The Prophet of Akhran

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

But where, Mathew wondered, is Khardan’s djinn? Where is Pukah?

  The Sheykhs came running. Zeid’s round face was red with pleasure and delight. He declared to anyone who would listen that he had always known Khardan was a Prophet and he—Zeid al Saban—was responsible for proving it. Jaafar’s mouth gaped wide in astonishment. He started to speak, inhaled a large quantity of dust kicked up by the gathering crowd of cheering tribesmen, and would have choked to death had not Fedj solicitously pounded his master on the back.

  Majiid said nothing. The old man ran straight to his son and, flinging his arms around him, cried the first tears he had shed in over fifty years. Khardan embraced his father, tears streaming down his own cheeks, and the men from all the tribes united to cheer wildly.

  When Zohra stepped from her tent, they cheered her, too. Jaafar darted over to press his daughter to his bosom but, daunted by the fire in her eye and recollecting certain unfortunate statements he had made concerning her, decided to give her a gingerly pat on the arm. The Sheykh then ducked hurriedly behind the muscular Fedj.

  Standing tall and upright, his arm around his son’s shoulder, Majiid faced the dancing, singing crowd and was about to call— somewhat belatedly—for a celebration. Zohra was walking over to stand next to her husband when a disturbance at the rear of the crowd caused those in front to turn around, their yells dying on their lips.

  A rider was approaching. Coming from the east, the figure on horseback was muffled to the eyes, and there was no telling who or what it was. It was alone, and so no weapons were drawn.

  The horse, covered with lather, foam dripping from its mouth, dashed into camp. Men scrambled out of its way. The rider checked it in its headlong course, pausing to scan the faces as though searching for someone.

  Finding the person sought, the rider guided the weary animal straight to Khardan.

  The rider drew aside a veil covering the head, revealing a quantity of golden hair that shone brightly in the sun. Holding out her hands to Khardan, Meryem cried out his name and then fell, fainting, from her horse into his arms.

  Chapter 8

  “And so,” Sond finished his tale solemnly, “Pukah sacrificed himself, luring Kaug to the mountain of iron and tricking the ‘efreet inside while the immortal, Asrial, guardian angel of the madman—I beg your pardon, Effendi.” Sond bowed to Mathew. “Asrial, guardian angel of a great and powerful sorcerer, slammed shut the doors of the mountain, and now both Kaug and Pukah are sealed forever inside. Since the ‘efreet is no longer stirring up strife among the immortals, many of us have banded together and now almost all on the heavenly plane have united to fight Quar.”

  The men who crowded in and around the tent nodded gravely and murmured among themselves, rattling swords and intimating by their actions that it was time they, too, went to battle.

  “May I speak, My Lord?” said Meryem timidly from her seat next to the Calif.

  “Certainly, lady,” replied Khardan, looking at her fondly.

  Next to Mathew, Zohra growled deep in her throat, like a hungry lioness. Mathew closed his hand over hers, wanting to hear what Meryem had to say.

  “It is very noble of the Calif to have sacrificed his djinn for the sake of his people, and it is a wonderful thing that the evil Kaug has been finally rendered harmless, but I fear that this—instead of helping our people in Kich—has only put them in the most terrible danger.”

  “What do you mean, woman?” Sheykh Zeid demanded.

  Aware that all eyes were on her, Meryem became suitably pale and more timid than before. Khardan, taking hold of her hand in his, urged her to courage. Flushing, Meryem cast him a grateful glance and continued. “The Imam returns to Kich in two weeks time. He has proclaimed that if your people being held prisoner in Kich have not converted to Quar by then, he will put them—every one—to the sword.”

  “Is this possible?” Khardan demanded, shocked.

  “I fear so, Calif,” said Zeid. “He has done it before, in Meda and Bastine and other cities. I, myself, heard this same threat. If, as the djinn say, Quar is truly desperate now—” he shrugged his fat shoulders despairingly.

  “We must rescue them, then,” said Khardan firmly.

  “But we cannot attack Kich—”

  “I know a secret way into the city,” said Meryem eagerly, her eyes shining. “I can lead you!”

