The Diviner (golden key)

by Melanie Rawn

  It was said that King Orturro had been so instantaneously smitten that the fabulous pearl-and-garnet necklace he had intended as his daughter’s wedding present had graced Nadaline’s lovely throat within hours of her arrival. Everybody was furious, nobody was speaking to anybody else, and not only had the marriage been canceled, but all parties had withdrawn to their best-defended strongholds to prepare for a war neither could win.

  “Ayia, one would not think it compassionate,” Alessid mused, “to find so much amusement in other people’s calamities.”

  “I think, al-Ma’aliq, that Acuyib has a most elegant sense of humor.”

  “I agree. Allow these men to present themselves—one at a time, and each without knowing the other is here. This is possible?” he asked, knowing it was.

  “Of course,” Jefar answered. “The one from Qaysh has been here three days, the one from Joharra less than one—both in strict isolation. They’re not happy about it.” He shook his head sadly, dark eyes dancing.

  “In a few days, then, they will be most desperate to be cheered up.”

  Jefar bowed again, shoulders shaking now with repressed mirth. “AlMa’aliq is wise and perceptive.”

  “Al-Ma’aliq is wondering how he will keep from laughing himself silly.”

  Four mornings later Alessid entered the tent in his garden. Garbed in a white silk robe with an embroidered white-on-white gauze cloak over it, an elaborate hazzir gleaming from his breast and the rings that had been his father’s and great-uncle’s on his hands, he arranged himself on carpets and pillows to receive the ambassador. He had not ordered refreshments; those who believed in Acuyib’s Glory did not eat or drink with barbarians. In fact, everything about this reception would purposely emphasize the differences between the people of Tza’ab Rih and those who had once thought to conquer them. It was as luscious as the taste of wine-soaked pears on a sweltering day, that now the northern barbarians had come not to conquer but to beg. For Alessid had a very good notion of why both the King of Qaysh and the Count do’Joharra, so evenly matched in military terms and so enraged with each other, had sent their men to him.

  The tent flap parted, and Raffiq Murah entered and bowed. He was a plump little man with a scholarly air, sent to court some years ago by his father to acquire some polish. As the scope of Tza’ab Rih’s affairs widened, Alessid had been delighted to discover that Raffiq had an ear for languages and a tongue that could work its way around barbarian speech. Its written form was as ugly to the eye as its words were to the ear, all angles and sharp points; a language, spoken or written, ought to flow like water.

  “Stand here beside me, Raffiq, and do not give me only his words, but your thoughts on their meaning.”

  “Al-Ma’aliq honors me.”

  Jefar brought in the ambassador. A big, brawny-chested man with a high color staining his broad cheeks, he had to duck far beneath the opened flap, which caused him to bow sooner and lower than he intended. This upset him, and Alessid almost smiled to see it. But what interested him most in these first moments was that the man wore a most curious assemblage of clothing. The bright red shirt had flamboyant, billowing sleeves, not buttoned at throat and wrists like an honest man’s but tied with fluttering ribbons stiff with gold embroidery. The sleeveless woolen garment that went over it was bright green and likewise embroidered in gold; it was closed with laces to the waist, where it was cut sharply back to fall from hips to the tops of high black boots. An immodest garment, showing everything a man possessed, for, oddest of all, he wore trousers such as women wore beneath work tunics. The trousers were made of leather. Alessid blinked once, thinking that he must be mad to wear such things in this climate, and nodded permission for Jefar to speak.

  “Al-Ma’aliq, I present to your notice Don Pederro do’Praca, nephew and ambassador of King Orturro do’Ferro da’Qaysh.”

  Hearing his name, the man bowed and spoke. Raffiq translated. “My noble uncle King Orturro greets His Excellency with all good will and friendship, in the Name of the Mother and the Son.”

  Alessid replied, “Al-Ma’aliq recognizes the emissary of King Orturro of Qaysh, and welcomes him to Tza’ab Rih in the Name of Acuyib of the Great Tent, may the brilliance of His Glory be made known to all those pitiable souls currently living in darkness.”

