The Prophet of Akhran

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  “May Benario guide your hand and blind your victim’s eyes.” Muzaffahr repeated the Thieves’ Blessing solemnly.

  “May he indeed!” the woman whispered to herself and glided into the night.

  That morning, when Achmed returned to his tent, he found the following message scrawled upon a piece of parchment.

  My beloved, I overheard something this night which leads me to believe that your mother and the other followers of our Holy Akhran being held prisoner in Kich are in terrible danger. I have gone to warn them of their peril and do what I can to save them. As you value my life and those of the ones you love, say nothing of this to anyone! Trust in me. There is nothing you can do except remain here and perform your duty as the brave soldier that you are. To do anything else might bring suspicion down upon me. Pray to Akhran for us all. I love you more than life itself.

  Meryem

  Achmed had learned to read in the Amir’s service. Now he wished his eyes had been torn from his head rather than bring him such news. Rushing from his tent, missive in hand, the young man searched the camp. He dared not risk asking anyone if they had seen her, and hours later, dejected, he was forced to return to his tent alone.

  She was gone. There was no doubt. She had fled in the night.

  Achmed pondered. His overwhelming desire was to rush after her, but that would mean abandoning his post without leave—a treasonous offense. Not even Qannadi could shield the young soldier from the death penalty attached to desertion. He considered going to the Amir and explaining everything and requesting leave to return to Kich.

  As you value my life and those of the ones you love, say nothing of this to anyone!

  The words leapt off the paper and burned into his heart. No, there was nothing he could do. He must trust to her, to her nobility, her courage. Tears in his eyes, he pressed the letter passionately to his lips and sank down on the bed, gently caressing the blankets where her fragrance lingered still.

  Chapter 3

  Khardan and his companions left Serinda in the early hours of evening, intending to cross the Pagrah Desert during the cool hours of night. The journey was accomplished in silence, each person’s thoughts wrapping around him or her as closely as their face masks. Lulled by the rhythmic swaying of the camels, cooled by the night air, Mathew stared moodily at the myriad stars above that seemed to be trying to outdo the myriad grains of sand below and wondered what lay ahead for them.

  To judge by Khardan’s grim expression and Zohra’s darkly flashing eyes whenever Mathew broached the subject, it would not be pleasant.

  “Surely no one saw us,” Mathew repeated comfortingly over and over until the words plodded along in his mind in time to the camel’s footsteps. “We have been gone months, but that can be explained. Surely no one saw us. . .”

  But even as he repeated the litany, willing it to come true, he felt someone watching him and, twisting in the saddle, saw the cruel eyes of the Black Paladin glitter in the moonlight. Auda’s hand patted the hilt of the dagger at his waist. Shuddering, Mathew turned his back on the Paladin and hunched over in the saddle, determined to put a closer guard upon his thoughts.

  They rode far into the morning. Mathew had discovered that he could sink into a half doze that permitted part of his mind to sleep while another part kept awake and made certain he did not “drift.” He knew Zohra was watching him from the corner of her dark eyes, and he had no desire to feel the sting of her camel stick across his back.

  They slept through the heat of the day, and Khardan allowed them to rest in the early evening, then they set off again. The Calif figured to arrive in the camp at the Tel at dawn.

  Their first glimpse of the nomad’s campsite was not auspicious. The four stood atop a large sand dune, highly visible against the morning sun that was rising at their backs. Thus, though no one in the camp below could possibly recognize them—seeing only black silhouettes—Khardan declared by his willingness to be seen that he had no hostile intentions.

  It took long minutes before anyone noticed them, however. A bad sign, apparently, thought Mathew, watching Khardan’s face grow grimmer as he surveyed the scene below. In the center of the landscape was the Tel, the lone hill that jutted up inexplicably from the flat desert floor. A few patches of brownish green dotted its red surface—the cacti known as the Rose of the Prophet. Khardan’s frowning gaze lingered on the Rose, flicked sideways to Zohra, and back again before any but the young man noticed.

