The desert is lonely, but then so are we all, wrapped in our frail husks of flesh. It is silent, vast, and empty, and it brushes away man’s marks in its sand with an uncaring hand. It is eternal, everlasting, yet constantly changing—the dunes shift with the wind, sudden rain brings forth life where there was nothing but death, the sun burns it all away once more.
The past few months, I have been living only because I was afraid to die. He saw himself suddenly as the sickly brown cacti, the Rose of the Prophet, clinging to a meaningless existence among the rocks. Auda had said to him, Your life was obviously spared for a purpose. And all he could do with that life, apparently, was mope about whining and crying that it wasn’t what he wanted. Blossom, Auda called him. He could either decay and rot away or blossom and give meaning not only to his life, but to his death.
Suddenly, humbly and joyfully, Mathew reveled in being alive.
He looked down at his bloodstained hand. He had taken a life. Promenthas would call him to account for it. But he had done it to save a life.
And he was no longer afraid.
Chapter 9
“I do not trust that woman—Meryem’s—story of the Imam’s return to Kich,” growled Majiid.
“I never trusted her,” piped up Jaafar. “I didn’t believe a word she said. It was you took her into your dwelling, Sheykh al Fakhar—an insult to my daughter, a woman whose virtues number as the stars in heaven.”
Majiid’s eyes bulged; he bristled like a cornered tiger.
“Come, come,” interposed Zeid smugly. “There were three who were victims of the Emperor’s whore—two of them old goats who should have known better.”
“Old goats!” Jaafar shrieked, rounding on Zeid.
Khardan, rubbing his aching temples, bit back the hot words of anger and frustration that rose to his lips. Forcing himself to remain calm, his voice slid swiftly and smoothly between the combatants.
“I have sent the djinn to Kich to verify Meryem’s story. They should return at any moment with word.”
“Not my djinn?” Zeid glared at Khardan.
“All the djinn.”
“How dare you? Raja is my personal djinn! You have no right—”
“If it hadn’t been for my son, you would have no personal djinn!” laughed Majiid raucously, stabbing a bony finger into Zeid’s shrunken, flabby middle. “If my son wants to use your djinn—”
“Where’s Fedj?” Jaafar was on his feet. “Have you taken Fedj?”
“Silence!” Khardan roared.
The tent quieted, the Sheykhs staring at the Calif with varying looks—Zeid sly and furtive, Jaafar offended, and Majiid indignant.
“A son does not say such things to his father!” Majiid stated angrily, rising to his feet with help from a servant. “I will not sit in my son’s tent and—”
“You will sit, Father,” said Khardan coldly. “You will sit in patience and wait for the return of the djinn. You will sit because if you do not, our people are finished, and we might as well all go and throw ourselves at the feet of the Imam and beg for Quar’s mercy.” Saying thus, he cast a stern glance around at the other two Sheykhs.
“Mmmm.” Zeid smoothed his beard and gazed at Khardan speculatively. Jaafar began to moan that he was cursed, mumbling that they might as well give themselves up to Quar anyway. Majiid glared at his son fiercely, then abruptly threw himself back down upon the tent floor.
Khardan sighed and wished the djinn would hurry.
It was night. The Sheykhs were meeting in Khardan’s tent, holding council about their future plan of action. Crowded around the tent were the men of all three tribes, glaring suspiciously at each other but maintaining an uneasy peace.
The council had not begun auspiciously. Zeid had opened it by announcing, “We have now a Prophet. So what?”
So what? Khardan repeated to himself. He knew his predicament all too well. With the capture of the southern lands of Bas, the Amir had grown more powerful than he had been when he raided the nomad’s camps. Qannadi’s army numbered in the tens of thousands. His cavalry was mounted on magical horses, and Zeid had heard reports from his spies that—due to Achmed’s training—the soldiers of the Amir rode and fought on horseback as well any spahi. Facing this army was a handful of ragged, halfstarved tribesmen who could not agree on which way the wind blew.
A cloud materialized in the tent, and Khardan looked up in relief, glad to turn his gloomy thoughts to something else for the time being. Although, he told himself, this news was liable to make his problems just that much more difficult.
