The Prophet of Akhran

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  Zohra was having her own problems. The sudden ability to see herself and to take pride in herself as a woman was, at this early stage, uncomfortable and unsuited to her. Thus she kept herself aloof from the other women during the ride, though they made no secret of the fact that they now accepted her as one of themselves and would have welcomed her to their group with pleasure. A few began to remark that their Princess had not changed after all; but their disparaging words were cut short by Badia, who alone thought she understood somewhat of the battle raging in the breast of her daughterinlaw. The fight for selfunderstanding is like fighting an enemy who never stands in front of you but always attacks from the rear, who is never seen clearly, who continually jabs away at every weakness. Only the most fortunate get the best of him.

  As for Mathew, every time he shut his eyes, he saw again the people dying all around him. He asked himself bluntly—as Khardan had asked him when the young wizard had killed Meryem— if he wanted to reverse the outcome and die at the hands of his enemies. But he knew that the memory of those withering faces seen dimly through the fog would remain with him into the next life, and that there he would be held to account.

  One by one, every fine precept in which Mathew had believed had been hacked up, slashed open, and left to die in the sand of this harsh land. Mathew tried to bring his old, comfortable beliefs back to life, but it was impossible even to summon their ghosts. He was so far changed from the boy who had walked the forested, waterrich land of Aranthia that he seemed to have split into another being. But what amazed and truly confounded him during the long nights, when he had nothing to do but think and stare at the stars, was that he looked back on that boy wistfully, sadly, but no longer with regret. Perhaps he wasn’t a better person, but he was a wiser, more thoughtful one. He knew himself to be truly one with every other human, no matter how different in manners and appearance, and he found an abiding sense of comfort in this knowledge.

  The only question remaining to him was what his future held. Mathew began to see the road he was traveling nearing its end, and he knew in his heart he must soon be called to make a choice. The Amir had mentioned ships sailing to the continent of Tirish Aranth. He could return to Aranthia, the land of his birth, or remain in Tarakan, the land of his rebirth. Right now he had no idea what that choice would be.

  The other members of the three tribes had no such besetting preoccupations. The three Sheykhs rode side by side at the front of their people and were the best of friends, the closest of cousins, the most loving of brothers. Instead of attempting to rival each other in insults, they sought to outdo each other in flattery.

  “It was because of the courage of the Hrana that our people escaped the prison,” said Majiid expansively, patting Jaafar on the shoulder with a friendly hand.

  “But without the fortitude of the Akar, the courage of the Hrana would have been for naught,” said Jaafar, leaning out— somewhat nervously—in his saddle to twitch at Majiid’s robes, a sign of respect.

  “I may safely say,” added Zeid from the height of his swiftmoving camel, “that without the courage of the Hrana and the fortitude of the Akar, the Aran would, at this moment, be feeding the jackals.”

  “Ah,” cried both the other Sheykhs as one, “without the wisdom of the Aran it is we who would be feeding the jackals.”

  And so on and so forth until the djinn rolled their eyes and Khardan became so disgusted with all of them that he took to riding at the end of the line.

  Thus it was that the Sheykhs, and practically everyone else in all three tribes, topped the crest of one of the gigantic dunes overlooking the Tel and came to a halt, staring down in loudly exclaiming wonder, and calling for their Prophet.

  Fearing, irrationally, that Qannadi had somehow stolen a march on him and was in the Tel waiting his return, Khardan rode his horse at breakneck speed, driving the animal, foundering and sliding, up to the top of the dune.

  Spread out before him in such numbers that the floor of the desert now resembled a vast city were tents of every shape and description and size—ranging from small ones designed for one man to rest through the heat of the day, to others full seven poles long. In addition, there seemed to have fallen an unseasonable and unusual rain during the time they were gone, for the oasis was green and thriving. Women crowded around the well, drawing water in plentiful supply. Children played and splashed in the pools. Horses, camels, donkeys, and goats were tethered and hobbled near the water or roamed the camp. On the Tel itself the cacti known as the Rose of the Prophet was green and thriving, though as yet no blossom appeared.