  Mathew knew the history of the Rose. Zohra had related to him how their God, Akhran, had brought about her detested marriage to Khardan by pronouncing that the two must wed and their warring tribes dwell together in peace until the uglylooking cacti bloomed. Perhaps Khardan was surprised to note that the plant was still alive. Certainly Mathew was surprised. It seemed remarkable to him that anything—humans included—could live in such bleak and forbidding surroundings.

  The oasis was nearly dry. Where before Mathew remembered a body of cool water surrounded by lush, green growth, there was now only a large, muddy puddle, a few straggling palms, and the tall desert grass clinging to life on its shore. A herd of scroungylooking camels and a smaller herd of horses were tethered near the water.

  The camp itself was divided into three separate and distinct groups. Mathew knew the colors of Khardan’s tribe, the Akar, and he recognized the colors of Zohra’s tribe, the Hrana. But he did not know the third until Khardan murmured, “Zeid’s people,” and he saw Zohra nod silently in response. The tents themselves were poor, makeshift affairs straggling across the sand without order or care. And though it was early morning and the camp should have been bustling with activity before the heat of the late summer’s afternoon drove them to rest in their tents, there was no one about.

  No women met to walk to the well together. No children scampered across the sand, rounding up the goats to be milked, leading the horses to be watered. At length the four saw one man leave his tent and make his way, shoulders sagging, to tend to the animals. He glanced around at his surroundings, more out of despairing boredom, it seemed, than out of care. His surprise when he saw them standing on the dune above him was evident, and he ran off, shouting, toward the tent of his Sheykh.

  Khardan dismounted and led his camel down the dune, the others following. Auda moved to walk beside the Calif and would have displayed his sword openly, but Khardan put his hand upon the Paladin’s arm.

  “No,” he said. “These are my people. They will do you no harm. You are a guest in their tents.”

  “It is not myself I fear for, brother,” returned Auda, and Mathew shivered.

  Men came running, and as Khardan approached the camp he slowly and purposefully removed the haik that covered his face. Mathew heard a collective sucking in of breaths. Another man broke and ran back through the silently staring throng.

  Khardan came to the edge of the campsite. The men stood before him in a row, blocking his path. No one spoke. The only sound was the wind singing its eerie duet with the dunes.

  Mathew’s hands, clutching the camel’s reins, were wet with sweat. The hope in his heart died, pierced by the hatred and anger clearly visible in the eyes of the Calif ‘s people. The four stood facing the crowd that was growing larger every minute as the word spread. Khardan and Auda were in front, Zohra slightly behind and to their right, Mathew to their left. Glancing at Khardan, Mathew saw the man’s jaws tighten. A trickle of sweat ran down his temple, glistened on the smooth, brown skin of his face, and disappeared into the black beard. Grimly, without speaking a word, Khardan took a step forward, then another and another until he was almost touching the first man in the crowd.

  The man stood with arms folded across his chest, dark eyes burning. Khardan took another step. His intention to either walk through the man or over him was obvious. Shrugging, the man stepped back and to one side. The rest of the crowd followed his lead, backing up, clearing a path. Slowly, his head high, Khardan continued on into the campsite, leading his camel. Auda, beside him, kept
one hand thrust into his robes. Mathew and Zohra followed.

  Unable to bear the stare of the eyes, the enmity that beat on them with the heat of the sun, Mathew kept his gaze fixed on his feet and tried to control a tremor in his legs. Once he sneaked a quick glance at Zohra and saw her walking majestically, chin in the air, her eyes fixed on the sky as if there were nothing worthy of her notice any lower.

  Envying her the courage and pride that refused to give way to fear, Mathew shivered and sweat beneath his robes and kept his eyes on the ground, nearly walking into the rear end of Khardan’s camel when the group suddenly came to a halt.

  There had been a spoken command; Mathew remembered hearing it through the blood pounding in his ears, and now someone took the camel’s reins from his nerveless hand and was leading the beast away. With some vague thought of covering Khardan’s back, Mathew moved forward, only to bump into Auda, who was doing the same thing with far more speed and adeptness.

  “Keep out of the way, Blossom,” Auda ordered harshly, beneath his breath.

