The Diviner (golden key)

by Melanie Rawn

“Do you think me such an idiot that I do not know when I am fertile?”

  “Also,” he repeated, “it doesn’t do, does it, for a woman to admit she made a mistake in her marriage? That she chose the wrong man?” A thing his mother had not done—and was too proud ever to admit if she had. His parents had genuinely loved each other and had been happy. He was certain that Leyliah and Fadhil—

  “I have chosen exactly the right man!”

  “I meant no disrespect or disparagement,” he said hastily. “I only meant—” He paused. “I’m not sure what I meant. Leyliah, I’m gratified and I’m honored, but I’m also confused. Why me?”

  “Very few have pleased me,” she continued. “You, one or two others—”

  “Fadhil?”

  “He was my first and most cherished—as I was his. You don’t know our ways, Azzad. Perhaps one day you will, but for now—”

  “Why don’t you marry him? You love each other.”

  “Of course we do.”

  “Then—”

  “Fadhil, Fadhil!” she exclaimed. “Would you rather talk or have love with me again?”

  “Both,” he said frankly. “But if you’re giving me a choice—” And she smiled as he lay beside her again.

  All the next day he could barely look at Fadhil.

  Waking without a headache, even after the quantities of wine he’d imbibed the night before, Azzad presented himself at Abb Shagara’s tent. Fadhil was already there. Together the three young men inspected Khamsin’s Shagara foals, a colt and two fillies, all healthy and finely grown. A wallad izzahn came along to record Azzad’s advice; full of importance at the privilege, the boy obviously saw himself as the future man-in-charge. Azzad went into great detail for his benefit, quickly boring Abb Shagara.

  “But when can I ride one?” he demanded.

  “Another year, perhaps a little less. Tomorrow I’ll teach you how—on Khamsin.”

  Fadhil grinned. “My thanks for the warning, Azzad. I’ll spend this evening steeping poultices.”

  Azzad fought a blush. Was this Fadhil’s way of telling him he would not be in his own tent, so Leyliah could come in again if she wished?

  “Ayia,” said Abb Shagara, “if the price of riding is a sore behind, I’ll gladly pay.”

  Azzad clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ll be sore in places you never suspected were places.”

  After the noon meal, Azzad had a chat with Khamsin about Abb Shagara’s lesson on the morrow. “No tricks, no whims, no wiles, and especially no gait faster than a sedate walk. Disobey me,” Azzad told the stallion, looking into one black eye, “and I’ll not only tie your tail in knots, I’ll think seriously about having you gelded.”

  Khamsin snorted.

  That night, after a dinner with his new student spent discussing the basics of riding, Azzad returned to Fadhil’s tent and paced, waiting for Leyliah. She never came.

  Instead, Meryem entered, carrying a clay pot of qawah and two silver cups. She sat on a pile of carpets, poured for herself and Azzad, and said pleasantly, “If tomorrow this riding foolishness ends up killing my son, I’ll have your tongue, your teeth, your toes, your fingers, and your balls gilded and hung from my tent as wind chimes.”

  He didn’t doubt her for an instant. “I’ve already discussed it with Khamsin,” he assured her. “You have my word that no harm will befall Abb Shagara.”

  She raised her cup, and he raised his, and they drank to it. The qawah was hot and thick and bitter, with a hint of cinnamon—precisely the way he liked it. He had just taken a large mouthful when Meryem spoke again.

  “Do you ever wonder why no more Geysh Dushann have come after you?”

  Azzad choked, coughed, and wiped tears from his eyes. He had forgotten them. Truly, he had. He’d been so busy—his days were so full—his nights were spent in exhausted sleep—he had the horses to worry about and so much else besides—

  “I see they have escaped your thoughts, much as you have escaped their traps,” she went on. “Ayia, you foolish boy—didn’t you know?”

  Numb, he shook his head.

  “We have hosted emissaries from the Ammarad in these last two years. They have been perfectly polite, properly respectful, and preposterously eager to agree that if any harm comes to you, they will forfeit Shagara medicine forever.” She paused for a sip of qawah. “Of course, we don’t believe them.”