Four djinn appeared before him—the handsome Sond; the muscular Fedj, the giant Raja, and the rotund Usti. Each djinn bowed with the utmost respect to Khardan, hands folded over their hearts. It was an impressive sight, and Majiid cast a triumphant glance at his two cousins to make certain they did not miss it.
“What news?” Khardan asked sternly.
“Alas, master,” said Sond, who was apparently spokesman since he now served Khardan. “The woman, Meryem, spoke truly. The Imam is even now on his way back to Kich, accompanied by the Amir and his troops. And he has decreed that when he reaches the city, all its inhabitants are to welcome him in the name of Quar. Any who do not will be put to death. This spear is aimed directly at our people, sidi, for they are the only unbelievers in the city.”
“Have they been imprisoned?”
“Yes, sidi. Women and children and the young men—all are being held in the Zindan.”
“Without food!” put in Usti. Panting from his unaccustomed exertion, fanning himself with a palm frond, the djinn was livid at the thought. The other three djinn turned on him, glaring. Usti shrank back, waving a pudgy hand. “I thought the master should know!”
“They are starving them?” Majiid shouted.
“Hush!” ordered Khardan, but it was too late.
“What? Dogs! They will die!”
An uproar started outside the tent, Majiid’s voice having carried clearly to the tribesmen.
“We had not meant to tell you quite so suddenly, sidi.” said Sond, casting Usti a vicious glance. “And that is not quite the truth. They are getting some food, but only enough to keep them barely alive.”
“I don’t believe it,” Khardan said firmly. “I met the Amir. He is a soldier! He would not make war on women and children.”
“Begging your pardon, sidi,” said Fedj, “but it is not the Amir who issues this order. It is Feisal, the Imam and—many now say—the true ruler of Kich. “
“Quar is desperate,” added Raja, his rumbling voice shaking the tent poles. “The war in heaven has turned against him, and now he dares not allow any kafir in his midst on earth. The people of the captured southern cities are restless, and there is talk of revolt. Feisal will make of our people a bloody example that will quiet the rebels and keep them in line.”
“Then there is no help for it,” Khardan said harshly.
“We must attack Kich!”
“The first to die will be our people in the prison, sidi,” wailed Usti. “So the Imam has threatened!”
Glaring at the fat djinn, Sond sucked in an impatient breath, his fists clenched.
Looking vastly injured and much put upon, Usti pouted. “You can threaten me all you like, Sond! But it’s the truth. I went to the prison, you recall! Not you! And I saw them, master!” The djinn continued, thrusting his way forward to Khardan. “Our people are held in the prison compound, sidi, ringed round by the Imam’s fanatic soldierpriests, who stand—day and night— with their swords drawn.”
“These same soldierpriests are the ones who committed the slaughter of the kafir in Bastine, sidi,” added Sond reluctantly. “There is no doubt that they would carry through the Imam’s order to murder our people. In fact, they await it eagerly.”
“Our people would be dead before we got inside the city walls,” Raja growled.
“And we will never get inside the walls,” Sheykh Zeid pointed out gloomily. He waved a hand toward the camp, whe
re the crowd had fallen ominously silent. A few hundred against the might of the Amir! Bah! All we could do for our people is die with them!”
“If that is all we can do, then that is what we must do!” Khardan said in bitter anger and frustration. “Can we acquire more djinn, perhaps, or ‘efreets?”
“The immortals do battle on their own plane, sidi,” said Fedj, shaking his turbaned head. “Though Kaug is gone, the war rages still. Quar freed the immortals that he had kept bottled up, and though they are weak, they are numerous and are defending their God valiantly. Hazrat Akhran can spare none of his.”
“At least we should be thankful that no immortals will be defending Kich,” said Sond, anxious to say something hopeful.
“With a hundred thousand men, who needs immortals?” commented Usti, shrugging his fat shoulders.
Sond ground his teeth ominously. “I think I heard your mistress calling you.”
“No!” Usti paled and glanced around in fear. “You didn’t, did you?”
