“This is a stupid conversation!” Moodily, Achmed picked up small pieces of loose rock and began tossing them into the compound.
“Be patient,” the Imam counseled softly. “We see the road beneath our feet, not the end. But we walk it still or we would get nowhere. So—the child reaches for the fire. The mother slaps the child’s wrist and tells her no. Until the child is capable of understanding that the fire will burn her, the lesser hurt protects the child from the greater. Is this true?”
“Something like that, I suppose.” Achmed had always heard priests were crazy. Now he had proof.
Reaching out his hand, the Imam touched the young man upon his forehead. “Now do you understand?” Feisal asked, his fingers gliding gently over the wound.
Turning, pausing in mid throw, Achmed stared at the priest in astonishment. “Understand what?”
Feisal smiled, his eyes were brighter than the sun of dohar.
“In spiritual matters, you are the child. Your God, the false God, Akhran, is the fire—bright colors and dancing light. Like the fire, he is a dangerous God, Achmed, for he will bum up your soul and leave it nothing but ashes. The Amir and myself are the parents who must protect you from everlasting harm, my son. We tried to reason with you, but you did not understand our words. Therefore, in order to save you from the inferno, we had to strike out, to slap your hand. . . .”
“And what about those you hit a little too hard?” Achmed cried angrily. “Those who died!”
“No one regrets loss of life more than I,” the Imam said, his almondshaped eyes burning into Achmed’s. “It was your people—most notably your headstrong brother—who attacked us. We defended ourselves.”
Jumping to his feet, Achmed began to walk away, heading back for the cells.
“Believe me, Achmed!” The Imam called after him. “The Amir could have destroyed your tribes! He could have wiped you out. It would have been far less trouble. But such was not his intent, nor mine!”
“You take us hostage!” Achmed tossed the words over his shoulder.
Rising gracefully, the Imam walked after the young man, talking to a steelstiffened back.
“Hostage? Where is the demand for ransom? Have you been put up on the slave blocks? Tortured, beaten? Has one of your women been violated, molested?”
“Perhaps not.” Achmed slowed his furious pace across the compound, his head halfturned. “Cream floating on soured milk! What do you want from us?”
Coming to a halt before the young man, the Imam spread his hands. “We want nothing from you. We want only to give.”
“Give what?”
“The cream, to use your words. We want to share it with you.”
“And what is this cream?” The young man was scornful.
“Knowledge. Understanding. Faith in a God who truly loves and cares for you and for your people.”
“Akhran cares for His people!”
Achmed’s tone was defiant, but Feisal knew it to be the defiance of a small child striking back at the hand that had hurt him, not the defiance of a man firm in his convictions. Coming up behind the young man, the priest rested his hands upon Achmed’s shoulders. The Imam felt the young man flinch, but he also felt that the touch of friendship was not unwelcome to the lonely youth. Feisal said nothing more to challenge the young man’s faith, wisely knowing that this would only force him to strengthen his defenses. It was Feisal’s plan to slip quietly into the carefully guarded fortress of Achmed’s soul, not attack it with a battering ram.
“There is someone who wants to see you, Achmed—a member of your tribe. May I bring him tomorrow?”
“You can do what you like. What choice do I have? I am your prisoner, after all.”
“We keep you in your cells only as the mother keeps her babe in a cradle, to protect it from harm.”
Tired of hearing about children—or perhaps tired of being constantly referred to as a child—Achmed made an impatient gesture.
“Until tomorrow, then?” the Imam said.
“If you like,” Achmed said sullenly, but the priest had seen the flash of the eyes, the heightened color in the averted face at the mention of a visitor.
“The peace of Quar be with you this night,” the Imam said, gesturing to a guard, who arrived to take Achmed back to his cell.
Twisting his head, the young man watched the priest leave, the spare body moving gracefully beneath the white robes that were now stained with the filth and muck of the prison. Yet Feisal didn’t appear disgusted. He hadn’t tried to brush it off or keep himself away from it. He had touched the beggars, the condemned, the diseased. He had given of his God to them. Clothes can be cleansed, the Imam had said. Just like the soul.
The peace of Quar or any other God was a long way from Achmed that night.
