The Will of the Wanderer

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  If, however, at that moment Pukah had looked down from his cloud, he would have seen a sight to make him choke on his fig.

  Sond stood with Khardan near the horses, pointing at them and speaking urgently to the Calif.

  “This means war!” Khardan shouted. “Hush, sidi, keep your voice low.”

  The Calif, with a tremendous struggle, did as Sond requested, though his dark eyes glittered with anger. It was dawn. The two were walking near the outskirts of the camp. Khardan’s gaze went again to the horses peacefully grazing near the bubbling stream.

  “When do they plan their raid?”

  “In a week’s time, sidi. The first moonless night.”

  “You say that”—Khardan choked on the words—”my—my wife is behind this?”

  “Yes, sidi. Alas, it grieves me to bring you such news—”

  “The woman is a witch!” Khardan clenched his fist. “This ends it, Sond! Akhran himself could not expect me to live with such insult! Stealing my horses!”

  If Sond had reported that the Hrana were plotting to steal his children, the fruit of his loins, Khardan could scarcely have been more outraged. In fact, he might have taken that news rather more calmly. As long as there were women and long desert nights, there would be children. But his horses!

  According to legend, the magnificent horses of the Akar came by direct lineage from the steed of the God. The nomads likened their horses to the desert itself, the animals’ sleek and glistening coats were as black as the desert night or as white as the silver of the shining stars. Their long sweeping tails and manes flowed like the wind across the dunes.

  The horses gloried in battle. The smell of blood and the sound of clashing steel caused ears to prick, eyes to flash, and it was all a spahi could do to hold his mount back from charging in where the fray was the thickest. Countless stories were told of horses who continued to attack the enemy even after their own masters had fallen.

  Each man in the tribe owned his own stock, whose lineage he could trace back proudly generation through generation. When times were hard, his horses were given first portion of the food and his family made due with what was left. The horses drank first at the oases. A woman whose magic could calm a restless steed was prized above all other women.

  Besides raising and breeding these noble animals for their own use, the Akar kept a certain number apart each year to sell to the Sultan in the city of Kich. The sale purchased necessities such as coal and firewood, which were not to be found in the desert; staples such as rice and flour; and luxuries such as coffee, honey, and tobacco. These last were small pleasures, but they made the harsh life of the nomad bearable. In addition, the souks of Kich yielded the jewelry so much beloved by the women; the swords, daggers, and scimitars valued by the men; and silks and cottons for the clothing of both.

  The Akar’s yearly trip to Kich was a momentous event, forming the subject of conversation of the spahis for a year after—either recalling fondly the good times they’d had or looking forward to the good times expected. Parting with the horses was the hardest task, and it was not unusual to see some fierce warrior who had literally waded in blood weep unashamedly as he bid good-bye to a beloved animal.

  By stealing the horses the Hrana stole the life, the soul, the heart of the Akar. As Sond knew when he suggested it, this was the one crime the Hrana could commit that would cause the Calif to break the commandment of the God.

  Sheykh Jaafar could, of course, have argued that—by stealing sheep—the Akar threatened the survival of the Hrana. Sheep provided the wool the Hrana used for their clothing, the meat they ate, the money that bought both necessities and luxuries. So Jaafar might have argued, but he would have argued in vain. Just as each God saw only his own facet of the Jewel of Sul, So Sheykh Majiid and Sheykh Jaafar each saw the light shining on his own Truth. All else around them was darkness.

  “What are your orders, Master? Do we attack the sheep herders immediately?”

  Khardan ruminated, his hand stroking his black beard thoughtfully.

  “No. They would claim themselves innocent, protesting to Akhran that we had attacked them without cause. We would be the ones facing the wrath of the God instead of those foul bleaters. We must catch them in the act, then we can proclaim to the heavens that it is we who have been wronged. I can rid myself of this accursed woman. We can leave this accursed place. “

  “Your plan is excellent, sidi. I myself will relay it to my master—”

  “Tell no one, Sond!” Khardan ordered. “Especially not my father! He would be beside himself with fury and might, in his rage, accidentally reveal us to them. I will do what must be done.”