  Flushing, feeling frightened and clumsy and useless, Mathew backed up and felt Zohra’s hand catch hold of his and thrust him behind her. Reluctantly, lifting his eyes, Mathew saw the reason for their halt.

  Three men stood before them. One—a scrawny, bandylegged man with a perpetually gloomy expression—Mathew recognized easily as Sheykh Jaafar, Zohra’s father. The other was a short, fat man with an oilylooking face and neatly trimmed black beard. This, Mathew assumed, must be the Zeid that Khardan had mentioned on the dune. The other man seemed familiar, but Mathew could not place him until Khardan, his voice tight, his breathing heavy, said softly, “Father.”

  Mathew gasped audibly and felt Zohra’s nails dig rebukingly through the folds of cloth and into his flesh. This was Majiid! But what dreadful change had come over the man? The giant frame had collapsed. The man who had once towered over the short Jaafar now stood even with him. The shoulders that had once squared in defiance were stooped and rounded in defeat. The hands that wielded steel in battle hung limply at his side, the feet that had proudly trod the desert shuffled through the sand. Only the eyes shone fierce and proud as the eyes of a hawk; the large, fleshless nose jutting forward from the outthrust head might have been the tearing beak of a predatory bird.

  “Do not call me father,” said the old man in a voice shaking with suppressed fury. “I am no one’s father! I have no sons!”

  “I am your eldest son, Father,” said Khardan evenly. “Calif of my people. I have come back.”

  “My eldest son is dead!” retorted Majiid, froth forming on his lips. “Or if not, he should be!”

  Khardan flinched; his face grew pale.

  “You were seen!” cried Jaafar’s shrill voice. “The djinn, Fedj, saw you fleeing the battle dressed as a woman, in company with that wildcat I once called daughter and the madman! The djinn swore it with the Oath of Sul! Deny it, if you can!”

  “I do not deny it,” said Khardan, and a low muttering rippled through the crowd of men. Auda’s dark eyes darted here and there, his hand came out of his robes, and Mathew saw steel flash in the sun.

  “I do not deny that I fled the battle!” Khardan raised his voice for all to hear. “Nor do I deny that I was dressed as. . .” he faltered a moment, thten continued strongly, “as a woman. But I deny that I fled a coward!”

  “Slay him!” Majiid pointed. “Slay them all!” His words bubbled on his tongue in his fury. “Slay the coward and his witchwife!” The Sheykh himself reached for his scimitar, but his hand closed over nothing. He had long ago ceased to wear his weapon. “My sword!” he howled, turning on a cringing servant. “Bring me my sword! Never mind! Give me yours!” Rounding on one of his men, he grabbed the sword from the man’s hand and, swinging it ferociously, turned on Khardan.

  Auda slid in front of the Calif with practiced grace and ease, bringing his sword up to meet Majiid’s wild blow. The Black Paladin’s next stroke would have sliced Majiid’s head from his shoulders had not Khardan and Sheykh Zeid each restrained the two.

  “Cursed for eternity is the father who slays his son!” gasped Zeid, grappling with Majiid for the weapon.

  “These are my people! I forbid you to harm them!” Khardan caught hold of Auda.

  “The Calif must be fairly judged and have a chance to speak in his own defense,” Jaafar cried.

  Majiid struggled briefly, impotently. Then, seeing it was useless in his weakened condition to try to break free, he hurled the sword aside. “Pah!” Glaring at Khardan, he spit on the ground at his son’s feet and, turning, shambled back to his dwelling.

  “Take the Calif under guard to my tent,” ordered Zeid hastily, hearing the low rumbling of the crowd. Several of the Sheykh’s men closed in on Khardan. Divesting him of sword and dagger, they started to lead him away, but Auda stepped in front of them.

  “What of this man?” demanded Jaafar, pointing a trembling finger at Auda.

  “I go with Khardan,” said the Black Paladin.

  “He is a guest,” Khardan stated, “and shall be treated as such for the honor of our tribes. “

  “He drew steel,” muttered Zeid, regarding the formidable Auda warily.

  “In my defense. He is sworn to protect me.”

