Lion's Blood

by Steven Barnes

  He looked like a scarecrow dipped in blood. He wavered, almost fell, and then caught himself again. "By right of combat and inheritance, by law and will, I proclaim myself lord of this manor. The woman Sophia and her child are free." He raised his chin, faced Malik's guard defiantly. "Is there challenge? Is there?" The tip of his jambaya trembled. "If there is challenge, I . . . by Allah, I . . ."

  Kai spiraled and fell to the ground.

  PART FIVE

  The Wakil

  "Why are we here?" asked the student, who was in crisis.

  The Master saw his pupil's genuine pain, and considered his answer carefully. "God said: I was a hidden treasure, and I loved to be known, so I created the universe that I might be known.'"

  "If God made the world, with all its pain, how can God be good?"

  "He gave us not only pain, but joy. And more, that which births and reconciles both."

  "Which is . . . ?"

  Chapter Seventy-seven

  After a war life catches

  Desperately at passing

  Hints of normalcy like

  Vines entwining a hollow

  Twig

  Chinua Achebe, Nigerian writer

  1 Shawwal 1290

  (November 22, 1873)

  With the passage of time, life on Dar Kush returned to normal. The servants worked the beans and teff and hemp, and the Kikuyu grazed their cattle in the fallow quarter. Hammers rang sparks in the quarries, and horses and colts ran through the glade.

  The workers prepared for the feast of Idd-el-Fitr. Cattle were roasting on spits over deep beds of coals. Tables and chairs were set in neat rows, linen picnic squares spread for visiting commoner families, bowls of fruit and piping fresh bread were heaped in abundance. And the neighbors arrived, royalty and commoners alike. The festivities began.

  Near the balcony, the dirt farmers and poor laborers of the district gathered. On this night, it was customary for the lord of the manor to make speeches and distribute alms.

  One of the guests, a round-shouldered man with a dark, creased face and a frayed hemp shirt, was impatient. "When do we begin?"

  "The master speaks first," said Olaf. His wounds had healed, and since returning from the war he had been emancipated. He had been given the option of a payment in gold or a job as a foreman on Dar Kush. Ironically perhaps, he had chosen foreman. "It's tradition."

  "I hear that he hasn't been seen since his return from the wars!" said Khadija, one of Djidade Berhar's three slender, small-hipped wives.

  "Mommy," her youngest child said. "I'm hungry!"

  "Soon, Mada. I hope." But then, feeling her own stomach rumbling, "Where is the Wakil?"

  The hundreds of guests on the lawn began a chant:

  "Kai! Kai!"

  "Kai! Kai!"

  The chant echoed in the great house, through the busy halls bustling with servants, up the stairwells and even in the Wakil's athenaeum, as Aidan entered with Sophia and their child, Mahon, now seven months old.

  He blinked rapidly, willing his eyes to adjust to the darkness in Wakil Abu Ali's study. No. He corrected himself. Wakil Kai, he thought.

  Kai stood before the great desk, speaking with an Ibo nurse who held Kai's niece, Azinza. His eyes were sunken and he had lost five pounds from his spare frame. It seemed to Aidan that the things Kai had seen and done and lost in the last months had stolen what remained of his boyhood. If he heard the shouting outside his window, he didn't or couldn't respond.

  "Her mother's eyes," Kai said, his voice as flat as hammered copper. "Nurse, please take Azinza to the nursery. Care for her well."

  Sophia and Aidan stood waiting, uncertain. Unspeaking. Aidan had not spoken to Kai for weeks, and felt awkward and oddly nervous.

  "Aidan," Kai said. "Your wounds are healed."

  "Most, yes. The others, given time. But some . . ."

  "Some wounds never heal completely," Kai finished. His fingers scraped lightly at his desktop, as if digging his uncle a second grave.

  "There will always be scars," Aidan said.

  "Yes." A pause, and then: "What have you decided?"

  Sophia pointed to the map on the study's main wall. "We've decided to seek the northwestern frontier," she said. "Wichita province. There is good land there."

