The Prophet of Akhran

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  Feisal was feeling desperate, driven. It was an irrational feeling, and he couldn’t understand it. He was the most powerful priest in the known world. He had been invited to Khandar, to take over leadership of the church. It would be he, Feisal, who would lead the Emperor’s troops across the sea to bring the unbelievers of that fardistant land of Tirish Aranth to the knowledge of the One, True God. Yet here were a handful of ragtag followers of a beatendown God openly defying him, openly making him appear foolish in the eyes of the world. He, Feisal, had been merciful. He had given them their chance to redeem themselves. He would show mercy no longer.

  Summarily the word had gone forth, and the nomads, mostly women and children but a few young men, fathers, and husbands, had been rounded up and sent to the Zindan.

  The men were placed in cells, the women given the compound in which to make their beds, cook their meals, tend their children. The men were beaten, surreptitiously, when the Amir’s soldiers weren’t around. The women and young girls were watched with hatred and lust. The soldierpriests, naked swords in hand, stood around them. The spectral figure of Death often passed by the Zindan, her hollow eyes eager, watchful.

  When Zohra and Mathew entered the compound, shoved through the gate by the grinning guards, everyone was watching them. Yet no one said a word. The play of children was hushed, mothers clasping them tightly to the skirts of their robes. Conversation ceased.

  Gritting her teeth, her chin held firm and high, Zohra walked among her people. Mathew—looking and feeling very uncomfortable—followed a few paces behind.

  Glancing around, Zohra saw many she knew, but nowhere did she see any friends. The women of her own tribe, the Hrana, despised her for her unwomanly ways that told them plainer than words the contempt their Princess had for them. The women of the Akar hated Zohra for being a Hrana, for marrying their darling, their Calif, and then being insensible of this great honor, for refusing to cook his meals and keep his tent and weave his rugs. The women of Zeid’s tribe disliked her for being a Hrana and for the gossip they had heard about her.

  As for Mathew, he was crazy—a man who chose to dress as a woman to escape death. Akhran decreed that the insane were to be treated with all courtesy, and so he was treated with courtesy. Respect, friendship? Out of the question.

  The women separated to let Zohra and Mathew pass. Zohra viewed them all at first with her lip curled in scorn, her own feelings of hatred and derision burning her blood with poison. Turning, she cast a sideways glance at Mathew, prepared to ask why they had bothered. The expression on his face stopped her cruel words. Compassion, mingled with growing anger, had brought a shimmer of tears to the young man’s green eyes. Zohra looked at her people a second time—and saw them for the first time.

  Conditions for the people were wretched—inadequate, unhealthful food, little water; they lived daily, literally beneath the sword. Each woman had a space in the crowded compound big enough for her to spread her blanket. Children whimpered in hunger or sat staring out at the world with eyes that had seen too much, too early. Here and there a woman lay on a blanket, too weak to move. There was a sound of coughing, a smell of sickness. Without their herbs and feishas, the women had been unable to tend the sick. In a quiet corner of the yard a blanket covered those who had died during the night.

  Yet these women, like their men, had one thing that their captors could never take from them: their dignity, their honor. Looking at them, looking at the quiet calm that surrounded them, seeing the eyes that were unafraid, the eyes that held the faith in their God and in each other that sustained them, Zohra felt her own pride ooze from her. The wound in her spirit, lanced and drained of its infection, would at last begin to heal. The eyes of these women were a mirror, reflecting her to herself, and Zohra suddenly did not like what she saw.

  Longing for the power of men, she had not seen—or refused to see—that women had their own power. It took both forces, acting together, to keep their people alive, to bring children into the world, to protect and shelter and nurture them. Neither was better nor more important than another; both were necessary and equal.

  Respect and honor for each other. This was marriage in the eyes of the God.

  Zohra could not articulate these confusing thoughts. She couldn’t even begin to understand them. She knew only at that moment that she felt ashamed and unworthy of these courageous, quiet women who had fought a daily, grinding, hopeless battle to keep their families together and maintain their faith in their God.

  Zohra’s head drooped before those eyes. Her steps faltered, and she felt Mathew’s arm steal around her.

  “Are you sick, hurt?”

  Wordlessly she shook her head, unable to speak.

  “I know,” he said, and his voice burned with an anger she was startled to hear. “This is heinous! I cannot believe men could do this to each other! We must, we will get them out of this place, Zohra!”

  Yes! So help her, Akhran, she would! Lifting her head, Zohra blinked back her tears and searched the crowd for the one she sought. There she stood, at the end of the line of silent women, waiting. Badia—Khardan’s mother.

  Zohra walked up to the woman, who did not quite come to the Princess’s chin. Looking at Badia, Zohra saw the wisdom in the dark eyes whose beauty seemed emphasized by the lines of age in the corners. She saw in those eyes the courage that ran in her son’s veins. She saw the love for her people that had led Khardan here to give his life for them. Humbled, Zohra sank to her knees before Badia. Extending her hands, she grasped those of her motherinlaw and pressed them to her bowed forehead.

  “Mother, forgive me!” she whispered.