  “But no Geysh Dushann have attempted my life—”

  “—that you know of,” she finished for him, nodding to the necklace at his chest. “They’ve given up the use of knives, axes, poison, and the like in favor of creating circumstances that appear accidental. Have you experienced anything interesting since you went to Sihabbah?”

  Acuyib help him, was that the reason behind the swarm of snakes in the stables last year? And last summer, the rockslide on a mountain road a few seconds after he passed, and—

  She had been watching his face, and now smiled shrewdly. “Doubtless you thought them lucky escapes from random occurrences.”

  That was precisely what he had thought. “But they were intentional?”

  “Of course. The Geysh Dushann accepted Sheyqa Nizzira’s commission. Acceptance is never canceled. Never. How it must pain them to have failed so often—like bedding down in nettles.” Meyrem’s lips twitched at one corner. “Stop looking as if you believe yourself a walking dead man. You’ve survived thus far, have you not?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “But nothing. Acuyib has some purpose for you, Azzad—though what it might be I’m sure I can’t imagine! He will protect you—with a little help from the Shagara.” She paused to pour more qawah. “You are too polite to ask me why Leyliah came to your bed last night.”

  This time, astonishment nearly made Azzad drop his cup—along with his jaw.

  “It is a mystery only to those not Shagara. You are counted a brother, so I will tell you why. It is true she will marry Razhid Harirri of the silken beard and many goats—and the very subtle eyes,” she added with a faint smile. “Of all the young men who came to the Zoqalo Tzawaq last year to find wives, he was the best. She has chosen well. But you know she has always had an eye to you, Azzad.”

  He actually felt himself blush. “I am honored.”

  “And yet confused. Here is further bewilderment for you. A Shagara woman does not wed until she has proved herself fertile. Yes, Leyliah has a son. A very sweet little boy of four, who has shown himself very bright and clever. He may even become Abb Shagara someday.”

  “Does—does Harirri know?”

  “Of course. When a man weds a Shagara woman, he knows he will become a father.” She paused to drink, then said, “It is strange to you, I appreciate this. But you must understand how it is with us.”

  “Lady,” he said carefully, “I don’t understand the first thing about the Shagara. But if these are your ways, I accept them.”

  “How very well-mannered of you,” she observed, arching a brow. “Yet still you do not see. Look at what is in front of your eyes, Azzad. We send our men out to make blood-bonds with other tribes of the Za’aba Izim—but only after they have proven they can sire a child.”

  It hit him then, the way the future of Khamsin’s half-breed foals had hit him. And again he could see his mother’s face as she looked upon her idiot son. “You have your father’s height and your grandfather’s nose, and your eyes you inherited from me—but may Acuyib strike me down with a thunderbolt if I know from whom you received your total lack of intelligence!”

  “Fadhil—and Abb Shagara—they will never be fathers.”

  “Now you begin to understand.”

  Abb Shagara’s riding lesson was a success, though for the first little while he sat Khamsin like a sack of grain, reins flapping and boots slipping from the stirrups. Then he straightened his spine, tucked in his elbows, mastered his heels, and kept his backside firmly in the saddle.

  “Better than riding a donkey?” Azzad teased. Khamsin had behaved himself perfectly,
his steps soft as velvet as he walked at the end of a lead rope.

  “Wonderful!” the young man exclaimed, patting Khamsin’s neck. “I can see everything from up here! How do I look?”

  “Like a sheyqir,” Fadhil assured him.

  As Abb Shagara preened happily, Azzad exhaled a long, satisfied breath. He was going to make a fortune.

  “I want to go faster,” said Abb Shagara. “How do I make him go faster?”

  “You don’t.” He tried to shorten the lead. Khamsin jerked his head indignantly.

  “Azzad, I will go faster! There’s nothing to this riding—see how well I’m doing?”

  “Wonderfully well,” Azzad said. “But this is only your first lesson.”

  “Speaking of which,” Fadhil murmured, “I hear Challa Meryem lessoned you last night. And you understand a little more about the Shagara.”

  “Yes, but—” Azzad wrapped the lead around his hand, scowling at Khamsin’s answering lunge.

  “I want to go faster!” cried Abb Shagara, flapping the reins and his heels.

  “Stop that!” Azzad exclaimed. “You’re not ready!”

  “Yes, I am! And so is the noble Khamsin—see?”