  Kai grew quiet, and somehow smaller. "There is good land here as well, should you want it. Should you wish to stay."

  Pause. How many hours had Aidan and Sophia spent talking about this? In his heart, Aidan knew how much Kai had done, what he had sacrificed, in order to keep his word to the mamluks. To keep his word to Aidan. Had Kai slept a full night since that awful day?

  Part of Aidan wanted to stay, to help his friend heal, to help him make a life.

  But . . . he just couldn't. Too much death and degradation, too much wealth built on the sweat of men and women who didn't own their own bodies. Too many graves. Too many memories.

  "We want to make a new life together, Kai," he said. "Eire and Andalus are both alien to us now. This is our country. We would make our own world."

  Kai's eyes closed. "You could stay for the feast," he said. "It is nearly sundown. Perhaps you could make a start in the morning?"

  Sophia shook her head. "We are meeting with another family tonight, five miles up the road. They're expecting us, Kai."

  Aidan's heart ached, and he wondered what visions played against those tightly shut lids. They opened. "Well, then, this is good-bye. There are papers for you to sign." Kai's words were so devoid of emotion, so tightly controlled, they might have emerged from a puppet.

  Aidan examined the first paper, and his breath caught:

  DECLARATION OF EMANCIPATION it said, continuing on in cursive script to detail how one Aidan O'Dere and his family were free for all time, with all of the rights of citizenship, earned through distinguished service to the throne.

  Hand shaking, he signed, and then Sophia signed.

  Kai managed the ghost of a smile. "And there is a matter of finance," he said.

  Aidan held up a protesting hand. "We don't need anything."

  "Please," said Kai. "Consider it a gift. From a grateful nation, and one who wishes you well."

  He opened a desk drawer, extracting another parchment, and a leather sack. Again, his every motion was measured and precise. Sophia opened the sack, and as she did her eyes widened. Aidan took the parchment.

  "What is this?" he asked.

  "A piece of land on the frontier. Sophia spoke to me of Wichita province some weeks back, and I made an investment in property. I would like you to evaluate it for me. If you would be my eyes and ears, a piece of it is yours. A trading post half a day away holds a year's supplies for you on credit."

  Aidan wanted to protest, but his senses swam. His own land! And if he knew Kai, it was fertile, and defensible. Dear God, even in the midst of his anguish and loss, Kai had provided for his friend. "Kai . . ."

  "Please," Kai said. "There is farming, and fishing there. A trusted broker says that there is a mountain so green it glows in the morning. That the lake's waters are fed by a stream so thick with fish a man can catch them by hand." His eyes were far away, crinkling at the edges, his voice slightly warmed by whatever they saw. "I hope it will remind you of home."

  "I'm sure it will," Aidan said. He reached across the desk and shook Kai's hand. It felt hard, and cool. "Perhaps we'll meet again."

  "If it is the will of God."

  Sophia rounded the desk. As she approached, Kai's eyes dropped to the desktop. She took his face in her hands, turned it, and gently kissed his lips. "You are a good man, Kai, and I love you for what you have done."

  His face softened a bit, just for a moment. Aidan swore he glimpsed something raw and screaming behind the mask. Then the moment was over. Sophia stepped back. "Good-bye," she said.

  Aidan gripped her hand as he turned, needing her to take him out of that place, needing her to carry him away from darkness and the past, toward a new life together.

  He heard, but d
id not see, Kai release all strength with a deep and despairing sigh, then collapse heavily into the chair behind the desk.

  Aidan and Sophia descended the stairs, Sophia balancing Mahon easily against her hip. As they passed the first landing, Lamiya and Babatunde emerged from a side hallway. The imperial niece was radiant in her white mourning gown, a single gold braid circling her slender neck. She and Sophia faced each other, and then Sophia bowed, hand over her heart. Lamiya inclined her head graciously.

  "You are leaving now?" asked Lamiya.

  "Yes, mistress," Sophia said automatically. She caught herself almost in midsentence and bit her lip, perhaps wondering at the proper mode of address.