  Rising to her feet, Zohra stalked out of the tent. Khardan saw her leave, and it seemed he started to say something, then shook his head slightly and turned back to the conversation around, him. Mathew, casting the Calif an exasperated look, hurried to catch up with Zohra.

  “We must tell him!” he said urgently.

  “No!” Zohra said, angrily shaking off Mathew’s band from her arm. “Let him make a fool of himself over the houri!”

  “But if he knew she tried to murder you—”

  “You told him about the spell she cast over him!” Zohra whirled and faced Mathew. “Did he listen? Did he believe? Bah!” She turned, continued walking, and stormed into her tent.

  Mathew took a step after her, then stopped. He took a step back to the Calif ‘s tent and stopped again. Confused, upset, and uncertain what to do, the young wizard turned his footsteps toward the open desert, the coolness of the oasis.

  Though night had fallen, the sand radiated so much heat from the day that it would be some time before the temperature became bearable.

  “I told him about Meryem casting the spell on him. I told him about her trying to capture him and take him to the Amir. Obviously he didn’t believe me, or maybe it flattered him to think she cared so much for him. Why can’t he see?” Mathew fumed. “The man is intelligent about everything else! Why, in this one instance, is he such a blind fool?”

  Had Mathew been more experienced in the sweet torment of love, he would never have asked the question, let alone been unable to find the answer. But he wasn’t, and he fretted and swore and paced back and forth until he worked himself into a fevered sweat that dried on his body and set him to shivering as night’s chill grew.

  When he became aware, finally, that the babble of voices had ceased, he realized it was late, very late at night. The meeting had broken up, the tribesmen wending their ways to their tents. Weariness overwhelmed the young man. Returning to the camp that was empty and silent, he discovered that by night all tents look alike. Mathew stumbled sleepily and irritably first this direction, then that, hoping to find some late roamer who could guide him. Catching sight of movement, he headed toward the person, a plea for aid on his lips. The words died unspoken, and Mathew—wide awake—darted back into the shadow of a tent, out of the light cast by stars and a halfmoon.

  A lithe figure glided through the camp. She was wrapped in silken veils, but Mathew had no trouble recognizing the delicate, diminutive stature, the graceful walk. Stealthily the young man followed Meryem and was not surprised to see her creep up to the closed flap of a tent Mathew guessed must be Khardan’s.

  “Who is it? Who is there?” called the Calif, alert, it seemed, to the slightest sound.

  “It is Meryem, My Lord,” responded the woman in a halfsmothered whisper.

  Keeping to the deepest shadows, Mathew saw the tent flap open. Khardan appeared, silhouetted against golden lamp light. “What are you doing here? It is not proper—”

  “I don’t care!” Meryem cried, clasping her hands, her voice quivering. “I have been so miserable! You don’t know what it was like! The Amir’s troops captured me during the battle and carried me back to Kich! I was terrified that they would recognize me as the Sultan’s daughter and drag me before the Amir. But, thank Akhran, they didn’t!” She began to weep. “Your mother, Badia, cared for me as if I were her own daughter. She never believed you were dead, and neither did I!”

  Khardan put his hands on the girl’s heaving shoulders. “There, there. It is all right now.” The Calif paused, his fingers twining themselves in the silken veil. “If my mother is imprisoned, how is it that you are not there also?”
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  The question was carelessly put. Mathew caught the slight tenseness in the voice, however, and hope surged through him.

  “I managed to escape,” said Meryem, swallowing her tears and gazing up at the Calif adoringly. “I came to you as fast as I could.”

  The answer seemed to satisfy Khardan, to judge by his fond smile. Mathew grit his teeth. Can’t you see she’s lying?

  It was all he could do to keep from rushing from his hiding place and shaking some sense into the man.

  “Let us be happy, my love!” Meryem continued, drawing near and putting her hands caressingly on his chest. “I don’t want to wait for us to be married. Danger is so near.” She nestled into his arms. “Who knows how long we may have together?”

  Smiling at her, Khardan drew Meryem into his tent.

  A fury gripped Mathew by the throat, a fury such as he had never experienced.

  “By Promenthas, I’ll confront her with the attempt on Zohra’s life! Let her deny it before Khardan, if she can! And I’ll remind him of that little silver charm she hung around his neck while I’m at it!”