Chapter 2
Achmed waited impatiently the next morning to learn the identity of this mysterious visitor. He hoped it might be his mother, but the morning hour for the meeting of the prisoners and their families at the iron gates came, and she was not there. Khardan’s mother was there to visit, however, and Badia told Achmed that what the Imam had said was true. Sophia was improving. Although she was not strong enough to make the journey to the prison, she sent her love to her son.
“What the Imam said about my mother, that she would have died out there in the desert. Is that true?”
“Our lives are in the hands of Akhran,” said Badia, averting her eyes and turning to leave. “Pray to him.”
“There is something wrong!” cried Achmed, catching hold of the woman’s hand through the gate. “What is it? Badia, you have always been a second mother to me. I see trouble in your face. Is it my mother? Tell me what is the matter!”
“It is not your trouble, Achmed,” the woman said in a broken voice. “It is my own.” She pressed her hand over her heart. “Our God gives me strength to bear it. Farewell. I leave you with this”— she kissed him on the forehead—”and your mother’s blessing.”
Turning, she hurried away, disappearing into the crowd of the nearby souks before Achmed could question her further. A bell sounded. The guards came out to lead the prisoners back to their cells amid the wailing and parting cries of their mothers, wives, and children.
Badia surely hadn’t been the visitor the Imam meant, Achmed thought as he walked with slow and shuffling step across the compound. Lost in his thoughts, he started when he felt an elbow dig into his side. Glancing up, he saw Sayah, a Hrana.
“What do you want, shepherd?” Achmed asked rudely. noting that Sayah’s expression was grim and dark.
“Just wondering if you’d heard the news.”
“What news?” Achmed appeared uninterested. “Has one of your women given birth to a goat that you fathered?”
“It is you who has bred the goat and it is in your own tribe.”
“Bah!” Achmed tried to move away, but Sayah caught hold of the sleeve of his robe.
“One of your own, an Akar, has renounced our holy Akhran and gone over to the God of this city,” he hissed.
“I don’t believe you!” Achmed glared at Sayah defiantly.
“It is so. Look there!” Sayah gestured toward the gate.
Achmed turned his head reluctantly, knowing what he would see even before he glanced around, for he had instantly guessed the identity of the Imam’s visitor. Standing at the bars, dressed in clean, fresh white robes, looking both defiant and extremely nervous was Saiyad, one of Majiid’s most trusted men. Next to Saiyad stood the Imam.
From the sound of the low growl that rumbled around him, Achmed knew that the other members of the Akar had heard Sayah’s words and seen Saiyad standing by the gate next to the priest. Looking about the crowd for advice, Achmed was amazed to find that all the men of the Akar were staring expectantly at him! It suddenly occurred to the young man that they were assuming he would take the role of leadership! He was Majiid’s son, after all. . . .
Confused and overwhelmed by this unexpected responsibility, Achme
d muttered something about “talking to him myself and clearing up this mistake,” then walked back toward the gate. The guards leaped after him, but a gesture from the Imam sent them about their duties. Gathering together their other prisoners, the guards marched them back to the cells, taking out their frustrations on the nomads when they were certain that the Imam wasn’t watching.
Drawing nearer, a stern, unwavering gaze fixed on Saiyad, Achmed saw that the man’s eyes looked everywhere but at him— the ground, the sky, the prison, the Imam. Saiyad’s fingers worked busily, folding and pleating, then drawing smooth, then folding and pleating a handful of the white cotton of his flowing robes.
“So it is no mistake,” Achmed said beneath his breath, his heart dragging in the sand.
He reached the gate. The Imam did not enter, keeping both himself and Saiyad outside, perhaps afraid for his visitor’s life. A glance at Achmed’s dark and foreboding expression must have made the priest thankful for his precaution.
“Saiyad,” said Achmed coolly. “Salaam aleikum.”
“And. . . and greetings to you, Achmed,” answered Saiyad, his eyes meeting the young man’s for the first time. He was obviously sorry they did so, for his gaze darted away the next instant. His fingers clenched around the fabric of his robe.
