from the dead,” Feisal remarked coolly. “We will leave it at that, Meryem, unless you think this is the time for both of us to share our little secrets?”

  Meryem evidently did not, for she did not respond.

  “Then we are both agreed that Khardan should die, are we not, Meryem, my child? After all, it would be a pity if Achmed should find out that his brother lives. There is no telling what he might do when he discovers you to be the lying little whore who deceived him. At the least he will kill you himself. At the worst he will turn you over to Qannadi—”

  “What do you want of me?” Meryem demanded in a tight voice, barely able to speak for the smothering sensation that was choking her.

  “It will take a very special person to get close enough to Khardan now to accomplish his death,” said Feisal, coming close himself to Meryem and staring at her with his burning eyes. She felt his breath hot upon her skin, and she involuntarily shrank from the disturbing presence. He grasped her wrist painfully. “This close!” he said. “Or closer still!” He jerked her forward; her body touched his, and she shuddered at the awful sensation.

  “There is someone who can get this close to him?” the Imam demanded.

  “Yes!” Meryem gasped. “Oh, yes!”

  “Good.” Feisal released the woman suddenly. Unnerved, Meryem sank to the floor and remained there, on her knees, her eyes lowered. “You are skilled in your craft. I need not tell you how to proceed. You must start your journey tonight. . You will have to go on horseback—”

  Meryem looked up, startled. “Why not Kaug?”

  “The ‘efreet is . . . busy upon matters of Quar, important matters,” said Feisal.

  The priest appeared uneasy, and Meryem wondered for the first time if the rumors that had been whispered in the dark and dead of night were true. Rumors that Kaug had disappeared, vanished. Rumors that he had not been seen nor his power felt in days. Delicately, Meryem probed.

  “Surely you do not want me to waste time, Imam! It will take me weeks—”

  “I said you will go by horseback!” the Imam interrupted sharply, his eyes flaring in anger.

  Meryem prostrated herself humbly in response, more from a need to keep her flurried thoughts concealed than out of I reverence. Where was Kaug? What was all this about? Something was wrong. She could smell Feisal’s fear, and she reveled in it. Undoubtedly she could turn this to her advantage.

  “I will leave tonight, as you wish, Imam,” she said, rising to her feet. “I will need money.”

  Going to a huge strongbox that stood behind the altar, Feisal opened it and returned presently with a sackful of coins.

  “I can give you escort as far as Kich, but no farther. Once you are in the desert, you are on your own. That should be no problem for you, however, my child,” the Imam added sardonically, handing Meryem the money. “Even snakes must flee your path.”

  Not deigning to answer, Meryem took the sack, her own cool gaze meeting Feisal’s burning one. Much was said, though nothing was spoken. These were two people who, knew each other deeply, distrusted each other intensely, and were willing to use each other mercilessly to gain their heart’s desire.

  Without a word Meryem bowed and left Feisal’s presence. “Quar’s blessing be with you, my child,” he murmured after her.

  Late, late that night, a soft knocking—several distinct taps repeated in a peculiar manner—resounded on the door of the dwelling of one Muzaffahr, a poor dealer in iron pots, cauldrons, and spikes whose stall was the shabbiest in the souk. His goods, unskillfully made, were purchased only by those as poor as himself who could not afford better. Servile and humble, Muzaffahr never raised his eyes above the level of a person’s knees when he spoke.

  But it was a very sharp eye, not a servile one, that peeped through the slats of the wooden door of the ironmonger’s hovel, and it was not his usual whining voice that queried softly. “What’s the word?”

  “Benario, Lord of Snatching Hands and SwiftRunning Feet,” came the answer.

  The door opened, and a woman, shrouded in a green caftan and heavily veiled, glided over the doorstep. The iroomonger shut the door softly and—finger to his lips—took the woman’s hand and led her through a curtainedoff partition into a back room. Lighting an oil lamp that gave only a feeble glow from its trimmed wick, Muzaffahr—still enjoining silence—threw aside a threadbare rug on the floor, opened a trapdoor that appeared beneath it, and revealed a ladder leading down into total darkness.

  He motioned at the stair. The woman shook her head and drew back, but the ironmonger motioned again, peremptorily, and the woman, casting him a threatening glance from her blue eyes, made her way slowly and cumbersomely, entangled in her robes, down the ladder.

  Muzaffahr followed swiftly, sliding the trapdoor shut above them. Once below he lit another lamp, and light filled the room. The woman glanced around in amazed appreciation, to judge by the widening of the eyes that were barely visible above her veil. The ironmonger, rubbing his hands, smiled proudly and bowed several times.

  “You will find no greater stock, madam, between here and Khandar. And there are very few in Khandar,” he added modestly, “who carry such an extensive line as do I.”

  “I can believe that,” the woman murmured, and Muzaffahr grinned in pleasure at the compliment.

  “And now, for what is madam in the market? Daggers, knives? I have many of my own make and design. This one”—he lifted proudly a wickedlooking knife with a serrated blade and a handle made of human bone—”has been blessed by the God himself. Or perhaps poison—the favorite of genteel ladies?” He gestured to several shelves built into the cavernlike walls of the hole in the ground. Jars of all shapes and sizes stood in neat rows, each with a label attached. “I have poisons that will kill within seconds and leave no trace upon the victim’s body.”

  Gliding closer, Meryem read the inscriptions on each jar with the air of one who knows her wares. Her eyes lighted on a heavy stone crock, and the ironmonger nodded. “I see you are an expert. That is an excellent choice. Takes thirty days to work. The victim suffers the most excruciating agonies the entire time. Ideal for a rival for your man’s love.” He started to li
ft the lid, but the woman shook her head and turned away.

  “Ah, my rings. So it is not a rival then, but a lover? I know, you see. I know how the needs of women and how they prefer to work. I am a sensitive man, madam, very sensitive. Let me see your hand. Slender fingers. I do not know whether I have any that small. Here is one—a chrysoberyl in a silver setting. It works thus.”

  Turning the stone a halftwist, Muzaffahr caused a tiny needle to spring out of the ring’s setting. The sharp point gleamed in the lamp light.

  “When you curl your finger under, like this, the point extends beyond the knuckle and is easily inserted into the flesh.” The ironmonger gave the stone another halfturn and the needle disappeared. “And, once again, an innocent ring. I can treat the needle for you or perhaps Madam would prefer to purchase the wherewithall and do that herself?”

  “Myself,” said the woman in a low voice, muffled by her heavy veil.

  “Very well. Shall you wear it?”

  The shrouded head nodded. Holding out her hand, the woman allowed the ironmonger to slip the ring upon her finger.

  “How much and what kind? Fast acting or slow?”

  “Fast,” she said, and pointed to one of the jars upon the shelf.

  “Excellent choice!” Muzaffahr murmured. “I bow before an expert.”

  “Never mind that. Hurry!” the woman spoke imperiously, and the ironmonger hastened to obey.

  A small perfume vial was filled with the selected poison. The woman concealed it in the folds of her robe. Money exchanged hands. The lamp was extinguished, the ladder climbed, the trapdoor raised. Soon both stood in the ironmonger’s hovel that was a hovel once more, the tools of the assassin’s trade well hidden beneath the trapdoor.