  Their return had evidently been expected—a group of riders were seen detaching themselves from the camp and dashing madly toward the dune. In their hands they carried bairaq—tribal flags—not weapons. Khardan, along with the Sheykhs, rode down to meet them on the desert floor, leaving the people on the dune to watch and speculate in tones of wonder.

  “We seek one known as the Prophet of Akhran,” shouted a man clad in the uniform of a soldier of some unknown army.

  “I am called the Prophet of Akhran,” said Khardan, riding forward, his face dark and glowering. “Who are you, and who are these who camp around the well of the Akar?”

  “Those who come to do you honor, Prophet,” said the soldier, dipping his flag to the ground as did those who rode with him. “We come to ride with you into battle against the Amir of Kich!”

  “But where are you from?” asked Khardan, so amazed that he wouldn’t have been at all surprised if the man had answered modestly that he’d dropped from the moon.

  “From Bastine and Meda, from Ravenchai and the Great Steppes—everywhere the Emperor has placed the heel of his boot on a man’s neck.”

  Seeing a familiar face, Khardan gestured to an old man seated on an aged horse—both man and beast had outlived several generations of offspring. “Abdullah, come forward.”

  The aksakal, one of the tribal elders of the Akar, rode his ancient beast up to the line of Sheykhs. Mindful of where it was and who it carried, the horse kept its neck arched proudly and lifted its rheumatic feet as high as possible.

  “What is this, Abdullah?” Khardan asked the old man sternly. “You were in charge in our absence. Why have you allowed this?”

  “It is as the man says, O Prophet of our God,” answered the aksakal, speaking with dignity. “They began arriving almost the day you left, and there has been a steady flood of them ever since. I was minded at first to turn them away, but that night a storm struck such as I have never seen this time of year. The water poured from the heavens. It rained four days and four nights, and now the well is filled, the pools are deep and cool, the desert blooms, and here is an army at hand. Should I be so mad as to throw the blessings of Hazrat Akhran back in his face?”

  “No,” said Khardan, troubled and wondering why his heart was heavy when all burdens should be lifting from him. “No, you did right, Old One, and we are grateful.”

  “Hail, Prophet of Akhran!” shouted the soldier, and the desert resounded with the cheers that came from the throats of the multitude.

  They assisted Khardan from his horse and bore him on their shoulders with boisterous ceremony to the largest, most luxurious tent in the camp. Zohra was no less honored, though she would have been, if she could have escaped. Nothing would do but that she must be led on a pure white donkey to her own tent, hardly less magnificent than Khardan’s. Here she was greeted by women bearing costly silks and jewels, food and sweetmeats. Usti was in a rapturous state and refused to be parted from his “dear Prophetess” no matter what threats she issued under her breath.

  Mathew, too, was given a tent, though no one offered to carry him to it or dared touch him at all but stared at him as he passed in silent, reverent awe. The Sheykhs were accorded the same honors as their children, and even Jaafar was observed to look happy for the first time that anyone, including his own elderly and infirm mother, could remember. Zeid suddenly recalled that he was uncle to both Prophet and Prophete
ss, though how this could be no one knew; but all were pleased at any excuse to honor anyone, and the rotund Sheykh was granted his due.

  As soon as Khardan was settled in his tent and had thought wearily of going to his bed, the people began to form lines outside, demanding an audience with their Prophet. Khardan could not refuse and, one by one, they brought him their problems, their needs, their wants, their requests, their suggestions, their demands, their gifts, their offerings, their daughters, their good wishes, and their prayers. Meanwhile, in another tent, the Sheykhs and the djinn were gleefully planning to go to war.

  Chapter 13

  The talk and celebration lasted far into the night. The noise of shouting, drunken laughter, and tramping, dancing feet roared into a wild cacophony that drove Mathew to seek the quiet and solitude of his tent. Walking through the crowded camp, his ears battered by noise, he found himself missing the sounds of the night desert—the incessant, eerie song of the wind; the throaty growls of night animals about their business; the restless murmurings among the horses catching scent of a lion; the gentle reassurances of those who guarded the herds; the clicking of the palm fronds.