  When this was translated, Don Pederro’s thick brows quirked in faint annoyance at the implication, but his voice was smooth as he expressed his wishes for the continued health and happiness of Alessid and his family. Alessid answered in kind. There were more pleasantries, indicating that the barbarian had at least a modicum of manners, but Alessid was amused to note that the ambassador’s cheeks were redder than ever, and sweat had appeared on his brow. At length, Alessid did the correct thing and told Raffiq to ask Don Pederro the purpose of his visit.

  There followed a protracted tale of insulted pride and outraged honor. Many times Raffiq had to beg the man to slow down. Alessid easily picked the ripest bits: if Nadaline do’Joharra was pregnant, and it was by no means certain that she was, it was none of King Orturro’s doing; Orturro’s own daughter was inconsolably insulted by Count Garza’s repudiation and abandonment of her mere days before their wedding; the crimes against Qaysh were obvious and required immediate redress.

  “The King of Qaysh is confident that his friend the King of Tza’ab Rih—I must add for myself, al-Ma’aliq, that the insult to the Sheyqa be forgiven, for this man comes from a place that cannot work its collective mind around the notion of a woman as head of state.”

  “No matter. Go on.”

  “The King of Qaysh knows that Your Highness will readily understand that an insult to one royal master is a challenge to all and must not be allowed to stand,” Raffiq concluded, stifling a sigh of sheer gratitude as the ambassador at last fell silent. Alessid traded amused glances with Jefar. “Finally—again, I ask forgiveness on my own behalf, al-Ma’aliq, this man has the manners of a goat—he says that the King of Qaysh is certain that his request will be given a favorable reply.”

  “Oh, he is, is he?” Alessid kept his face and voice as bland as milk. “And what do you think?”

  “I believe he has been told to return with a favorable reply or not to return at all.”

  “I agree.” Alessid reclined on his pillows. “Ayia, his story is most entertaining, but he’s lying when he says the girl might not be pregnant. She is, and by the king. Don’t tell him that!” he added quickly as Raffiq opened his mouth. “Tell him that I am—ayia, what am I, Jefar?”

  “Stunned, al-Ma’aliq. And perhaps sympathetic, as the father of daughters?”

  “Oh, absolutely. I am stunned and sympathetic, and I will consider seriously the King’s request. Now get him out of here. He looks as if he’ll collapse any moment. Leather, in this heat!”

  That afternoon the scene was repeated with the emissary from Count Garza do’Joharra. Baron do’Gortova was introduced, sweating even more profusely than Don Pederro, for his clothes were entirely of yellow wool, lushly embroidered in silver, and he wore a large black felt hat with two purple plumes that sagged limply in the heat. The pleasantries exchanged were the same; the tale of insulted pride and outraged honor was the same (though from the opposite perspective, and Nadaline was definitely pregnant); the request that ended the recital and Alessid’s promise to consider the matter were also the same.

  When the Baron had departed, Alessid lay back on his pillows and laughed himself silly. “Two furious women wanting vengeance on their lovers, two furious fathers wanting the other’s balls on a stick, and two armies preparing for a war neither can win! Acuyib is more than good to us, Jefar!”

  Two mornings later, to Don Pederro of Qaysh, Alessid said: “I am shocked and appalled by the tale you have told me. After much thought, I have decided to honor your request. In twelve days’ time, my men will cross the border. I shall expect your master’s troops to leave whatever strongholds they now occupy and proceed to a suitable place for battle. Be assured that I will se
nd enough men to make certain of a great victory.”

  That same afternoon, to Baron do’Gortova of Joharra, Alessid said: “I am shocked and appalled by the tale you have told me. After much thought, I have decided to honor your request. In twelve days’ time, my men will cross the border. I shall expect your master’s troops to leave whatever strongholds they now occupy and proceed to a suitable place for battle. Be assured that I will send enough men to make certain of a great victory.”

  It was only the literal truth.

