The Prophet of Akhran

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  “No!” Zohra glared at him, scorching him with the scorn and fury in her eyes.

  “Will you die with him?” Khardan persisted. “Abandon our people when we are within two days’ ride of them? Let all we have gone through be for nothing? Let all he has accomplished be for nothing?”

  “I—” The seething words died on trembling lips. The tears fell then, sliding down her cheeks, leaving tracks in the dust on her skin, dust that sifted in through every chink in the rock wall.

  Khardan knelt beside her. He wanted to take her in his arms and share his own grief, his own anger, and the fear, which had overwhelmed him in the empty, silent halls of the dead house, of being that grain of sand. His hand moved to touch her, but at that moment her chin jutted forward proudly, she swiftly wiped her eyes.

  “You will kill ibn Jad,” she said resolutely.

  “I may not. I have taken an oath,” Khardan replied. “Even if I hadn’t, I could not kill one who has twice saved my life.”

  “Then I will kill him. Give me your dagger.” The black eyes looked at him fiercely, an odd contrast to the tears still glistening on her face.

  Khardan lowered his face to hide a smile that came despite the burning in his heart. “That would not solve matters,” he said quietly. “Mathew would still be sick and unable to travel. We would still have water enough for only three days and no way of finding any when that is gone. And it will take us two days to reach the Tel.”

  She could not answer but glared at him with the irrational rage men hold against one who speaks an unpleasant truth.

  Mathew twisted and moaned. The fever made the bones ache, joints stiffen, and cramped the belly. Slowly, with a gentleness few ever saw, Khardan reached out and laid a hand upon the boy’s forehead.

  “Rest easy,” he murmured, and whether it was the touch or the sound of the loved and admired voice that penetrated the horrors of delirium, Mathew grew calmer. The tortured limbs relaxed. But it would be only for the moment.

  Khardan continued stroking the pale skin that was dry and hot as a sand snake’s to the touch.

  “He will slip from this life quickly and painlessly. His sufferings will finally be at an end. We do him no disservice, Zohra. You and I both know he is not happy living among us.”

  “And if he is not, whose fault is that?” Zohra demanded in a low, trembling voice. “We looked down on him and sneered at him and reviled him for his weakness, for disguising himself as a woman in order to survive. But now we know what it is to be alone and afraid and helpless in a strange and alien place! Did we acquit ourselves any better? Did we even do as well? That evil knight may have helped us to escape, but it was Mathew who saved you—”

  “Stop it, woman!” Khardan shouted, twisting to his feet. “Every word you speak is a knife in my heart, and you do not inflict wounds that I have not already felt myself! But I have no choice! I have made the best decision I can, and it is a decision I must live with the rest of my life! Unless a miracle occurs and water falls from the hands of Akhran”—Khardan pointed at Mathew—”the boy must die. If you are here, and if you try to stop him, ibn Jad will have no compunction over killing you, too.” Khardan held out his hand to her. “I saved the boy’s life in the desert. He and I are even. Will you come and rest before this night’s travel?”

  Zohra stared at the hand poised above her, the violent struggle within herself apparent in the flush that made her face nearly as fevered as Mathew’s. She gave Khardan one final, piercing glance from her black eyes, a glance tainted with hatred and anger and, amazingly, disappointment—amazingly to Khardan because we feel disappointment in another only when we expect better than we receive, and Khardan found it difficult to believe his wife thought even that well of him. Certainly she did not now. Wringing water from the cloth, she laid it gently on Mathew’s brow; then, spurning her husband’s outstretched hand, Zohra rose to her feet.

  “I will sleep,” she said in an emotionless tone, and brushed past Khardan without another look.

  Sighing, he saw her wend her way through the corridors of the house, then stood, gazing for long moments down at Mathew.

  “What she said is true,” he told the unhearing boy softly.

  “I understand your unhappiness now, and I am sorry.”

  He started to say something more, sighed, and abruptly turned away.

  “I am sorry!”

  Chapter 12

  Zohra chose deliberately one of the many chambers located near Mathew’s and hid within the shadows that played upon the stone walls. Holding her breath, she watched as the Calif emerged from the doorway. He paused and, lifting his hands to his eyes, rubbed them and continued down the hallway, shaking his head, toward the door that led outside.