  “The Calif is wisdom itself.”

  “I will not forget this, Sond,” returned Khardan, choking with emotion. “Your warning has saved us from a dread calamity and will free us at last from the stench of these shepherds. When Hazrat Akhran hears the tale of our betrayal, he shall also hear of your devotion to your people from my own lips, and if he chooses to free you of your servitude, no one will be pleased more than I.”

  Flushing, Sond averted his face from the Calif ‘s eyes. “I beg you will not do that, sidi.” he said in a low voice. “I—I am not worthy of such honor. Besides, it would devastate me to leave your father. . .”

  “Nonsense!” said Khardan gruffly, clearing his throat. He clapped the djinn upon his broad back. “Majiid would miss you, not a doubt of it. You’ve served this family well, back to my great-great-great-grandfather and probably beyond that. But it is time you left the mortal realm and lived in peace above, with some charming djinniyeh to gladden your days and sweeten your nights, eh?”

  Little did Khardan know that he was twisting the dagger in Sond’s soul. Flinching with pain, the djinn concealed his anguish by prostrating himself upon his knees before the Calif. Khardan took this as a further touching sign of the djinn’s devotion and came near weeping as he returned to his tent.

  Long after the Calif had gone, Sond remained crouching on his knees in the desert sand, beating his clenched fists on the windswept rock, striking at it until his immortal flesh bled.

  Sond had betrayed not only his people, he had betrayed his God. Akhran the Wanderer was not noted for his mercy; his punishments were swift, harsh, and sudden. There was not a doubt in Sond’s mind but that the God would discover his djinn’s treachery. True, Sond might plead that he’d done what he had done for the sake of his beloyed. But what was the life of one djinniyeh compared to the grand schemes of heaven?

  Sond had considered going to Akhran and telling the God that one of his immortals had been taken captive, but the djinn had rejected the idea instantly. The God would be angry, but Akhran’s anger would be directed at Quar. The Wandering God would never submit to Quar’s demands for Nedjma’s safe return nor would he allow Sond to do so either. In his rage Akhran might actually commit some rash act that would cause Sond to lose Nedjma forever.

  Reminding himself of this, Sond grew calmer. If anyone was going to save Nedjma, it would have to be him and him alone.

  “And if I can do that, I will cheerfully submit to any punishment you mete out to me, O Holy One,” Sond vowed fervently, raising his eyes to heaven.

  His peace restored, convinced that what he was doing was right, the djinn composed himself and prepared to begin his day’s service. On his way to Majiid’s tent, Sond passed by the Tel. The djinn cast a glance at the Rose of the Prophet. The cacti looked worse than ever. They seemed dying of thirst; the green fleshy stems had turned a brown and sickly color. Their spines were beginning to falloff.

  Well, it will be watered soon, Sond thought grimly. Watered with blood.

  Chapter 9

  Khardan met secretly with certain of his men, apprising them of the proposed raid by the Hrana and telling them of his plan to thwart it. The Calif ‘s anger was echoed by his spahis when they heard of this outrage. It was well that Khardan was present to calm them, or they might have torn down the tents over the Hrana’s hea
ds then and there.

  Zohra met secretly with her people as well. At first the men of the Hrana had been reluctant to meet with a woman, especially a woman whom they viewed as the enemy. Zohra felt this and it hurt her. Facing the men of the Hrana, many of whom were half brothers, cousins, nephews, she saw their dark faces and suspicious eyes, and flushing deeply in shame, she thought how close she had come to submitting herself to the arrogant Calif, to becoming truly the enemy of her people.

  Thank Akhran, that had not happened. Her eyes had been opened.

  In a low, passionate voice, she recited the sufferings of her tribesmen at the hands of the Akar. She reminded the men of what they already knew—that lambing season was near: a time when the flocks were most vulnerable to attack by predators. She repeated, word for word, her request for horses and her husband’s scathing denial. Then she presented her plan to gain the animals.