  Not stopping to think what he might be interrupting, Mathew ran over to the tent. The flap had been left open; Khardan was so taken by passion, apparently he forgot to close it.

  Mathew entered the tent silently. Blinking in the bright lamplight, he waited impatiently for them to acknowledge his presence. Neither did. Khardan’s back was to Mathew, the Calif appeared intent on kissing soft flesh. Meryem’s arms were around Khardan’s neck. Her eyes were closed and she moaned in ecstasy. Wrapped up in their pleasure, neither noticed the young man.

  Suddenly the realization of what he was doing and how Khardan would react to this violation of his privacy struck Mathew. His face burning with shame, he started to quietly edge his way out, intending to slink off into the desert and spend the night fuming in what he recognized was the rage of jealousy.

  As he moved, his attention was caught by Meryem’s hands; the skin glimmering white in the lamplight. Instead of caressing the Calif, the hands were doing something very strange. Dainty fingers closed over the stone of a ring she wore and gave it a deft twist. A needle shot out, gleamed for an instant, then vanished in shadow as Meryem slowly and deliberately moved the ring toward Khardan’s bare neck.

  Mathew had seen assassin’s rings. He knew how they worked. He knew that Khardan would be dead or dying within moments. The Calif ‘s weapons lay on a wooden chest at the foot of his bed. Springing forward, Mathew grabbed the dagger, and in the same moment, never noticing that Khardan’s hand was closing over Meryem’s wrist, the young wizard plunged the knife into the woman’s back.

  A wailing scream deafened him. He felt Meryem’s body stiffen. Warm blood drizzled over his hand. The body jerked horribly in its death throes; a heavy weight sagged against him. Appalled, Mathew sprang back, and Meryem dropped to the floor. She lay on her back, her legs twisted at an awkward angle. Blue, glassy eyes stared up at him.

  “My god!” whispered Mathew. The bloodstained knife fell from his fingers, which had gone limp and numb.

  A shadow entered the tent. Pausing, it looked from Mathew to the corpse. Khardan bent over Meryem, perhaps searching desperately for life.

  “Ah, well done, Blossom,” commented Auda.

  “Khardan!” Mathew licked his tongue across his dry lips. He felt a hot sickness welling up inside him. The ground canted away beneath his feet. “I—I . . . She was . . .”

  To his amazement, Khardan looked up coolly at Auda.

  “You were right,” he said heavily. “This is a tool of Benario’s.” Lifting the flaccid hand, the Calif gingerly exhibited the ring with its deadly needle.

  Mathew’s weakness abated momentarily, lost in his shock. “You knew?” he gasped.

  Khardan gave him a rebuking glance. “Of course. I thought long about what you told me. I remembered certain things she said to me, and finally I began to understand. She failed in her attempt to capture me for the Amir, and so she returned to do the only thing left—murder me.”

  Mathew swayed on his feet. Khardan, rising swiftly, caught the young man in his arms. Easing Mathew onto the bed, the Calif gestured to the Black Paladin to bring water.

  “I’m all right!” Mathew gasped, shaking his head in refusal, fearing if he drank anything he would gag.

  “Auda recognized her. He had seen her at Khandar,” Khardan continued. Putting his arm around Mathew’s shoulders, he forced the young man to sip at least a small mouthful of the tepid liquid. “Meryem was not a Sultan’s daughter, but the Emperor’s daughter by one of his concubines. She was given to Qannadi as a gift and was acting in his service.”

  “I killed her!” Mathew said hollowly. “I felt her. . . the knife going in . . . that scream. . .” Gazing at his hand, the blood, moist and sticky, shining black in the moonlight, he shuddered and doubled up, retching.

  “Her life was forfeit,” said Auda calmly, standing over the bed and looking down at Mathew with amusement in the dark eyes. “She has murdered before, not a doubt of it. Benario’s followers must, you know. They call it ‘blooding.’ Only one who was high in the God’s favor and knowledgeable in his ways could have secured a ring like this.”

  “Khardan! Are you safe? I heard a scream!” Voices were clamoring outside the tent.

  Motioning for the Calif to remain where he was, Auda lifted Meryem’s body in his arms and carried her out. “An assassin,” he shouted to the gathering, murmuring crowd, “sent by Quar to murder your Calif. Fortunately I was able to stop her in time!”