  If a leopard had come up and laid its head in her lap, Badia could not have been more astonished. Perplexed, a thousand questions in her mind, Badia reacted from her own compassionate nature and from the secret admiration she had always felt for this strong, obstreperous wife of her son. She remembered that the girl’s mother was dead, had died too early, before she could impart a woman’s wisdom to her daughter. Kneeling, putting her arms around Zohra, Badia drew the veiled head to her breast.

  “I understand,” she said softly. “Between us, daughter, there is nothing to forgive.”

  “My son lives!” The joy and gratitude in Badia’s eyes was a gift Zohra was pleased and proud to present her motherinlaw.

  “Not only lives, but lives with great honor,” said Zohra, saying this more warmly than she had intended, apparently, for she saw a spark of amusement flicker in Badia’s dark eyes.

  The two, together with Mathew, spoke quietly during the afternoon, the other women surrounding them. Those in front passed along the news to those in the rear who could not hear. The guards glanced at this huddling of chickens—as they viewed it—without interest and without concern. Let them cackle. Small good it would do them when it came time to wring their necks.

  “Khardan has been named Prophet of Akhran, for he brought the djinn back from where they had been held imprisoned by Quar.” Not quite true, but true enough to speak of in this hurried time.

  “And Zohra is a Prophetess of Akhran,” added Mathew, “for she can make water of sand.”

  “Can you truly do this thing, daughter?” asked Badia, awed. A murmur swept through the women, many—not as forgiving as Badia—regarging Zohra with suspicion.

  “I can,” said Zohra humbly, without the pride that generally accompanied her words. “And I can teach you to do the same. Just as Mathew”—she reached behind for the young man’s hand and held it fast—”taught me.”

  Badia appeared dubious at this and hastened to change the subject. “My son, where is he? Is he with his father?”

  “Khardan is in the city—”

  There was an excited rustle, an indrawn breath of hope among the women.

  “He has come to rescue us!” Badia spoke for all.

  “No,” said Zohra steadily, “he cannot rescue us. Our men cannot rescue us. We must rescue ourselves.” Slowly, carefully, she explained the situa
tion, presenting the dilemma of the nomads, who dared not attack the city to free their families, knowing that their families would be put to death before they ever reached the city walls.

  “But the Imam has decreed that we will die by morning!”

  “And so we must be gone from this place by morning,” said Zohra.

  “But how?” Badia glanced helplessly at the tall walls.

  “Do you propose we sprout wings and fly?”

  “Or perhaps you can turn the sand to water, and we will swim out,” suggested one of Zeid’s wives with a sneer.

  Mathew’s hand tightened on Zohra’s, but his warning was not necessary. The Princess’s newly found coolheadedness quenched the hot words that would normally have scorched the flesh of her victim.

  “We have come here with a plan to save ourselves. Sul gives magic to men in the land across the sea from which Mathew comes. Mathew is, in his own land, a powerful sorcerer.”

  The women exchanged glances, frowning, not quite certain how to react. One must, after all, be courteous.

  “But my daughter, he is mad,” said Badia cautiously, bowing to Mathew to indicate that she intended no offense.

  “No, he isn’t,” said Zohra. “Well, maybe just a little,” she was forced to add in honesty, much to Mathew’s discomfiture. “But that doesn’t matter. He has a magical spell that he can teach all of us, just as he taught me the spell to make water.”

  “And what will this spell do?” Badia asked. She glanced around sternly to enjoin silence.

  “In my land,” said Mathew, speaking uneasily, aware of hundreds of pairs of dark eyes turned upon him, “it is very cool, and it rains nearly every day. We have large bodies of water—lakes and streams—and because of this there is a tremendous amount of water in the air. Sometimes, in my land, this water in the air becomes thick enough that it is possible to see it, yet not so thick that one cannot breathe it.” He wasn’t getting very far. Most appeared more convinced now than ever before that he was crazy as a horse who eats moonweed.

  “It is as if the God Akhran sent a cloud down from the skies. This cloud is known as fog in my land”—he plunged recklessly forward. Time was growing short, they still had much to do— “and when this fog covers the earth, people cannot see very clearly through it, and consequently they feel confused and disoriented. Familiar objects, seen through fog, look strange and unreal. People have lost their way walking through a wood that they have known all their lives.

  “With Sul’s blessing the sorcerer can create his own version of this fog and use it to protect himself. Through the power of this spell the magus surrounds himself with a magical fog that has the power of instantly creating doubt and confusion in the minds of all who look at him.”

  “Does he disappear?” questioned Badia, interested in spite of herself.

  “No,” said Mathew, “but it seems to those looking directly at the magus as if he has disappeared. He can neither be seen nor heard, for the fog deadens the sound of his movements. Thus he can escape his enemies by slipping away.”

  Just how he would go through locked gates was another matter, but Mathew hoped a solution to that would present itself when the time came. In his land, where people were accustomed to seeing fog, this spell was only partially efficient and was mainly used by those who found themselves set upon by robbers in the woods or dark alleys of the city. It was, as he had said, a simple spell, one of the first taught to novices and often practiced gleefully to escape their tutors at bedtime. Mathew hoped, however, that the creation of fog in this land where it had never before been imagined, let alone actually seen, would unnerve the guards sufficiently that the men could wrest the keys from them and unlock the gates.