  He passed quite near her. Zohra saw his face was lined with fatigue and care, his brow furrowed with an anger that she knew turned in upon himself.

  “This is not his fault,” she whispered remorsefully, remembering the look with which she had favored him when she left. “If anything, the fault is mine, for without my meddling he would now be riding the heavens in honor with Hazrat Akhran. But it will be all right,” she promised him silently as he passed by her. Her heart ached for his sorrow, and she wavered in her determination. “Perhaps I should tell him. What would it hurt? But no, he would try to stop me—”

  She had unconsciously taken a step toward him, toward the door. She did not hear the sound of stealthy movement behind her nor realize that another person besides herself had chosen that particular room for a hiding place, until a hardmuscled body slammed into hers, pressing her into a corner, and a firm hand covered her mouth and nose.

  Khardan stopped, listening, his head slightly turned. The hand clasped her more firmly, the cool, glittering eyes informed her that the slightest movement was death.

  Zohra held very still, and Khardan, shrugging tiredly, went dejectedly on his way.

  The hand did not release its hold until they both heard the nomad’s footsteps fade in the distance.

  “He will sleep outside, where he can breathe the free air. I know him, you see.” The hand loosened its grip, moving from her mouth down to close gently around her neck. Zohra stared, terrified yet fascinated, into the expressionless eyes so close to hers. “He is not far. You could bring him with a scream. But it would do you no good.” The hand gently touched two points upon her throat. “My fingers here. . . and here. . . and you are dead. I told him I would be forced to kill you if you interfered, and he warned you. I heard him. He will be cleansed of your death.”

  There was no doubting those eyes.

  “I will not scream,” Zohra whispered, not so much because she feared being overheard but because her voice had failed her.

  “Good.”

  The hands left her throat, the pressure against her body melted away. Closing her eyes, Zohra drew a deep breath and felt herself begin to tremble.

  “Wait here and be silent, then, as you have promised,” said ibn Jad, taking a step toward the door that led to the sick chamber. Inside, Mathew could be heard, tossing in his feverish throes. “He will not suffer, I promise you. Indeed, with this, his sufferings will end. Our God waits to award him for his valor, as does his own God. Do not move. I will be back. I have something to discuss with you—”

  “No!” Zohra could not believe it was her voice that spoke, her hand that darted out—seemingly of its own accord—and caught hold of the strong, sinewy arm of the Black Paladin. She held on firmly, despite the narrowing of the black eyes that was the only sign of emotion she had yet seen in the man. “Please.” Zohra tried to summon moisture enough in her dry mouth to form her words. “Don’t kill him! Not yet! I . . . want to pray to Akhran—my God—for a miracle!”

  How had she known this plea—and only this—would touch Auda ibn Jad? She wasn’t certain. Perhaps it was what she had seen and heard of his people in his dark castle. Perhaps it was the way he always spoke of the Gods—all Gods—with grave reverence and respect. A plea for pity, fo
r mercy, for compassion, for the sanctity of human life—he would only stare at her coldly, walk into that room, and kill Mathew with ruthless efficiency. But to tell him she wanted time to place the matter in the hands of her God—that he understood. That he could respect.

  He pondered, looking at her thoughtfully, and she held her breath until it became painful, her chest burned, sparks danced in her vision; and then—finally—he briefly nodded his head. Zohra relaxed, sighing. Tears came unbidden and unwanted to her eyes.

  “If your God has not responded by nightfall,” said ibn Jad gravely, “then I carry out my fiat.”

  She could not reply; she could only lower her head in what was part acquiescence and part a desire to look no longer into those disturbing eyes. Drawing her veil across her face with a hand that shook so she could barely lift it, Zohra sidled toward the doorway. An arm shot across, blocking her exit.

  “I would go to my prayers,” she murmured, not daring to lift her head, not daring to look at him.

  “You and he are man and wife in name only. The Black Sorceress told me that no man has known you!”

  Resolutely, her jaw clenched tightly, Zohra tried to push past the arm.