“My cousins in Akhran,” said Sheykh Zeid, leaning forward and beckoning those in the tent to bring their heads nearer his. “It is true, as the djinn have reported, that the Amir despises the idea of senseless slaughter. Facing us in battle, man to man, he would kill us all without hesitation, but not the innocent, the helpless—”
“He murdered the Sultan of Kich and his family,” interrupted Jaafar.
Zeid shrugged complacently. “So a wise man not only kills the scorpion in his boot but searches well for its mate, knowing that the sting of one is as painful as the other. But did he then go ahead and murder the followers of Mimrim and the other Gods whose temples—however small—were in Kich? No. It was only when this Feisal took control that we began hearing of Quar in the heart or steel in the gut. If something should happen to this Feisal . . .” Zeid made a graceful hand motion, his eyes narrowed to slits.
“No’“ said Khardan abruptly, standing up and drawing his robes aside as if to remove even his clothing from the presence of such defilement. “Akhran curses the taking of a life in cold blood!”
“Perhaps now, in modern days,” said Zeid. “But there was a time, when our grandfathers were young—”
“And would you go backward instead of forward?” demanded Khardan. “What honor to stab a man—a priest, at that—in the back? I will not be an assassin like a follower of Benario or of—”
“Zhakrin?” suggested a soft voice.
No one had heard Auda enter. No one knew how long be bad been there. Starting, frowning, the Sheykhs glared at him. Moving with his catlike grace, the Paladin rose to his feet to stand before Khardan.
“I remind you of your oath, brother.”
“My oath was to protect your life, avenge your death! Not to commit murder!”
“I do not ask you to. I will do what must be done,” said Auda coolly. “Indeed, no hand but mine may strike Feisal if I am to fulfill the oath made to my dead brother. But I would not leave my back undefended. I call upon you, therefore, to ride with me to Kich and help me win my way through gate and Temple door and—”
“—turn my head while you thrust your accursed dagger in the man? Avert my eyes like a woman?” Khardan’s hand slashed through the air. “No! I say again, no!”
“A squeamish Prophet,” murmured Zeid, stroking his beard.
Khardan whirled to face them. “The Imam has taken our families, our wives, our sisters, our children, our brothers, our cousins. He has destroyed our dwellings, stolen our food, left us with nothing but our honor. Now it seems that you want to hand him that as well. Then, truly, no matter what happens, we would be slaves to Quar.” The Calif stood tall, his voice shook in proud anger. “I will not surrender my honor, nor the honor of my people!”
One by one the eyes of the Sheykhs dropped beneath Khardan’s. Majiid’s fierce stare was the last to lower before his son’s, but at last even his gaze sought the carpet beneath his legs, his face flushed in chagrin, frustration, and fury.
“Then in the name of Akhran, what are we to do!” he cried suddenly, smiting his thigh with his gnarled hand.
“I will do what I would do with any other enemy who has offered me this affront,” said Khardan. “I will do what I would do if this Feisal were not Feisal but were Zeid al Saban”—he gestured—”or Jaafar al Widjar. I will travel to Kich and challenge the Amir to fight us in fair combat with the understanding that if we win, we will leave his people unharmed, and that if we lose, he will do the same for us.
“Thus I will fulfill my oath to you, Auda ibn Jad,” added Khardan, glancing at the Paladin, who stood listening with a lip curled in disdain. I will myself go and present our challenge to the Amir. You shall enter the gate with me, and we will face its perils together. But first you must give me your word that if the Amir agrees to our bargain you will do nothing to the Imam until my people are, safely in the desert.”
“The Amir will not go along with this plan, brother! If you are lucky, he will lop off your head as you stand before him. If you are not, he will take you to the Zindan and let his executioners teach you of honor! And I will have two deaths to avenge instead of one!” Auda said in disgust.
“Most likely,” replied Khardan gravely, nodding his head. The Black Paladin eyed Khardan. “I could leave you now and go forth and do this deed without you. You know that. Your sword arm is strong, but I can find those just as strong and far more willing. Why do I stay? Why do I endure this? Why did the gods mingle our blood and hear our oaths knowing them to be mismatched, spoken in mistaken belief?”