  In due course the mounted troops of Tza’ab Rih rode north to a river valley, a most suitable place for battle, whereon were assembled the opposing forces of the King of Qaysh and the Count do’Joharra. Messages were sent to both camps suggesting certain tactics—to which they readily agreed. Then battle was joined, each side expecting the Tza’ab to enter on its behalf. The Riders on the Golden Wind split into two sections. One, led by Alessid al-Ma’aliq, annihilated the Qayshi; the other, led by Jefar Shagara, massacred the Joharrans. It was indeed a great victory.

  And thus was the conquest of the rich barbarians lands begun, and the Empire of Tza’ab Rih established.

  Twenty days after the battle, King Orturro do’Ferro da’Qaysh was found in a fishing village, ludicrously attempting to blend in with the local folk by living in a cottage. Jefar remarked that he might have gotten away with it longer had he not been paying for food with coins bearing his own likeness. The king was brought before Alessid, where he blustered and raved for a brief but amusing time before being given a choice of prisons: up a tower or down a dungeon. He chose the former and was led away. Ra’abi was then declared Queen of Qaysh—the title was familiar to the populace, even if power vested in the hands of a woman was not. But none objected, for all understood that her mother’s land of Tza’ab Rih and her husband’s mother’s land of Rimmal Madar lurked behind her.

  Sheyqa Sayyida was vastly pleased that Zaqir had become a king, but she was a little disappointed when Alessid gently corrected the mistake: Zaqir was the Queen’s husband. No matter what the local custom, both title and authority would reside in Ra’abi. He didn’t mention that after long consultation with Leyliah, he had decided that the people of Qaysh would simply have to get used to the idea that royal descent came through the female line. It was the female who produced Haddiyat sons—and no al-Ma’aliq ruler should be without one.

  “People accustomed to kings will grumble,” Leyliah warned.

  Alessid shrugged. “Their opinions do not concern me.”

  “They should! You’re letting them keep their religion—”

  “A ridiculous faith.”

  “—their customs—”

  “Including their incredibly impractical clothing.”

  “Alessid, will you allow me to finish!” she snapped. “They’ll retain their lands and livelihoods as long as they’re loyal—but consider the shock all this must be to them. I think it would be best if you let it be put about that Ra’abi is merely a figurehead, and the real power rests with Zaqir.”

  “That,” he said, “would be a lie. The real power rests with me.”

  Thus at the age of twenty-three Ra’abi became a Queen, and took a new name: al-Qaysh al-Ma’aliq. She and Zaqir and their children traveled north to the palace at Ferro, which also received a new name. Ferro was too much like ferrha; Ra’abi declared herself unwilling to inhabit a bakery and so called her residence Il-Kadirat, honoring the name by which her grandfather Azzad was known among the people of Tza’ab Rih. It was an excellent and appropriate choice, for the palace rose in vine-covered stone in the midst of a lush valley, framed by forested hills and carpeted in wildflowers, and was green the year round.

  That next spring Alessid took Mirzah with him on a ceremonial visit to Il-Kadirat. The people ought to see the great Sheyqa, who at forty-five was yet a handsome woman with great presence. She impressed them with her poise and dignity, but for warmth and charm they looked to Mairid. Ten years old, lively and quick and already bidding to be a spectacular beauty, Mairid was Alessid’s favorite of his children. It pleased him to see that she was Qaysh’s favorite as well.

  The people, in truth, were genuinely welcoming. Alessid had given them the right to live their lives much as they had always done, including the practice of their Mother and Son religion. Their fear that Tza’ab Rih would bleed Qaysh dry was shown to be unfounded when Ra’abi canceled all of King Orturro’s taxes. She levied only one to replace them: a yearly payment assessed of every man, woman, and child who did not profess belief in Acuyib’s Glory. Compared to what they had paid Orturro to support his ostentations, this tax was as nothing.

  It helped when Mairid, instructed by Mirzah, announced to her sister’s court that out of her own inheritance, she would pay the tax this year for every girl her own age in Qaysh. Naturally they loved her. And when in gratitude one of the noblemen gave her a pearl the size of a hen’s egg, Alessid allowed her to keep it.