  There was one tiny, nagging doubt in Mathew’s mind, but he chose to ignore it. At the very bottom of the page in the spell book, written with red ink, was the warning that the spell be used by an individual, never by a group, unless warranted by the most dire circumstances. He supposed some instructor had explained to him the reason for this warning, butif somehow must have slept through class that day, for he could recall nothing of it. It had never seemed, important in his own safe, serene country.

  But now. . . well, certainly these could be considered dire circumstances!

  “The only things we need to perform the spell,” he continued, seeing the quickening interest in the women’s eyes and feeling himself heartened, “is the parchment upon which each of you must write it. Zohra and I carry these beneath our robes. And we need water.”

  “Water?” Badia appeared grave. “How much water?”

  “Why. . .” Mathew faltered. “A bowlful apiece. Isn’t there a well here in the prison?”

  “Outside the walls, yes.” Badia pointed.

  Mathew cursed himself. Would he never come to accept the fact that in this land water was scarce, precious? He thought frantically. “The guards must bring you water. When? How much?”

  Badia’s face cleared somewhat. “They bring us water in the mornings and evenings. Not much, maybe a cup each, and that must be shared with the children.”

  Seeing the swollen tongues and cracked lips of the women— forced to stand or work in the hot sun of the prison compound— Mathew guessed how much they drank and how much they gave to the children. His rage startled him. If he’d had the Imam beneath his hands, he would have choked the life out of the man and never felt a qualm. With an effort he mastered himself.

  “When the guards bring the water this evening, you must not drink it but keep it hidden, keep it safe. Not a drop must be wasted, for you will need every bit.” And pray Promenthas that is enough!

  “Will you do it?” asked Zohra eagerly.

  All the women looked to Badia. As Majiid’s head wife, she had the right to command a leadership role, and she had earned it during this crisis. All respected her, trusted her.

  “What about the young men and some of our husbands, locked in the cells?”

  “Where are the cells?” Mathew asked, looking around.

  “In that building.”

  “Any guards?”

  “Three. They keep the keys with them so that they may enter the cells when they choose to mistreat those within,” Badia answered bitterly.

  “Before we cast the spell, we will go first to the guardhouse, overpower the guards, and free the men.” Mathew said this glibly, completely unaware of how this would be done. “The men must stay near you when the spell is cast, and the fog will surround them as well.”

  “They will want to fight,” said a young wife knowingly. “We must see to it that they do not,” countered Badia crisply, and there was the glint of steel in the eyes that had been known to bring even the mighty Majiid to his knees on occasion. The glint faded, however, and she looked at Zohra with grave earnestness. “If we do not do this thing, daughter, what chance do we have?”

  “None,” said Zohra softly. “We will die here, die”—she faltered, glancing at the leering guards—”most horribly. And our men will die to avenge our deaths.”

  Badia nodded. “An end to our people.”

  “Yes.” There was nothing more to say, no softer way to say it.

  The women in the compound waited, watching Badia, whose head was bowed in either solemn thought or perhaps prayer. At last she raised her eyes to meet those of her daughterinlaw. “I begin to see Akhran’s wisdom in choosing you to marry my son. Surely the God has sent you here and perhaps sent us the madman”—she appeared none too ready to credit even Akhran with this—”to aid us.”

  Badia turned to Mathew. “Show us what we must do.”

  Chapter 7

  Night fell over parts of the city of Kich, was held at bay in others. The Temple and the grounds surrounding it shone more brightly than the sun; torches and bonfires hurled back the darkness and kept it outside the barrier that had been erected around the Temple steps from where the Imam was to speak to his people. The great golden ram’shead structure was in readiness. The golden altar having been carried
inside the Temple, another altar had been constructed and made holy by the under priests, to prepare for the presentation of the faith of the living and the souls of the dead to Quar.

  The Imam and his priests were due to speak to the people at midnight. Feisal intended holding them spellbound and enthralled with his words, whipping them to a fevered pitch of holy frenzy in which they would lose all thought for themselves or for others and exist only for the God. In such a state the smoke of the burning bodies of butchered women and children would not stink with the foulness of murder but would be sweetest perfume and rise like incense to the heavens.

  The bright radiance of the lights around the Temple made those parts of the city left to night that much darker by contrast. The streets late in the evening were—for the most part—empty. Except for the occasional merchant who took the very last opportunity to try to wring money out of lingering customers and who was only now shutting up shop and starting to hurry toward the Temple, there were few loiterers. The soldierpriests of Feisal could sometimes be seen, looking for those who might need a little extra persuasion to receive Quar’s blessing. Thus it was that two soldierpriests, walking down the street near the Kasbah, attracted little attention.

  The street was dark and empty, the stalls across from it shuttered and closed up. The lights of house and arwat were extinguished, for none would sleep in their beds this night. At first glance the street seemed too empty, and Khardan cursed.