The Prophet of Akhran

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  “These are not your people. It is not your land, nor your God. The danger for us in Kich will be great, but the danger for you will be greater. If they capture you, they will not rest until they have discovered where you are from and what secrets you hold in your heart.”

  “I know this, Calif,” said Mathew steadily.

  “And do you also know that they will rip these secrets from you using cold iron and hot needles. They will gouge out your eyes and hack off your limbs—”

  “Yes, Calif.” answered Mathew softly.

  “We fight to save those we love. Why do you risk this peril?”

  Mathew raised his eyes and looked directly into Khardan’s. Silently he said, I could make the same reply, but you would not understand. Aloud he responded, “In the sight of my God, all life is sacred. I am commanded in his name and with the help of Sul to do all I can to protect the innocent and helpless.”

  “His danger will not be greater than ours. He can disguise himself as a woman, my husband,” suggested Zohra. “The baggage of the shedevil, Meryem, is still in her tent. Mathew can wear her robes. It would be better so, anyway, for the guards will keep us together and put us both in with the women when we enter the prison.”

  Khardan was about to refuse. Mathew could see it in the man’s tired eyes. The young wizard knew Zohra saw it as well, for he felt her body stiffen and heard the deep intake of breath with which to launch arguments, shout vituperation, or perhaps both, that would do nothing but cause further troubles. He was just thinking about how he could get her out of the tent, take her someplace where he could discuss this with her rationally, when suddenly Auda leaned near Khardan and whispered something to the Calif.

  Khardan listened reluctantly, his eyes on his wife and on Mathew. He cut Auda off with an impatient gesture. The Paladin ceased speaking and withdrew. Khardan was silent long moments; then, “I had thought to leave you with the sick and elderly in the camp. They are in need of your skills. But very well, wife,” he said dourly. “You will come, and Mathew as well.”

  Majiid, staring at his son in amazement, opened his mouth, but a swift gesture from Khardan caused him to snap it shut in seething silence.

  “Thank you, husband,” Zohra said. If the sun had suddenly chosen to drop from the sky and burst into flame in the center of the tent, it could not have flared more brilliantly or shone with such dazzling radiance. She bowed respectfully, her eyes lowered; but as she did so, she cast a swift, triumphant glance at her husband and a warm, thankful glance at Auda.

  Khardan’s brow grew darker, but he said nothing. Mathew, seeing Auda’s eyes on Zohra and a slight smile on the man’s lips, did not like this change of heart on Khardan’s part and the sudden interest in Zohra on Auda’s. He mistrusted what was behind it and would have very much liked to stay and hear what was said next, but Khardan dismissed both of them, and the young wizard had no choice but to follow the elated Zohra from the tent.

  Mathew lingered outside, hoping to overhear the conversation, but Sond appeared in the tent flap, staring at him sternly. There was only silence from within, and Mathew knew that conversation would be resumed only when he and Zohra were gone.

  Sighing, he trailed behind a Zohra thrilled with her victory, and the young man wondered soberly and somberly who had really won.

  “Are they gone?”

  Sond, standing at the tent entrance, nodded.

  “Auda ibn Jad is right,” said the Calif, cutting off his father’s argument before Majiid could speak. “As headstrong as”—he swallowed—”my wife is, if we left her here alone, she would undoubtedly try some foolish plan of her own. Better to keep them both with us, where we may watch them.”

  Those had not been Auda’s’ words. He had reminded Khardan of what the Calif already knew—Mathew was a skilled sorcerer, Zohra an apt pupil. In this desperate situation they could not turn down any offer of hope, however small. Auda would have gone on to remind Khardan of his wife’s courage, but the Calif remembered that well enough, and it was at that point he had stopped the man short. Khardan wondered why it should irritate him to hear Auda praise a wife who was not a wife, but it did; the Paladin’s words of praise for her nipping at the Calif like the fiery bite of the red ant.