  “Let me go,” she said haughtily, in the imperious tone that had often served her so well.

  It did not serve her now. Auda snatched the veil from her hand, uncovering her face. “He has forfeited his rights as husband. You are free to come to any man! Come to me, Zohra!”

  His hands closed over her upper arms. Shuddering, Zohra shrank back against the wall, averting her face.

  Lips brushed against her neck, and she struggled to free herself. His grip tightened painfully. Suddenly angry, she ceased to fight him and stared at him intently. “What do you want from me?” she demanded breathlessly. “There is no love in you! There is not even desire! What do you want?”

  He smiled; the dark eyes remained flat, without passion. “I have appetites as do other men. But I have learned to control them since they are sand in the eyes of rational thought. I could find pleasure with you. Of that I have no doubt. But it would be fleeting, of the moment and then gone. What do I want of you, Zohra?” He drew her nearer, and she was tense and taut. “I want a son!” Now there was emotion in the eyes, and she was startled by its intensity. “My life nears its close. I know this, and I accept it. It is the will of Zhakrin. But I want to leave behind me a son with that strong, wild blood of yours flowing in his veins!”

  Auda’s lips came near hers, and nearly suffocated with fear and his nearness, she averted her face, pressing her head and her body back against the wall, her eyes closed. No man had ever dared touch her like this, no man had been this close. The druginduced dreams of passion inflicted on her in Castle Zhakrin came back to her, tinged now with horror that weakened and debilitated.

  She felt his breath upon her, fire against her skin; then, slowly, he released his hold on her. Leaning weakly back against the wall, Zohra glanced up at him hesitantly, warily. Auda had backed away several steps, his hands raised in the ageless gesture that means no harm.

  The emotion in him had died. The face was pale, impassive, the eyes dark and flat. “I will not take you by force, Zohra. A woman such as you would never forgive that. I neither want nor expect your love. I will pray to Zhakrin and ask that he give you to me. One night, if he answers my prayer, you will come to me and say, ‘I will bear your son and he will be a mighty warrior, and in him you will live again!’“

  With that Auda bowed gracefully, and before Zohra could move or speak, he was gone, silently, from the room.

  Zohra began to shake. Her knees would not support her, and she sank, shivering, to the floor and buried her face in her hands. She had seen the Black Paladin do magic that wasn’t magic, or so Mathew had told her. It was not the magic of Sul but the magic of the Paladin’s God. Auda’s faith gave him power, and he was going to use it on her.

  I will pray to Zhakrin and ask that he give you to me. Against all reason, against her will and her inclination, Zohra nonetheless felt herself drawn to Auda ibn Jad.

  Chapter 13

  Bereft of coherent thought and reason, Zohra remained crouched in a shivering stupor upon the floor until a wild cry from Mathew changed her fear for herself to fear for another. Hastening to her feet, she ran into his room, terrified that ibn Jad had forsaken his promise.

  There was no one in the room except the suffering boy; the only thing attacking him was the fever. He needed water, lots of water, to break its grip. It was time for Akhran to perform his miracle.

  Reassuring herself with one last look that Mathew was in no immediate danger, either from his sickness or the Black Paladin—who was nowhere to be seen—Zohra left the sickroom and wound her way among the labyrinthine corridors of the house to the outside door.

  Camels and men slept in the cool shade of a nearby building. Zohra halted when she saw that ibn Jad had laid himself down on a blanket beside Khardan. Zohra hesitated, loathe to go near the man. Glancing about, she searched for something else that might suit her purpose but knew she searched in vain. Her gaze went to the sash around Khardan’s waist, to the hilt she could see glinting in the sun.

  She had to have the dagger.

  “Since when have you been afraid of any man?” she asked herself scornfully, and not stopping to think that some men are worthy of fear, Zohra boldly and quietly stole across the sundrenched street.

  The camels raised their heads and gazed at her with stupid, suspicious malevolence, thinking she might try to rouse them from their rest. Thankful it was camels she was facing and not Khardan’s horse, who would never have allowed anyone to steal up on his slumbering master, Zohra hissed at the camels, and they lowered their heads. Khardan slept sprawled upon his back; his breathing was deep and regular, and Zohra, after watching for a moment, knew that he slept the sleep of exhaustion and would not easily waken. Drawing near him, she stole a glance at Auda. The man’s eyes were closed fast; his breathing, too, was even. But whether he slept or shammed, Zohra could not tell.