  There was some awed murmuring over this. Clearly it went against Zeid’s heart to offer the blackclad Auda his hospitality, but as Khardan had said, their tribal honor hung in the balance. “Very well,” said Zeid reluctantly. “He shall be granted the guest period of three days, so long as he does nothing to violate it. You take him to your tent,” he instructed Jaafar.

  The Sheykh opened his mouth to protest, caught Zeid’s glare, and snapped it shut. With an ungracious salaam. Jaafar bowed and indicated that his home was Auda’s home and showed the way with a sweep of his bony hand.

  Nodding reassuringly to the Black Paladin, Khardan suffered himself to be led away by his captors. Auda followed them, watching until the tent flap closed behind the Calif; then, with a blackeyed stare at Jaafar that made the little man fall back a pace, he bowed sardonically and walked over to the tent that the Sheykh had indicated as his.

  “And what of your daughter?” Zeid shouted after Jaafar. “I don’t want the witch near me!” screeched the Sheykh.

  “Send her with her accursed husband!”

  Though Zohra’s face was veiled, Mathew saw the scorn in her eyes.

  Sheykh Zeid al Saban was clearly at a loss. He could not take the woman into his dwelling. Such a thing would not be seemly. “There are no women’s tents,” he said to her apologetically. “Since there are no women.” The Sheykh dithered. “You”—he finally pointed at one of his tribesmen—”vacate your dwelling. Take her there and keep her under guard.”

  The man nodded, and he and another hurried forward to lead Zohra away. They would have taken her by the arms, but the look she flashed them warned them back as effectively as if she had wielded a blade. Tossing her head, she walked where they led. She had not spoken one word the entire time.

  The only one who remained behind was Mathew, standing alone, his face burning beneath a hundred glowering gazes.

  “What of the madman?” said someone at last.

  Mathew closed his eyes against the baleful stares, his fists clenched as though he held his courage in his hands.

  “We may not touch him,” said Zeid at last. “He has seen the face of Akhran. He is free to go. Besides,” said the Sheykh, turning away and shrugging, “he is harmless.”

  The rest of the men—eager to put their heads together and discuss this development and speculate on what the Sheykhs would decide and how soon the execution of the coward and his witchwife would take place—agreed without question and hurried off to their gossip.

  Opening his eyes, Mathew found himself standing alone.

  Chapter 4

  On the evening of the day they had arrived in the camp at the Tel, Mathew walked toward the tent where Zohra was being held prisoner. It was near Khardan’s
tent, he noted, as he approached. Standing at the entrance to both were guards, who appeared uncomfortable and illatease, their hands constantly straying to touch their swords reassuringly. The reason for their discomfiture was readily apparent. In the shadow of a nearby tent Auda squatted on the desert floor, the dark, flat eyes never leaving Khardan’s dwelling. The Black Paladin had posted himself at noontime. He had not moved all day, and it did not seem likely, from his watchful manner, that he intended to move ever again.

  Avoiding the gaze of those eyes that he knew all too well, not envying the guards their being forced to endure that malevolent stare for hours on end, Mathew quickened his pace to Zohra’s tent.

  Both guards bowed with the officious politeness the nomads always exhibited to the madman. Mathew had, after all, seen the face of the God. It would never do to insult him, lest he take it out on them after death when they themselves would come facetoface with Akhran. This gave Mathew a certain power over them, albeit a negative one. He intended to use it, and he had even changed back into women’s clothing that he had begged of Jaafar in order to enhance his appearance of being mentally infirm.

  “I want to see Zohra,” he said to the guard. He indicated a bundle he held in his hands. “I have some things for her.”

  “What things?” demanded the guard, reaching for the bundle.

  “Women’s things,” Mathew said, holding onto it firmly.

  The guard hesitated—certain private belongings of women were not considered suitable to the sight of men. “At least let me feel to make certain you do not carry a weapon,” the guard said after a moment’s pause.

  Willingly Mathew held out the bundle, and the guard grasped it and prodded it and poked at it and, satisfied at last, let Mathew pass into the tent without comment.