  The men listened, suspicion losing itself in anger at her eloquent and crafty reminder of their woes, anger deepening to rage at hearing Khardan’s insults, rage changing to unbridled enthusiasm over Zohra’s proposal. Finally they would have their revenge upon the Akar and a sweet revenge it would be!

  A semblance of peace settled over the Tel, both tribes having been instructed by their leaders to commit no rash act that might draw undue attention to themselves. Each settled down to wait out the week, but never had time passed so slowly. Night after night, eyes impatiently watched the moon wane, pouring its pale light down upon the desert, sucking out the colors of all objects. Many noticed that the Rose of the Prophet, curling in upon itself like a dying spider, looked particularly ugly in the moonlight. The withered cacti now gave off a peculiar odor—the smell of rotting flesh.

  An impatient people, accustomed to thinking and reacting instantly, the waiting and the need for secrecy was sheer torture. The air around the oasis crackled with undischarged lightning. Both Sheykhs knew a storm was brewing. Jaafar became so nervous he couldn’t eat. Majiid demanded of his son outright to know what was going on, but he was only told grimly that everything was under control and that he would be alerted when the time came.

  Foreseeing bloodshed, Majiid grinned and sharpened his sword.

  The two djinn, Fedj and Sond, were each secretly set by their masters to spy upon the other and did so with such alacrity that they were always to be seen, skulking about the camp, glaring at each other and adding to the overall tension. Thinking he knew what was going on, Pukah enjoyed the game immensely, meanwhile wondering when Sond planned to bring down the wrath of Akhran on the two tribes. Usti, preening himself on his plan, now lived a life of luxury. His brazier stood in an honored place in his mistress’s tent. She no longer commanded him to perform menial tasks, never tossed him out the tent, and did not once interrupt his dinner.

  The relationship between Zohra and Khardan remained unchanged—at least outwardly. As before, neither spoke when their paths accidentally crossed. Their gazes met, locked briefly, then parted, though it took every ounce of self-control Khardan possessed not to gouge out the black eyes that flashed with secret, triumphant scorn whenever they looked at him. He thought he might well go mad before the week ended.

  And then, halfway through the interminable seven days, Pukah brought his master certain information that gave Khardan the opportunity to vent some of his mounting rage. He dared not openly attack his wife; that would give everything away. But he could at least slide a thorn or two into her smug flesh.

  Zohra had just returned from her early-morning ride and was in her tent, cleansing her body of sweat and grime and smoothing perfumed oils on her skin, when Khardan suddenly and without warning lifted the tent flap and entered.

  “Greetings, wife,” he said grimly.

  Whirling in alarm, her long black hair flicking over her bare back like a scourge, Zohra caught up a woolen robe and clutched it around her naked body. She glared at her husband with flaming eyes, too furious to speak.

  Khardan at first said nothing either. His well-planned speech had been on his lips, but the glimpse of Zohra’s lithe figure drove the words from his head.

  He stared at the dusky cheeks flushed a deep rose, the tendrils of black hair that swept across her face, the white shoulders visible above the robes Zohra held to her breast. The fragrance of jasmine clung to her, the oil on her body glistening in the sunlight filtering through the tent. One quick grab of that robe with his hand. . .

  Abruptly, angrily, Khardan averted his gaze, refusing to let her see his momentary weakness. Why did this woman—of all the women he knew—affect him this way, turning his blood to water? He attempted to salvage his dignity.

  “Are you some Pasha’s concubine that you appear in such a state in the middle of the day? Clothe yourself, woman!”

  The blood of shame and outrage pounded in Zohra’s ears and dimmed her vision with a red tide, blotting out Khardan’s momentary look of admiration. She saw only that he turned his head from her; obviously in revulsion and disgust. Quivering in fury and hurt pride, she remained standing where she was, her nakedness covered only by the dusty robe she held pressed against her chest.

  “Say what you have to say and be gone!” Her voice was low and husky, thick with what in another might have been the desire of love but in her was only the desire to kill this man—of all the men she knew—who continually caught her in some moment of weakness.