  “Have the men ready to ride by morning,” Khardan said abruptly, rising and putting an end to discussion. He wanted, needed, desperately, to be alone. “If all goes well, the Amir will face us in fair battle—”

  “Fair? Ten thousand to one?” muttered Jaafar gloomily. “Fair for the Akar!” Majiid retorted. “If the Hrana are cowards, they can hide behind their sheep!”

  “Cowards!” Jaafar bristled. “I never said—”

  “If matters go awry,” continued Khardan loudly, relentlessly riding over the impending altercation, “and I am taken, I will fight to the end. So will our people in the prison. Though ringed round by swords, they will battle for their lives with their bare hands. And you will attack the city, without hope, perhaps, but send as many of Quar’s followers to their God as you can before you fall!”

  Majiid—his gray cheeks regaining a measure of color, his faded eyes their old, fierce spark—clapped his son upon the back. “Akhran has chosen his Prophet wisely!” Gripping Khardan with both hands, he kissed the Calif ‘s cheeks, then left the tent, his voice booming across the desert as he called forth his people to war.

  Jaafar sidled near the Calif. The face of the small, wizened man, which seemed perpetually sad even in his happiest moments, now appeared ready to crumble into tears. Patting Khardan’s arm, glancing furtively around to see that no one heard him, he whispered; “Akhran knows, I am a cursed man. Nothing has ever gone right for me. But I begin to think I have not been cursed in his choice of a soninlaw. “

  Zeid said nothing, but stared at Khardan shrewdly, as through mistrusting even this and wondering what trick the Calif had in mind to play. The mehariste made a respectful salaam, then departed, taking Raja with him. Auda, too, had apparently gone, for when Khardan remembered him and turned to speak, the Black Paladin was not in the tent.

  Alone, the Calif sank down despondently upon the cushions on the tent floor. He was not meant for this kind of life. He did not enjoy the taste of honey on his tongue—honey used to sweeten bitter words so that others would gulp them down. He preferred direct and honest speech. If words must be spoken, then let his tongue be as sharp and true as his blade. Unfortunately he did not possess, in this dire time, the luxury of speaking his mind.

  His shoulders slumped in exhaustion, and he lay down. Tired as he was, he did not have much hope of sleeping, however. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw blond hair, smiling lips, and felt the prick of a poisoned needle. . .

  “I beg your pardon, master,” said a quiet voice, causing Khardan to sit up in alarm. “But I have something to say to you in private.”

  “Yes, Sond, what is it?” Khardan asked reluctantly, seeing in the djinn’s grave expression more bad news.

  “As you may have surmised, sidi, we djinn divided up in our search for information. Usti was sent to the prison—we thought he could cause less trouble there than anywhere else. Raja went among the people of Kich. Fedj spied upon the Imam’s priests as best he could without entering the Temple, which we cannot do, of course, since it is the sacred precinct of another deity. I traveled north, sidi, and went among the troops of the Amir.”

  “You have news of Achmed,” guessed Khardan.

  “Yes, sidi.” Sond bowed. “I hope I have not done wrong.”

  “No. I am glad to hear of him. He is my brother still. Nothing—not even my father’s disavowal of him can change that.”

  “I thought that was how you felt, sidi, and so I took the liberty. I overheard some odd things spoken about him and a woman he had taken recently. A woman who has since left him under mysterious circumstances.”

  Khardan’s face grew shadowed. He said nothing but gazed at the djinn intently.

  “I waited until the young man left to perfom some
duty or other, then I entered his tent. I found this, sidi.” Sond handed to Khardan a small piece of parchment.

  “What does it say?” asked the Calif, staring at the strange markings with distrust.

  Sond read the message Meryem left for Achmed.

  “She was with him many weeks, apparently, sidi,” said Sond gently. “There is no doubt he was infatuated with her. That was common gossip among all the men. Since she has been gone, all note his sad face and sorrowing aspect.”

  “What did she mean to do with him?” Khardan asked, crushing the paper in his hand.