“What brings you here?” Achmed asked, attempting to conceal his rising fury. Why had Saiyad done this foul act? Worse, why did he feel it necessary to come and rub their noses in his dirt?
“Saiyad has come to check on your welfare, Achmed,” said the Imam smoothly, “and to make certain that you and the others are being well treated.”
“Yes, that is the reason I have come!” Saiyad said, his bearded face splitting into a grin.
Liar! thought Achmed, longing to shove the man’s teeth down his throat. “So it is true what they say,” the young man’s voice was low. “You have converted to Quar.”
The man’s grin vanished instantly, to be replaced by a sickly smile. Shrugging his shoulders, he glanced deprecatingly at the Imam, and still working the fabric that was now dirty from the misuse, he drew near the iron gates and motioned for Achmed to come closer.
Feeling his skin crawl as though he were approaching a snake, the young man did as he was asked. The Imam, half turning, affected to be absorbed in the beauty of the palace that was nearby.
“What could I do, Achmed?” Saiyad whispered, his fingers leaving his robes and gripping the young man’s through the bars. “You don’t know what it’s like out there in the desert!”
“Well, what is it like?” Achmed asked, trying to maintain his composure, yet feeling himself go cold all over.
“We are starving, Achmed! The soldiers burned everything, they left us with nothing—not even a goatskin in which to put the water! We have no shelter. By night we sleep in the sand. During the day, we fight for the shade of a palm tree! There are many sick and injured and only a few old women with magic enough to tend them. My wife, my children were carried away. . . .”
“Stop whining!” Achmed snapped. Unable to help himself, he drew back from Saiyad’s touch in disgust. “You are not the only one to suffer! And at least you are free! Look at us, locked in here, worse than animals!” Lowering his voice, glancing at the Imam, he added softly, “Surely my father must be planning some way to get us out of here. Or Khardan—”
“Khardan!” Saiyad spoke too loudly. Both saw the thin shoulders of the Imam jerk, the turbaned head move ever so slightly. Hunching around so that his back was to the priest, Saiyad faced Achmed. The eyes that had been cast downward in guilt suddenly met his in contempt; the young man was disquieted to see the older man’s lip curl in a sneer.
“Haven’t you heard about your precious brother?”
“What? What about Khardan?” Achmed’s heart stopped beating. “What’s happened to him?” Now it was he who grabbed hold of the older man’s robes.
“Happened? To him?” Saiyad laughed unpleasantly. “Nothing! Nothing at all, the filthy coward!”
“How dare you!” Achmed dragged the man closer with a jerk of his hands, banging Saiyad’s head against the bars. One of the guards took a step toward them, but the Imam, supposedly neither hearing nor seeing what was going on, made a quick, imperceptible gesture, and—once again—the guard retreated.
“It’s true, and all your ill usage of me won’t change it! Our Calif fled the battlefield, disguised as a woman!”
Achmed stared at the man, then suddenly began to laugh. “Liar as well as a traitor! At least you could have come up with something more believable.” Releasing his hold of the older man, Achmed wiped his hands on his robes, like one who has come into contact with a leper.
“Yes, couldn’t I?” Saiyad retorted angrily. “Think, Achmed! If I was lying, wouldn’t I have made up a better tale? What reason would I have to lie anyway?”
“To get me to join him!” Achmed made a furious gesture at the priest.
“I don’t give a damn whether you join us or not!” Saiyad snarled. Realizing he was losing control and hurting his own cause, the older man drew himself up with an air of shabby dignity. “I came here to explain why I did what I did, hoping you and the others would understand. What I told you about Khardan is the truth, I swear by—” Saiyad hesitated. He had been about to say “Akhran,” but seeing the silent figure of the Imam standing some distance away, he choked on the word “—by the honor of my mother,” the older man concluded lamely. “All in the desert know it is true.”
“Not my father!”
“Your father more than any of them!” Saiyad waved his hands. “Here!” Reaching into his sash, he fumbled for something, then withdrew a sword, “Majiid bade me give this to Khardan’s mother, but I did not have the heart. You do with it what you want.”
Seeing the flash of steel passing between the visitor and the prisoner, the guard leaped to intervene—Imam or no Imam.