  It didn’t matter, she told herself. Whatever she did, he would not stop her. He had given her until sundown, and she was beginning to know him well enough to understand that he would keep his vow.

  Carefully, cautiously, she leaned over Khardan and with a light, delicate touch slowly began to ease the dagger from his sash. He sighed and stirred, and she went motionless, the dagger only halfway hers. He sighed again and lapsed back into unconsciousness.

  Sighing herself, in relief, Zohra slipped the weapon out and clutched it thankfully. Turning, she was starting to move back across the street toward the house when her gaze fell upon ibn Jad. The dagger, warm from Khardan’s body, was in her hand. One thrust, and it would all be over. No God could ever lure her to a dead man. She stared at him, sleeping soundly to all appearances. Her fingers curled tightly around the knife’s hilt.

  She took a step toward him, then turned and fled across the street as though he had leaped up and was chasing her. Pausing inside the doorway to catch her breath, Zohra looked back and saw that neither man had moved.

  Khardan woke with a start, thinking that someone was sneaking up on him, intending to slit his throat. So real was the impression that he reached out defending hands before he had a chance to focus his eyes, and only when his hands closed on nothing but air did he realize it had been a dream. Wearily he started to lie back down again and try to recapture sleep, patting the sash with the unthinking, instinctive gesture of the veteran warrior reassuring himself his weapon is by his side.

  It wasn’t.

  It didn’t need the lingering fragrance of jasmine to bring one person to his mind. “Zohra!” he muttered, and sat upright, looking in every direction.

  His first thought was that the headstrong woman was following through on her intention to kill Auda ibn Jad. But a glance showed him the Black Paladin lying beside him, peacefully asleep. Apparently he had gone through with his plan. Mathew must be dead, Khardan thought, a swift, st
abbing pain wrenching his heart. But if so, what was Zohra doing with her husband’s dagger? Revenge?

  He could almost see her, standing in some shadowy recess, the weapon in her hand, dealing vengeance with a swift thrust into an unsuspecting back.

  Khardan did not like the evil Paladin. Despite the fact that Auda had saved their lives, rescuing them from the other Paladins of Zhakrin who demanded their blood and their souls, Khardan remembered vividly that this was the same man who, without a second thought, had cast a chained and manacled group of wretched slaves to ghuls. As long as he lived, nothing would ever blot from his eyes the sight of that horrid feast, from his ears the dreadful screams. And Auda had committed, in the name of Zhakrin, other crimes as heinous. Khardan knew this well, having heard the recitation of these deeds from the Black Paladin’s own lips.

  A dagger in the back was undoubtedly an easier death than he deserved. Had it been six months before, Khardan himself would have wielded the weapon and thought little of it. But it was a changed Khardan who rose wearily to his feet and set off in search of his wife.

  Before the enforced marriage to Zohra—a marriage commanded by the God—Khardan had paid lip service to Hazrat Akhran but never went much further than that. Twentyfive years old, handsome, bold, courageous, the Calif had fixed thoughts on the world, not upon heaven. After the marriage to Zohra, the only thoughts Khardan entertained about Akhran were bitter ones.

  Then had come the moment the Calif stood before his God in the torture chamber of Castle Zhakrin. Khardan—broken in body and spirit—came facetoface with Akhran.

  The Akar believe that the insane have seen the face of the God and that it is the sight of this glory that drives them mad. If that was so, thought Khardan, then I must be touched with madness.

  Khardan had seen the God. Khardan had given Akhran his life, and Akhran had given it back to him.

  In those few brief seconds Khardan had seen not only the God’s face, but his mind as well. It was unclear, indistinct, but dimly he came to realize, thinking about all this now, that perhaps he had been mistaken in those feelings of emptiness he had experienced inside the house. He was not a meaningless grain of sand. He was part of a vast plan. These things were not happening to him by chance.