  “One can only speculate, master. But I heard many more things about your brother while I was among the troops. He is a favorite with Qannadi, whose men, as well, have grown to respect the Kafir, as they call him. Achmed has proved himself, both on the field and off. Qannadi has sons, but they are far away in the Emperor’s court. There is little doubt that were the Amir to die, Achmed might find himself able to rise to a position of great power and authority. My guess is that the woman, Meryem, knew of this and intended to rise with him. Perhaps even see to it that he moved somewhat faster than expected.”

  “What can our God mean by this?” Khardan remarked, puzzled. “In killing Meryem, we may have saved the Amir’s life.” He drew a deep breath, unwilling to ask the next question, unwilling to hear the answer. “Sond, will my brother come to Kich?”

  “Yes, sidi. He is Captain of the Amir’s cavalry.”

  “Has he— Has he converted to Quar?”

  “I do not think so, sidi. The men say that your brother worships no God. He claims that men are on their own, responsible only to themselves and to each other.”

  “What will he do if his people are attacked?”

  “I do not know, sidi. My sight reaches far, but it cannot see into the human heart.”

  Khardan sighed. “Thank you, Sond. You may go. You have done well.”

  “The blessing of Akhran upon you, master.” said the djinn, bowing. “May he touch you with wisdom.”

  “May he indeed,” Khardan murmured, and lay down to stare thoughtfully into the darkness that seemed to grow ever deeper around him.

  The Book of Akhran

  Chapter 1

  Hrana, Akar, Aran: the tribes, united at last—if only in despair—rode for Kich swiftly and in dour silence, each man occupied with his own dark thoughts. No one—not even Khardan himself—believed the Amir would accept their challenge. The Imam had declared the kafir would convert or die, and he would not retreat from that stand. This was the last ride of the desert people. This was the end—of life, of future. The hope that grew in almost every heart had the taste of a bitter herb—it consisted only of being able, in death, to stand before Akhran and state, “I died in honor.” Khardan was not surprised to see, as the nomads left the camp about the Tel, that the Rose of the Prophet looked nearer death than it ever had before. Still, it clung to life with stubborn persistence.

  Two hearts on that grim journey, however, nurtured true hope. Zohra had never heard of this “fog” of which Mathew spoke, and which he said was common in the alien land from which he came. She found it difficult, if not impossible, to imagine clouds coming down from the sky to obey her command, surrounding and protecting and confusing the eyes of her enemies. But she had seen Mathew summon one of these clouds from water in a bowl in her tent. She had felt its cold and clammy touch on her skin, smelled its dank odor, and watched in astonishment as Mathew gradually faded from her sight and familiar objects in the tent either disappeared or looked strange and unreal.

  She had thought he was gone—his body turned into the mist—until he had spoken and reached out to her. His hand had clasped hers, and then she had known disappointment.

  “What use is a cloud that will not stop a hand, let alone swords or arrows?”

  Patiently Mathew had explained that if each woman was taught the magic and summoned her own “fog,” it would be as the creation of a gigantic cloud that would cover them all. They could take advantage of the guards’ certain confusion and panic to attack and win their way free of the prison walls before anyone caught them.

  “Surely there is magic you know that can fight for us as an army!” she said persistently.

  Yes, he had answered with patience, but it takes study to use it effectively. Without practice the magic is more dangerous to the spell caster than to the victim.

  “The fog spell is relatively simple to cast. We can teach the women to write it easily. All we need,” Mathew had added offhandedly, “is a source of water, and surely there must be a well in the prison.”

  “Have you done this before?” Zohra had asked.

  “Of course.”

  “With many people?”

  He had not answered, and Zohra had not pursued the matter further.

  At this point, it didn’t matter.

  Two days hard riding on the mehara, and those horses that had been saved in the battle brought the men to the hills of the sheepherding Hrana. There were few left to greet them, mostly old men and women who had been considered worthless and left behind by the Amir. They welcomed their Sheykh but regarded their Princess and her husband with sullen words and bitter looks. It was only when Fedj appeared and told the tale of Khardan the Prophet that their darting, sidelong glances widened with awe and they began to look upon the Calif with more respect—if not less suspicion.