Auda ibn Jad shook his head slowly, his eyes dark with mystification. “I do not know the answer. I can only have faith. This I will promise, Khardan, Prophet of a Strange God. Should by some wild chance you prevail, I will not harm so much as a thread of the Imam’s robes until the sun has risen and set upon your people three times after they leave the city. Satisfied?”
Khardan nodded. “I am satisfied.”
“Then let it be also noted that your death cry absolves me from this vow,” said Auda wryly.
“That, of course,” agreed Khardan with a faint smile.
“So we ride to Kich,” said Majiid grimly, rising to his feet.
“We ride to death,” muttered Jaafar.
“Without hope,” added Zeid.
“Not so!” came a clear, confident voice.
Chapter 10
Zohra parted the tent flap and entered, Mathew following behind her.
The Sheykhs glowered. “Begone, woman,” commanded Majiid. “We have important matters to discuss.”
“Don’t you speak like that to my daughter!” Jaafar shook his fist. “She can make water from sand!”
“Then I wish she would make of this desert an ocean and drown you!” roared Majiid.
Worried and preoccupied, exasperated by the arguing, Khardan waved his hand at his wife. “My father is right,” he began peremptorily. “This is no place for women—”
“Husband!” Zohra did not speak loudly. The clarity and firmness of her tone, however, brought the haranguing to a halt. “I ask to be heard.” Politely, her eyes on Khardan alone, Zohra moved to stand before her husband. Her veiled head was held proudly; she was dressed in the plain white caftan. Mathew, clad in black, came behind her. There was a newly acquired dignity about the young man that was impressive, a calm and sureness about the woman that caused even the djinn to bow and give way to them both.
“Very well,” said Khardan gruffly, trying to appear stern. “What is it you want to say, wife?” The word was tinged with its customary bitter irony. “Speak, we don’t have much time.”
“If you fail to persuade the Amir to fight,it is obvious to me that we must rescue our people from the prison.”
“That is obvious to all of us, wife,” snapped Khardan, rapidly losing patience. “We are planning—”
“Planning to die,” Zohra remarked. Ignoring the Calif ‘s scowl, she continued. “And our people will die. This is not a battle that can be won
by men and their swords. She looked at Mathew, who nodded. Zohra turned her gaze back to her husband. “This is a battle that can be won by women and their magic.”
“Bah!” Majiid shouted impatiently. “She wastes our time, my son. Tell her to go back to her milking of goats—”
“Two with magic can free our people where hundreds with swords cannot!” Zohra said, overriding Majiid, a glittering in her dark eyes like stars in the night sky. “Mathew and I have a plan.”
“We will hear your plan,” said Khardan, wearily.
“No.” Mathew spoke up, stepping forward. He had seen the exchange of glances between the Calif and the others, the preparations made to humor the woman and then send her on her way. He knew that the Sheykhs, that Khardan himself, would never understand; that to describe his idea would bring incredulity and scoffing, and Mathew would be left behind while Khardan rode to certain death. “No, this is of Sul and therefore forbidden to be spoken. You must trust us“
“A woman who thinks she is a man and a man who thinks he is a woman? Hah!” Majiid laughed.
“All we ask,” said Mathew, ignoring the Sheykh, “is that you take us with you into Kich—”
Khardan was shaking his head, his face stern and dark. “It is too dangerous—”
Zohra thrust Mathew aside. “Akhran sent us to that terrible castle together, husband, and together he brought us forth! It was by his will we two were married, by his will we were brought to- gether to save our people! Take us with you to the Amir. If he slays us as we stand before him, then that is the will of Akhran, and we die together. If he sends us to the Zindan to die with our people, then—with our magic—we will have a chance to save them!” She lifted her chin, her eyes flaring with a pride that matched the pride in the eyes intently watching her. “Or has Akhran given you the right to risk your life for our people, husband, and denied that right to me because I am a woman?”
Khardan gazed at his wife in thoughtful silence. Majiid snorted in disgust. The djinn exchanged speculative glances and raised their eyebrows. Zeid and Jaafar stirred uncomfortably, but neither said anything. There was nothing anyone could say that hadn’t been said before. The Calif ‘s face grew darker, his frown more pronounced. His gaze turned on Mathew.
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