  “You spoil her,” Mirzah said that evening.

  They were private in the chambers Ra’abi had readied for them—cool and luxurious, with windows half open to the breeze that rustled the pines. At home, windows were guarded by intricate wooden grilles; here, fine silk mesh screened out the insects, and of these there were an overabundance. Alessid heard his wife’s words as he inspected bubbles in the window glass, intrigued and annoyed in equal measure by the way the flaws distorted the outside world. Imperfection always displeased him, but he had to admit that the strange shapes seen through the curvatures, especially the flickering of torches in the garden, might be considered pretty. It was a concept that abruptly disturbed him. It felt like something his father might have thought. Over his shoulder, he said, “Mairid is the last of my children. I intend to delight in her.”

  “There are always the grandchildren.”

  “But Mairid is mine.” He paused an instant, and then with calculated coldness asked, “She is mine, is she not?”

  Mirzah gasped.

  “Ayia, of course she is,” he went on. “She has my eyes, my cheekbones, my mouth—and my intelligence. She’ll make a fine Empress.”

  “ ‘Empress’?”

  He turned to her then, relishing the shock in her eyes.“Didn’t you know? Our son Addad is a fine man, but he lacks vision.” Or, rather, he thought suddenly, Addad would see things through the distorting flaws in the glass, not as they were but as he imagined them to be—as they looked prettiest and most interesting. “The other girls will have their own lands—or hadn’t I told you yet that Granidiya and Pracanza and Joharra will one day be a part of the Empire? I’m only waiting until Jemilha and Za’arifa are old enough to hold a country in their hands.”

  “Why?” The silver of her necklaces and earrings shivered with her rage. “Why must you always have more? More land, more wealth, more women—”

  “I care nothing for land, except as it nourishes my people. Wealth is useful for the same reason. As for women, I defy you to find even one who claims to have enjoyed my favor.”

  “You haven’t slept solitary all these years!”

  “Prove it,” he said. “Prove it, and divorce me—and see if your daughters wish to return with you to the Shagara tents, when I can give them kingdoms.”

  “Take care lest those in the Shagara tents come to you, as they did to your father!” She gave him a sleek smile: I know things that even the great al-Ma’aliq does not! “There are many who agree with those who exiled themselves years ago rather than countenance the perversion of Shagara ways.”

  “A few malcontents—”

  “More than you know! And remember that they succeeded in killing your father where the mighty Geysh Dushann failed! You have used everyone, everyone—the Shagara, my daughters, my sons—without pity, without conscience—you’re not the man your father was!”

  “Acuyib be praised for it,” he retorted.

  “Chaydann al-Mamnoua’a be blamed for it! Azzad never used the people he loved! But you—you don’t love any
one at all, unless they can be of use to you!” Tears streaked her face, aging her. “And it kills, Alessid—being of use to you kills.”

  He turned and left her, shutting the door behind him. He leaned against the carved wood, listening to the sound of her weeping. Long ago, he remembered, he had returned to her tent to find her crying over their Haddiyat sons. Her tears had moved him then. Not now. He wondered when he had stopped caring for his wife, and after a few moments’ thought decided it had happened just now, tonight. Today he had been proud of her as she met the people of Qaysh; he had watched with pleasure as they admired her mature and dignified beauty; he had smiled when she smiled on accepting flowers from little girls. Not his wife for years now, she was an able Sheyqa, and that had been enough to retain his love.

  It was no longer enough.

  Mirzah was the mother of his children—surely he ought to love her still for that. But what was she, truly, other than a woman who used to be his wife, who had given him children in the past, whose function was to appear at his side and smile? He respected her as a Sheyqa, but he no longer loved her as a woman. Perhaps she was right about him. Perhaps he only loved where there was usefulness to his ambitions.

  No. He loved his children unreservedly. Each time he passed the place where Kammil had died beneath the walls of Hazganni, he nearly wept anew.