“You dogs!” the guard swore at them. “I’ll have you both whipped—”
Hastily, the Imam stepped in front of the guard, extending a slender arm between him and the nomads. “It is nothing of importance, I assure you!”
“Nothing! I saw that man give the boy a sword—”
“True,” the Imam interrupted. Reaching through the bars, he grasped Achmed’s limp hand and held the weapon up for inspection. “It is a sword. But can this be of harm?”
Looking at the weapon intently, the guard scowled, then gave a brief laugh and turned away, shaking his head over the stupidity of those who cooked their brains in the sun.
The sword’s blade was broken; only the hilt and three inches of steel remained.
“Your father himself did that with an axe,” Saiyad hissed, when the Imam had once again turned away.
Achmed held the broken sword—Khardan’s sword—in a nerveless grasp, staring at it with anguished eyes. “I . . . I don’t understand. . .” he said thickly.
“Your father proclaimed Khardan dead.” Saiyad sighed. Reaching through the bars, he patted Achmed’s arm, giving awkward, embarrassed comfort. “Majiid is a broken man. We are leaderless now. Day after day, he sits doing nothing but staring into the east, where it is said Khardan vanished!”
“But how could he know? Did he see Khardan . . . ?”
“No, but there was one who did. Fedj, the djinn.”
“Jaafar’s servant? A Hrana djinn?” Fire scorched the tears that had glimmered in Achmed’s eyes. “No one would believe that—”
“He swore the Oath of Sul, Achmed,” Saiyad said quietly. “And he walks among us still.”
The young man stared. He could not speak, his tongue seemed to have swollen, his throat gone dry. The Oath of Sul was the most terrible, the most binding oath an immortal could take.
If what I now repeat is not the truth, may Akhran take me now, as I stand here, and lock me in my dwelling, and drop that dwelling into the mouth of Sul, and may Sul swallow me and hold me in the darkness of his belly for a thousand years.
Thus ran the
Oath. Many times Achmed had seen the djinn (most notably Pukah) threatened with the Oath, and each time he had seen them back down, refusing to take it. This was the first he had ever heard of one actually swearing by it.
Dazed, blinded by his tears, he could only whisper, “How?”
“Fedj was not present at the battle. He was detained by Raja, Zeid’s djinn, who attacked him. Fearing for his master, Fedj left the contest as speedily as he could, only to find the battle ended. He discovered Jaafar lying among the wounded. Seeing his master to safety, Fedj then went to see if there was anyone else who needed his aid. The Amir’s soldiers were burning the camp, and all was in disorder. Dusk had fallen, smoke filled the air. Fedj heard a noise and saw three women taking advantage of the confusion to flee the soldiers. Thinking he would lend them his assistance, Fedj flew toward them. Just as he started to speak, he saw the veil covering the face of one of the women slip down—”
Seeing the pain in Achmed’s eyes, Saiyad stopped speaking and stared at his feet.
“Khardan?” the young man murmured almost inaudibly, more of a sigh than a spoken word.
Saiyad nodded.
Clutching the broken sword, Achmed slumped against the bars of the gate. Then, angrily, he cried, “I don’t believe it! Maybe he was injured, unconscious, and they were helping him!”
“Then why hasn’t he come back? He knows his people need him! Unless. . .”
“Unless what?” Achmed glanced up swiftly.
“Unless he is truly a coward—”
Grabbing hold of Saiyad, Achmed slammed the man’s face up against the bars. “Swine! Who is the coward? Who has come crawling on his belly? I will kill you, you—!”
The Imam could see that Saiyad was in trouble this time. Together he and the guard managed to free the nomad from Achmed’s strangling grip.
“The bearer of bad news is always treated as though he were the cause of it,” Saiyad muttered, breathing heavily and twitching his robes back into place. “Others feared telling you, but I thought you should know.”
“The bearer of bad news is treated thus only when he takes pleasure in the telling!” Achmed retorted. “You have hated Khardan ever since he made you look a fool over the madman!” The last words were so choked that they were practically indistinguishable. “Get out of my sight, dog!” Achmed waved the broken sword. “My father is right! Khardan is dead!”
The Paladin of the Night Page 7