  Mathew looked up at Khardan. “Ibn Jad is right, Khardan. She tried to kill Zohra,” he said in croaking whisper, his throat raw. In broken sentences he related the incident to the Calif, who listened gravely, his face serious.

  “You should have told me.”

  “Would you have believed us?” Mathew asked softly.

  “No.” Khardan sat back on his heels. “No, you are right. I was then—as you thought me now—a blind fool.”

  Mathew flushed, hearing his innermost thoughts spoken aloud. “I didn’t—” he began confusedly.

  Khardan rested his hands on the young man’s shoulders. “Once again, Mathew, you have saved my life.”

  “No,” said Mathew miserably. “You knew about her. You knew what she would do. You were ready for her.”

  “Perhaps not. All she had to do was prick the flesh once and . . . “ Khardan shrugged. His eyes left the young man and stared out into the night, seeing—perhaps—the lithe figure entering once again. “Believe this, Mathew,” he said softly. “I have faced death in many forms, but when I saw that ring on her finger, when I felt her hands touch my skin, a horror came over me that changed my bowels to water and stole the strength from my body!” He shivered and shook his head, looking back at Mathew. “It was well you came. Akhran guided you.”

  “I’ve taken a human life!” Mathew cried in a low voice, clenching his crimsonstained hand.

  “We do what we must do,” Khardan said offhandedly. “Come, young man,” he added somewhat impatiently when Mathew shook his head, refusing to be comforted, “would you rather have let her kill me?”

  “No, oh no!” Mathew looked up swiftly. “It’s just—” How could he explain to this warrior the teachings of his parents that even in time of war their people refused to fight, insisting that all life was sacred. And yet, thought Mathew confusedly, there had never come a time to them when the sanctity of their home had been rent asunder, their children torn screaming from their mothers’ arms.

  “You are tired,” said Khardan, clapping him on the shoulder and helping him rise from the cushions. “Sleep, and you will feel better in the morning. We have much to talk about tomorrow.”

  I am tired, Mathew said to himself. But will I sleep? Will I ever sleep again? Or will I feel the blood, hear always that horrible, dying scream?

  At least, he noted thankfully when he left the tent, he wouldn’t have to talk to anyone. He could make his stu
mbling way back in secret and alone. The tribesmen who had gathered in the initial excitement paid no attention to him. There was an amazed reaction as Auda told his story, Mathew inwardly blessing the Paladin for taking credit for the killing and leaving him out of it. The tribesmen talked volubly, a few Hrana stated that they had mistrusted the woman the first time they saw her. Since this implied criticism of the Calif—now Prophet—those few making such claims were shouted down. The Akar were speaking loudly of how all had been duped by Meryem’s beauty, innocence, and charm.

  “Throw her to the jackals!” cried someone.

  Auda, with a procession of nomads accompanying him, carried the corpse to the outskirts of camp. The body hung limp in the Paladin’s grasp. A white arm—entangled in a silken scarf— dropped suddenly down, to dangle and sway in a mockery of seduction as though she were trying, one last time, to avoid her fate. But the jackals, looking at that nubile body, would see only meat.

  Shuddering, suddenly dizzy and sick, Mathew turned away. He felt eyes upon him and, glancing around, saw Zohra standing in the entrance of her tent. She said nothing, and he could not read her eyes. She made no sign, and Mathew did not go to her. She had heard Auda talking, of course. Mathew guessed she knew the truth.

  He walked blindly on. Reaching his tent, more by accident than design, he started to go inside, but the thought of stepping into the smothering darkness—the darkness that no matter what he did to alleviate it always smelled strongly of goat—made him gag. Mathew drew his hand back from the flap.

  He breathed in the cool night air and looked at the tents scattered around him. Many nights before he had done this same thing—stepped outside to gaze despairingly at the moon and stars, imagining them shining down upon his homeland, glinting off the water of countless streams, rivers, lakes, and pools.

  Tonight he saw a new moon—a tiny wisp of a moon—balance on its tip on the horizon as if it were testing itself before rising farther. For the first time Mathew saw the moon shine—not on the castle walls of his homesickness—but on the desert. The stark and barren beauty pierced the young man’s heart.