  How many nights, he wondered, had he lain in his tent and listened to those noises in terror and loneliness, and hated them? Now, in place of this hubbub of humanity, he longed for them back.

  He passed Zohra’s tent on the way to his and decided to enter and talk to her. She had been so silent and preoccupied upon the journey, and he, too, had been taken up with his own thoughts and wonderings. They had not spoken more than a handful of words since that awful, triumphant night in Kich. Peering into the open tent, he saw Zohra surrounded by women—chattering and laughing and exclaiming over the latest gifts that came pouring in—perfume, jewelry, bolts of silk and wool, candied rose petals, slaves, brass lamps enough to light a palace. Usti—his fat face radiating warmth until it seemed they might douse the lamps and rely instead upon the djinn—hovered about the Prophetess, accepting the gifts with unctuous gratitude, casting a critical eye upon them, and then nearly driving his mistress wild by whispering in her ear how much each was really worth.

  Mathew lingered, watching, unnoticed. The Princess Zohra that he knew would have fled this perfumed prison, caught her horse, and galloped away among the shifting dunes. The young wizard waited to see if this would happen. His thoughts touching her, Zohra raised her dark eyes and looked into his, and he saw there that very longing. But he saw also resignation, enforced patience, rare selfdiscipline. His astonishment must have been visible, for a flush deepened the rose in her complexion. She smiled a rueful, twisted smile and shrugged slightly as if to say, “What else can I do? I am Prophetess of Akhran.”

  Mathew smiled back, bowed to the Prophetess, and left. And just as he missed the wind and the song and the lion’s growl, so did he miss the impetuous, unpredictable Princess.

  Weary from the long ride, Mathew lay gratefully among his cushions. He was just wondering if it would be worth his while to douse his chirak and hope sleep would come to him, when the tent flap opened suddenly. A dark figure, the haik covering its face, darted in. Avoiding the lamplight, it sank back swiftly into the shadows. Reminded unreasonably of the Black Paladin, Mathew started up in alarm. But the figure raised an admonishing hand and, drawing aside the facecloth, let his features be seen.

  “It is only Khardan,” came a tired voice.

  “Only the Prophet,” returned Mathew with a gentle, mocking smile.

  Khardan groaned and threw himself down among the cushions. His handsome face was lined and brooding; dark shadows could be seen beneath the eyes, and Mathew’s smile gave way to true concern.

  “Are you well? Does something pain you? Your wound, perhaps?”

  Khardan waved it all away with a gesture. “The wound is healed. I had it attended to when I first rode into camp. How long ago was that? A week? It seems a year, a thousand years!” Sighing, he leaned back and closed his eyes. “My tent is filled with storytellers and tea drinkers, gift bearers and wouldbe advisers, soldiers and dancing girls—all staring at me hungrily as if I were some sort of stew that each could dip his fingers in and take away a piece! I would have ordered Sond to clear them out, but the djinn have vanished, disappeared again. So I pleaded nature’s call, threw on these old clothes, and came here.”

  A voice called from somewhere outside. “The Prophet? Have you seen the Prophet?”

  Khardan covered his face as the voice, now just outside Mathew’s tent, asked permission to enter. “Pardon, Marabout, for disturbing your rest. Have you seen the Prophet?”

  “He was walking in that direction,” said Mathew, pointing straight at Khardan.

  The nomad thanked him profusely and shut the tent flap. They could hear his feet running off toward the oasis.

  “Thank you, Mathew.” Khardan started to rise. “You were— as my tribesmen reminded me—going to your rest. It is the middle of the night. I am disturbing you. “

  “No, please!” Mathew caught hold of Khardan’s arm. “I couldn’t sleep, not with all the noise. Please stay.”

  It did not take much persuasion to convince the Calif to return to his cushions, though this time he lay sideways on them, propped up on one elbow. His dark eyes, gazing intently at Mathew, glittered in the lamplight.

  “Will you do something for me . . . if you are not too tired?” Khardan asked abruptly.