  Khamsin danced to one side, tossing his head. The lead snapped taut, staggering Azzad forward. Fadhil called out in alarm as Abb Shagara reached into his sash for his knife and slashed the rope from Khamsin’s bridle. Free, the stallion snorted and gathered himself to obey the commanding heels. The next instant he was running—straight toward a thorn-studded fence.

  Azzad’s mouth was so dry he couldn’t whistle the order to stop. Abb Shagara was laughing like a maniac as Khamsin cleared the fence with daylight to spare and raced off into the desert.

  “Acuyib have mercy!” Azzad watched in horror as his horse galloped away at full speed into a wasteland of rocks and ratholes and scorpions and snakes and Chaydann only knew what all else. “Meryem will kill me!”

  “Azzad, calm yourself. All will be well. No snake will harm them.” He paused. “Though I’ve never done anything quite like this before.”

  Azzad peered into the distance, following the dust raised by Khamsin’s hooves, praying that Abb Shagara would stay in the saddle or at least in one relatively uninjured piece, so it took him a minute to grasp Fadhil’s words. When he did, he swung around and stared. “Quite like what?”

  “We had to work fast, but I helped by doing the research—”

  “Fadhil, what are you talking about?”

  The young man sighed. “Abb Shagara will be protected from all injury—and Khamsin, too. You’re worrying for nothing, Azzad. Now, let me see your hand.” He inspected the reddening welts across the palm, probed with his fingertips for breaks. “Nothing salve and a wrapping won’t cure. But if Abb Shagara hadn’t cut the lead—”

  “Fadhil!” The breath he drew in hurt his chest. “Do you mean to tell me that—that you trust some charm to keep him safe?”

  “More than one charm, and we call them hazziri,” Fadhil replied. “Yours worked, didn’t it?” And he pointed to the plaque around Azzad’s neck. “You made a point of thanking Abb Shagara for this when you arrived.”

  “But—”

  “But you didn’t mean it? Not seriously?” Fadhil laughed. “Ayia, don’t tell him that! It would break his heart!”

  His mind swimming, he turned the hazzir to look at it. Gold, set with four kinds of cabochon stone: a central lapis, three speckled bloodstones, two turquoises, a garnet at each corner. On the back was a stylized hawk, wings and claws outspread.

  “I used turquoises for Abb Shagara today,” Fadhil said. “They bring luck and protect the horse.”

  When he had held the silver cup in his hand and been unable to tell Abb Shagara a lie, Azzad had not believed.

  “We use one jewel for each property we wish to give the hazzir, inscribed on the back with the appropriate symbol, the talishann.”

  When Leyliah had thrown a knife at Fadhil and it glanced harmlessly off his chest, Azzad had not believed.

  “The lapis is for truth, acting with the bloodstone that causes belief.”

  When the shepherds had been ready to kill him despite his protestations, and their leader had come close enough to see the hazzir, Azzad had not believed.

  “The four garnets are for Shagara friendship, its power and its constancy, and to protect against wounds.”

  When the girl’s family had come to seize him, and no one in Sihabbah had any reason to trust in his word, and the hazzir had fallen free of his torn shirt, Azzad had perhaps begun to believe.

  “Bloodstone also eases wrath, and as a nice addition for one traveling through these lands, protects against attacks by scorpions.”

  But not until this moment, with Fadhil serenely explaining his art—Acuyib help him, he had not truly believed until now.

  “After hearing your story, I decided the hawk would be best for you. It has the qualities of strength, energy, and inspiration, which you will need if you are to fulfill your oath of vengeance. The hawk,” he added musingly, “does not rest until his objective is achieved.”

  Acuyib help him, Azzad believed.

  As Khamsin cantered toward them, Abb Shagara still securely in the saddle and even laughing, Fadhil glanced sidelong at Azzad. “Abb Shagara wanted to include wealth and many children, but Meryem said that we must leave you something to do on your own.”

  Still stunned, Azzad saw Abb Shagara wave gaily at them, a new hazzir around his right wrist: gold, set with turquoises and a large bloodstone.

  “And Leyliah said this morning that with your face, which is not even to speak of your other attributes, you were perfectly capable of getting more children than you’d know what to do with.”

  Reminded through his shock of what had transpired with Leyliah, Azzad’s head snapped around. “Fadhil—”

  “It’s all right. I don’t mind, not really.” He smiled.