  Khardan cleared his throat of a sudden huskiness himself and began his prepared speech. “I understand that you have been to my mother to learn the charm that calms horses.”

  “What if I have? It is no business of yours. Such matters of magic are between women, not meant for men.”

  “I was only wondering why you are taking this sudden interest in womanly things, wife,” Khardan said smoothly, his anger returning to save him as he recalled his wife’s scheming. He knew well why Zohra was suddenly so interested in acquiring this magical skill and it pleased him to toy with her.

  Zohra heard the odd timbre in his voice, and for a moment her heart quailed. Could he have discovered? . . . No, it was impossible! Every man she had chosen was loyal and trustworthy. Above all, their cause to hate Khardan and his tribe was as great as hers. They would let their tongues be ripped from their mouths before they would reveal the secret.

  But she had, unknowingly, revealed herself, Khardan, watching her closely, saw the cheeks swept by a sudden pallor, saw the bright eyes grow dark with fear. Smiling to himself, he added mockingly, with a glance at Zohra’s bed, “Perhaps you are interested in other womanly pursuits as well? Maybe this is why you are attempting to entice me with your body?”

  “Hah! You flatter yourself!” Zohra laughed contemptuously, fear banished by rage. “I prefer my horse between my legs!”

  Her words struck home with the force of a knife. Khardan stared at her in disbelief. No woman he had ever known would dare say such a thing. “By Sul! I could kill you for that insult and not even your father would blame me!”

  “Go ahead! Kill me! Killing women, stealing sheep! Pah! Is it not the way of the cowardly Akar?”

  Khardan, his blood burning with rage—among other things—sprang forward and caught hold of his wife, grasping her bare arms. His painful grip brought tears to Zohra’s eyes, but she did not flinch or struggle. She kept the robe clutched over her body, her fingers curled about the fabric in a deathlike grip. Gazing at Khardan without fear, Zohra’s lips curled in disdain.

  “Coward!” she said again, and it seemed, from the tilt of her head, so near his, and the slight movement of her tongue across her lips, that she dared him to kiss her.

  Furious with himself and the wild thoughts that filled his mind, Khardan flung Zohra away from him. Tossing her backward, he sent her sprawling awkwardly among her perfume bottles and henna jars. “Thank Hazrat Akhran for your life, madam!” Turning on his heel, he stalked from the tent.

  “I won’t thank him!” Zohra screamed after the vanished form of her husband. “I would rather die than be m
arried to you, you—you—”

  Her rage strangled her. Choking, she flung herself upon her bed, weeping passionately, still seeing, in her husband’s eyes, that look of revulsion and disgust. . . knowing deep within herself that she had offered and been rejected.

  Khardan, trembling with anger, stalked through the camp. In his mind he pictured with pleasure the humiliation he would inflict upon this woman. He would drag her before her father, proclaim her a witch, see her cast from her tribe in shame. . .

  And all the time he could smell, lingering upon the skin of his hands, the teasing, tantalizing fragrance of jasmine.

  Chapter 10

  It was as if Akhran himself extended his blessing upon the Hrana. The day of the raid dawned hot and breathless. During the morning a mass of clouds flowed down from the hills to the west, bringing a damp wind and sporadic, spitting drops of rain that evaporated before striking the hot ground. With the coming of afternoon the rains ceased, though the clouds remained. By night the very air itself seemed to grow thick and heavy. Lightning flickered on the horizon and the temperature plummeted. The batir donned curly-haired sheepskin coats over their tunics to protect themselves from the chill of the long ride back to their homes, their heads were covered with black cloth, and they drew the black face cloths over their mouths.

  All were well-armed with sword and dagger. Their eyes, barely seen above the face cloths, glinted hard and cold as the steel they carried. Each knew that, if caught, it would be a fight to the death. Each was willing—eager—to take that risk. At last they were striking back at their enemy, hitting him in the heart.

  “And I say you should not go, sister!” The whispered voice hissed through the darkness. “It is too dangerous.”

  “And I say I will go or none of you will stir a step from this place.”

  “You are a woman, it is not seemly.”