  “Certainly, Prophet,” answered Mathew.

  Khardan paused, frowning. This was obviously a difficult thing he was about to ask, and he was still mulling it over in his mind, uncertain whether or not to proceed.

  His heart singing with joy, Mathew kept silent, fearing the song might come to his lips. At last Khardan nodded once, abruptly, to himself. He had, it seemed, made his decision.

  “You can use your magic to”—be coughed and cleared his throat—”see into the future?”

  “Yes, Prophet.”

  “Call me Khardan, please! I grow weary of that title.” Mathew bowed.

  “Then can you do so, now?’ Khardan pursued.

  “Yes, of course. With pleasure, Pro—Khardan.”

  On his arrival Mathew had carefully unpacked and hidden in a safe place the precious magical objects he had acquired during his journeys. One of these was a bowl made of polished wood he had discovered in the Hrana’s camp in the foothills. Though Mathew had offered to trade a piece of jewelry for it, the owner had been more than happy to present it as a gift, following the nomadic custom of offering a guest anything in one’s dwelling he admires. (Which led to being very careful what one admired.)

  Mathew brought the bowl forth from its place near his pillow, handling it lovingly, delighting in the smooth feel of the wood that was a rare thing in the desert. He set it down upon the tent floor between himself and Khardan, pretending not to see the Calif ‘s first involuntary motion to draw away from it, the stiffening of the body as he forced himself to remain where he was.

  Reaching for the girba that hung outside the tent to keep the water cool for drinking, Mathew filled the bowl. Outside a voice had been raised in song in praise of the Prophet, reciting all his valorous acts. Mathew lowered his head, seeming to be looking into the water. But he glanced through his lashes at Khardan, who was listening with a certain amount of pleasure, yet at the same time an almost helpless irritation.

  Mathew began to speak. “The visions I see in the bowl are not necessarily what will come to pass.” Waiting for the ripples to fade from the water, the wizard made the standard warning as proscribed in his texts. “They will indicate only what may happen should you continue to follow the path you now trod. It might be wisdom to turn aside and try another path. It might be wisdom to keep to this one. Sul gives no answers. In many cases, Sul provides only more questions. It is up to you to ponder the vision and make your decision.”

  Staring almost hypnotized at the water, Khardan nodded. His face had softened into awe, fear, and eagerness. For both of them, the outside sounds had receded i
nto the background. Mathew could hear his own breathing, the toorapid beating of his heart. Tearing his gaze away from Khardan, he focused on the water and, commanding himself to concentrate, began the chant. He repeated it three times, and the images began to appear on the liquid’s smooth surface.

  “I see two falcons, almost identical in appearance. Each falcon flies at the head of a huge flock of warlike birds. The flocks meet and clash. There is fierce fighting and many of the birds fall, injured, dying.”

  Mathew was silent a moment, watching. “When the battle ends, one of the falcons is dead. The other rises higher and higher in the sky until he is crowned with gold and wears a golden chain about his neck and many are the numbers of birds who come and go at his command.”

  Raising his head, sitting back on his heels, he looked at Khardan. “Thus is the vision of Sul.”

  The Calif scowled, gesturing disgustedly at the water bowl. “Of what use is this?” he demanded bluntly. “That much I could have seen for myself looking into a cup of qumiz! There will be a battle. One side will win, the other will lose!” He sighed heavily, then—thinking he may have hurt Mathew’s feelings—he cast him an apologetic glance. “I am sorry.” He put a hand at his shoulder, grimacing. “I am tired. . .”

  “And in pain!” said Mathew. “let me see to the wound while I interpret this vision. It is not quite the clear crystal you make of it, Khardan,” he added, carefully concealing a smile.

  Shaking his head, indicating a willingness to listen though obviously expecting nothing to come of it, Khardan submitted to Mathew’s gentle touch. Withdrawing the Calif ‘s robes, the young man revealed the wound, not healed, but raggededged and inflamed.

  “You did not have this attended,” Mathew said severely dipping a cloth into the bowl of water. “Lie down, that I may see it in the light.”