  Whatever Azzad might have thought to reply was swept away in the wind of Khamsin’s arrival. Abb Shagara was as happy as a kitten in a yarn basket.

  “That was splendid! May I do it again tomorrow? Will the half-breeds be as swift as Khamsin? It was like flying!”

  Azzad looked at Fadhil and swallowed hard.“I apologize,” he murmured.

  “No need. Enjoy the time you have with her. She is an extraordinary woman.”

  “Azzad!” Abb Shagara called. “Again tomorrow? Please?”

  “Uh—yes, of course,” he said, hardly knowing to whom he spoke.

  Fadhil added softly, “You shouldn’t take Meryem’s sternness too much to heart. She and Leyliah drew lots for you.”

  And, with a wink and a grin, he went to congratulate Abb Shagara on his first riding lesson, leaving Azzad standing there with a broken lead in his hand and an expression of absolute amazement on his face.

  By day, Azzad gave riding lessons and advice on horses. In the evenings, he had dinner with Abb Shagara, Chal Kabir, Fadhil, and the other men, discussing those things men discussed everywhere. At night, he slept with Leyliah.

  One afternoon, as Azzad sat with Abb Shagara in an awning’s shade playing chadarang, a rider on a donkey appeared on the horizon. Instantly the Shagara went within their tents, and the wallad izzahni counted horses and took up guard positions around the thorn fences. Abb Shagara, murmuring an apology to Azzad for abandoning their game, vanished inside his tent. Chal Kabir emerged from the dawa’an sheymma in a fresh robe the color of sand, with Fadhil at his side, to wait for the newcomer.

  Azzad, squinting into the distance, thought about joining Abb Shagara, then gave a start as he realized that the man astride the donkey had come from Sihabbah. Bazir al-Gallidh often sent messengers back and forth to his brother in Hazganni; these men dressed in white robes with a thick stripe of black down each sleeve. The visitor wore such a garment. As he neared, Azzad even recognized him: Annif, younger brother of Mazzud who worked with him in the stables.

  Striding swiftly to where Chal Kabir and Fadh
il stood, Azzad said, “I know this boy. He comes from al-Gallidh, my employer.”

  Fadhil shook his head. “It can be no good thing that brings him so far.”

  And so it proved.

  “Al-Gallidh is ill. He may be dead even now,” Annif reported, gulping water between sentences. “I have had a time of it, probably too long a time, finding you, Azzad—even after Mou’ammi Zellim made a map from what you told him of your route. He sent me to bring you back to Sihabbah.”

  Azzad sucked in a breath, worry for Bazir clenching his chest. But before he could ask any questions, Chal Kabir spoke.

  “What is the nature of his illness?”

  Annif shook his head. “The tabbib doesn’t know. Al-Gallidh was well in the morning, but by afternoon his breathing was bad and there was pain.”

  “What kind of pain?”

  “In one arm.”

  Kabir sighed impatiently. “Which arm? The left? And don’t ask if it matters, because it matters a great deal.”

  Azzad said, “Chal Kabir is more accomplished than any tabbib you’ve ever heard of, Annif. Now, which arm was it?”

  “The left, I think.” The boy glanced around the empty camp beyond, his eyes widening. “Is this all there is to the Shagara?”

  Kabir ignored him in favor of Azzad. “You have said that Sihabbah is high in the mountains. Has he trouble breathing sometimes? Must he climb stairs slowly or grow dizzy?”

  “This I do not know,” Azzad admitted. “I have never been above the ground floor of his house.”

  “Is his bedchamber there?”

  “I believe so—yes, right next to his maqtabba.”

  “He has hundreds of books—” the boy bragged, only to be ignored once again.

  “Then on purpose he does not climb stairs. How old is al-Gallidh?”

  “About your age.” With the customary politeness and respect for the elderly, Azzad lopped ten years off his truest estimate. “Fifty-five or thereabouts.”

  Kabir’s lips thinned—with annoyance, Azzad thought in bewilderment—and Fadhil coughed behind his hand for no reason Azzad could discern.

  “It is his heart,” announced Kabir. “If you leave at once, you may be in time. I will give you certain things that will help al-Gallidh.”