  "You should call me Lamiya." A smile curled the dark, lovely lips behind the veil. "You are free now. Enjoy your lives together. I wish you well."

  "Thank you," Aidan said. How strange. He had known this woman since she was a girl, and had never thought to call her by her name. Even now it seemed stuck on the tip of his tongue. "Lamiya. I do not wish to presume, but . . . what of you? Will you stay?"

  "I am called home," she said.

  "And Kai will marry Nandi?" asked Sophia.

  "The Zulus have broken communication," Babatunde said quietly. Lamiya glared at him. Babatunde folded his fingers together, saying nothing more.

  "Lamiya," Aidan said, and shook his head ruefully. "I can't believe I have known you all these years, and never called you by name." He laughed uneasily. "In many ways Dar Kush is my home, and it hurts to leave, but I must."

  "I understand."

  "But, Lamiya . . . isn't this your home as well?"

  "I am called home," she repeated, but now looked a bit uneasy. Aidan noted her reaction with interest. He had often seen the way Kai looked at Lamiya, but had never seriously asked himself what, if anything, she might feel for him in return.

  "We should be on our way," Sophia said.

  "Travel safely," said Babatunde, with a slight bow of his head.

  "Long life," said Lamiya.

  Aidan took Sophia's arm and led her gently away. In many ways the boy he had grown up with was dead and gone. Any obligations between them had been thoroughly discharged. What remained were the affairs of the nobility, and those he could not pretend to understand.

  But as he descended the stairs he thought, Luck, Kai. And life. And love, my friend.

  Babatunde watched Aidan and his family depart. He felt an unexpectedly deep contentment, as well as a sense of gratitude to be witness to a tiny part of Allah's great design. Beside him, Lamiya sighed.

  "It is good to be free," Babatunde said. "To go where one will, to marry whom one wants."

  Lamiya's small, perfect teeth gnawed at her lip. "Babatunde," she whispered. "I have been raised all my life to do as the Empress bids."

  "Yes."

  "I am a feqer nӓfs. A soul mate. With Ali dead, I must never marry, must live a celibate, or the Empress will have me declared a nonperson. I would never see my family again."

  Babatunde closed his eyes. "Freedom is not a gift. It is a responsibility. The Empress has given her command, but you must decide your own course of action. Tell me, child, if the Empress was motivated as much by politics as spirit, what did she wish from your union with Ali?"

  'The wealth and influence of Dar Kush," she answered.

  "History has shown," he said, "that kings and queens find ways to justify that which increases their power and security. And I know the woman who sits on the throne of Abyssinia well enough to know something that you do not."

  Lamiya turned to Babatunde as he opened his eyes. "What is that?" she said, voice full of hope.

  "That the Empress will be furious if you follow your heart."

  "Yes." Lamiya lowered her head.

  "But, my child," Babatunde said, "your aunt will understand, and love you always."

  Chapter Seventy-eight

  In the end, a man is alone with his own fate.

  Swahili proverb

  Kai sat in his father's chair, fingering the edge of his father's knife and counting his heartbeats. How many of them a day? How many more in a dishonored life?

  He had hoped that Aidan might stay, might see that Dar Kush could be his home as well, but that hope had been dashed. He couldn't blame his old friend. If he himself could leave, he would.

  But this place, which had been his home for so many years, now promised to be his prison. As his word of honor had been his prison. As had his heart. He listened to its beats, counting them. So many dead now, so many gone.

  His father. Dead at the hands of a man now dead.

  His brother. Dead at the hands of a man now dead.

  His uncle. Dead at the hands of a man who wished he was dead.

  The study door opened. Kai glanced up, only faintly curious. Lamiya stood in the doorway. Once upon a time, the sight of her had made his heart happy. Now he tasted only ashes.

  Kai did not rise, or offer her greeting. She would probably leave within the week. He wished her well. He wished he could remember the boy who had loved her so deeply. That was a good lad, he thought. Rest easy. You were my heart, and you are dead. The rest of me will follow as swiftly as possible.