  By the time the tale was concluded, late in the night, it had been rewoven and embroidered, cut here, mended there, until, as Khardan muttered aside to Auda, he would not have known it for the same suit of clothes. The tale had its intended effect, however—or at least so Khardan supposed. The moment the people of Jaafar’s tribe, who had been skulking in the hills with the remnants of their flocks, heard that Khardan was favored of Akhran, they began to pour their woes into his ears until it was a wonder his brain didn’t overflow.

  Their woes were the same as those of their cousins around the Tel—water was scarce, food was dear, wolves were raiding their flocks, they were worried about their families held prisoner in Kich. When was the Prophet going to make it rain? When would he give them wheat and rice? When was he going to drive off the wolves? When was he going to march on Kich and free their people?

  Long after Majiid had gone to his bed, long after Zohra had retired to the empty yurt of one of her half brother’s captive wives, long after Mathew had rolled himself up in a blanket on the floor of an empty hut that had been assigned for his use, Khardan remained seated with his fatherinlaw and the silent, watchful Auda around a sputtering fire. Blinking eyes that burned with fatigue, he stifled yawns and patiently answered either “yes” or “in Akhran’s time” to everything. He did not say that “Akhran’s time” was “no time,” but all heard his unspoken words, saw the despair in the dark eyes and, one by one, they left him. Sond almost carried the boneweary Calif to his dwelling where he sank into a desolate, gloomridden sleep.

  The silence of night in the hills is not the silence of night in the desert. The silence of the hills is the weaving of many tiny sounds of tree and bird and beast into a blanket that rests lightly over the sleeper. The silence of the desert is the sibilant whisper of the wind across the sand, the snarl of a prowling lioness that sometimes jolts a sleeper to sudden wakefulness.

  The silence of the hills had lulled her to sleep, but when Zohra started up, striving with every sense to determine what alarmed her, it seemed to her that she was back in the desert. There was no sound; all was too quiet. Her hand slipped beneath her pillow, fingers grasping for the hilt of her dagger, but a crushing grip closed over her wrist.

  “It is Auda.” His breath touched her skin. He spoke so softly, she felt his words more than heard them.

  “There is not much time left to us!” breathed his voice in her ear. “Tomorrow we arrive in Kich, and my life is forfeit to the service of my God, the fulfillment of my oath. Lay with me this night! Give me a son!”

  The fear surging in her slowly calmed. Her heart no
longer pounded in her breast, her blood ceased to rush in her ears. That bad been her initial fright, her reaction to being taken by surprise. Her breath came more easily; she relaxed.

  “You do not cry out. I knew you would not.” He released his grip on her hand and drew near her.

  “No.” Zohra shook her head. “There is no need. I am sure of myself.”

  He could not see her; the darkness was intense, impenetrable. But be could feel the movement of her head, the long, silky hair brushing against his wrist. He moved his hand to part her hair; his lips touched her cheek.

  “No one but you and I will ever know.”

  “One other,” she said. “Khardan.”

  “Yes.” Auda considered. “You are right. He will know. But he will not begrudge me this, for I will be dead. And he will be alive. And he will have you.”

  He ran his bands through her tousled hair. The darkness was soft and warm and smelled of jasmine. Cupping her chin, he guided her lips to his and waited expectantly, confidently, for her answer.

  The next morning the nomad army left the Hrana, taking along those old men who insisted they could ride farther and fight better than three young ones. Khardan, riding at their head, noted that Zohra seemed unusually quiet and preoccupied.

  He had insisted at the beginning of their journey that she and Mathew accompany him, instead of following in the rear in the accustomed place of women. This was both a concession to his father—who never ceased to suspect Jaafar and his daughter were plotting against him—and to himself. As Zohra had said, they had traveled long and far together, faced many perils together. He came to realize, in the long hours of the ride when he had too much time to think, that he would have found it difficult, leaving her behind. It was somehow a comfort to him to look over and see her sitting her horse with the confidence of a man, a grace all her own.