  Distantly, he realized that Lamiya had begun to speak. "—can only say this once," she was saying. "I have not the strength or the will to repeat it. My marriage to your noble brother was born of necessity. My aunt needs Bilalistan's minerals and resources, and your father needed our political support."

  Yes, yes. All of these things were true. Why was she telling him things that he already knew?

  "I was born and raised to be the link between our nations," she said. "There is only one way I can fulfill that destiny, Kai, and that is as your wife."

  What right had she, a guest in his house, to mock his pain? To twist the knife that should have pierced his heart, not Malik's? He must send her away. Do it, now, a voice within him said.

  Before you believe what she just said.

  Kai's hands tightened upon the hilt. So sharp, the blade. So eager to drink deep. A swift journey to the darkness that haunted his family, had taken everything he loved.

  He listened to his heartbeat. It had doubled. His head felt flushed, and his hand, so steady it barely seemed a living thing, shook like an opium addict denied his poison.

  "Everyone wants to know what the new Wakil will do," he whispered. Why had he said that? Said anything to this woman who tormented him with what he dared not even hope he could have?

  "What do you want?" she asked.

  His sigh was as vast and deep as the ocean. "To leave this world," he said, voice completely reasonable and calm. "It has shown me nothing worth the price of living."

  His throat closed. His head fell upon his crossed arms, and he felt the tears burning down his cheeks. Disgraceful. He had kept them away, fearing that once they began they would not stop, and now this woman, in her infinite cruelty, had broken the dam.

  "Damn you," he whispered.

  He felt something, like a butterfly grazing his shoulder and then fluttering away. He knew that she had come close, had almost touched him, then had pulled back. Of course. Who would not be repelled by such a spectacle?

  "How dare you," she said, voice filled with scorn. "You who have spoken so often of honor and duty. Who spoke of a slave's obligation to those who feed and support him. Well, what of the obligations of the master? What of the obligations of you who slept on silk at the right hand of your father? You have lost much. Your father and brother and uncle watch you, now, at this moment, wondering what manner of man it is who has inherited their world. This," she stormed, "is the moment you were born and bred for. This, none other. Who is the man to whom I have offered my sacred honor?"

  Now he looked up. Her words were full of wrath but behind them was something even hotter. Not pity, for which he might have struck her dead with the knife in his hand. Not love, which he could not have believed or accepted. No, something else.

  Fear. But of what? Of him? Or
herself?

  "Who are you, Kai?"

  Who are you, Kai? Indeed. And who was she? Who was Lamiya Mesgana, behind her veils and gold and the shadow of the Empress? Hidden in her words, behind her words, was another ocean, seething with unspoken emotion.

  Then suddenly he heard himself say the words he had no right to ask, a question to which he wished no honest answer. "Do you love me?" he said, the words fumbling from his lips. "Could you?"

  "I belong," she said, "to the man who is master of this house."

  He could not answer, could not move. Her words. Her eyes, the richness of her lips hypnotized him. What was she saying? The entire world seemed suspended.

  Suddenly her hand blurred, cracking him across the cheek. "Damn you!" The pain was distant, but roared and swooped. Ringing through his head to disperse the ensnaring fog.

  Lamiya slapped him again, and this time he blinked. Allah preserve me. What is this? What is she saying? Does she realize . . . ? His emotions rose, swelled, vanquished reason.

  When she raised her hand a third time he grabbed her wrist and lurched to his feet. Their faces were very close, and no mortal force could have stopped him from pulling her to him, tasting her lips, finding there the meaning he had found nowhere else. He broke away, gazing deeply into her eyes, looking for lies, evasion, manipulation . . . or love.

  Seeing nothing but fear. And then, when he kissed her again, something else.

  Hope.

  "Pick up the knife," she whispered.

  Moving stiffly at first, and then with greater purpose, Kai thrust his father's blade into his belt and strode to his balcony to face the waiting crowd.

  It was just sunset, but the torches cast their wavering brightness into the long shadows.

  As he stepped out, the crowd went silent. He looked out upon his father's estate, on the people now relying upon him, on all he had inherited, for good or ill.