The Prophet of Akhran Read online

  “Good tidings!” Meryem said, her eyes smiling above the veil. “He says there is no need to fear Khardan any longer. He and the witchwoman are trapped on the shores of the Kurdin Sea. To return to their tribes, they must go west—across the Sun’s Anvil. No one has ever performed such a feat and survived.”

  “But they have their djinn, after all.”

  “Not for long. Kaug bids you not worry.”

  The Imam cast a suspicious glance at Meryem. “Why does this news please you, my child? I thought you were in love with this nomad.”

  Meryem did not hesitate. She had known this question must come, and she had long been prepared with her reply. “I came to realize, living among the kafir as I have these past few months, Imam, that such a love is an abomination in the sight of Quar.”

  Her eyes lowered modestly, her voice trembled with the proper tone of religious fervor, and she didn’t fool Feisal in the least. He recalled the calluses he had felt on her fingertips; his gaze flicked over the tattered remnants of her fine clothing.

  “I want only to return to the palace and regain my former place there,” Meryem added, unconsciously answering any lingering doubts the Imam might be having.

  “Your former place?” Feisal asked dryly. “I thought you were more ambitious than that, or has your sudden interest in religion taught you humility?”

  Meryem flushed beneath her veil. “Qannadi promised to make me his wife,” she said stubbornly.

  “Qannadi would as soon think of bedding a snake. Have you forgotten? He suspected your little plot to use the nomad Prince to overthrow him. He would not take you back, even as concubine.”

  “He would if you told him to,” Meryem countered. “You are strong! He fears you! I know, Yamina told me so!”

  “It is not me he fears, but the God, as should all mortals,” rebuked Feisal, adding humbly, “I am but Quar’s servant and an unworthy one at that.” Having said this, he continued thoughtfully. “Qannadi might take you back, if I asked him to. But, Meryem, consider. You left the palace once because you feared your life was in danger. Has the situation changed, except perhaps to grow more perilous for you? After all, you have lived with Qannadi’s enemy for two months or more.”

  Meryem’s feathery brows came together above the blue eyes. The hands, which had never ceased twisting the silken fabric since she first entered, gave it an involuntary jerk that tore the veil from her face. Biting her lip with her white teeth, she gazed at the Imam defiantly. “Then find me some place to go! I have done this for you—”

  “You did it for yourself,” Feisal stated coldly. “It is not my fault that your lust for Khardan has dwindled to ash and blown away. Still, you have proven your value and I will reward you. After all, I do not want you selling this information to Qannadi.”

  Eyes cast down, Meryem covered her face with a shaking hand and wished she could draw the veil over her brain as well. It was uncanny the way this man could see into her mind!

  Feisal turned his back upon the woman and, walking over to the altar, sought help from the ram’s head. The golden eyes shone red with the burning charcoal.

  “We need to keep the girl nearby,” the Imam muttered. “She can see the followers of Akhran and Promenthas in that scrying bowl of hers, and I want to know the moment the kafir draws his final breath. I must keep her near, yet I must keep her presence secret. Qannadi believes Khardan to be dead. Achmed believes his brother is dead. The nomads believe their Calif is dead. Their hope dwindles daily. They must not discover the truth, or they will gain strength to defy us! If Qannadi found out Khardan was alive, he would tell Achmed and word would get back to the nomads. I—”

  The ram’s eyes flared briefly, brilliantly. Feisal blinked, then smiled.

  “Thank you, Holy One,” the priest murmured.

  Turning back to Meryem, who was watching with narrowed eyes, her hand holding her veil over her face, the Imam said gently, “I have thought of a place for you to stay. A place not only where you will be completely safe, but where you will continue to be most useful.”

  Chapter 6

  When the daily meeting of the officers concluded, Achmed lingered behind while the others, laughing and joking, left—those off duty heading for the city, the others going to take up assigned posts and to set the evening watch. Achmed remained behind, ostensibly to study a map. His brow furrowed in concentration; he might have been planning to face an onslaught of ten thousand foes at next day’s dawning, so intently did he seem to consider the lay of the land. As it was, the only foe he was likely to face in the morning was the soldier’s perennial enemy—the flea. Staring, unseeing, at the map was just an excuse. Achmed stayed behind when the others departed because it was easier being lonely when he was alone.

  The young man had joined Qannadi’s army in the spring. Now it was late summer. He had spent months with the men in his division, the cavalry. He had trained with them, learned from them, taught them what he knew. He had saved lives, he had been saved. He had gained their respect, but not their friendship. Two factors kept him from being included in the groups that went into the city seeking its pleasures. The first—Achmed was and always would be an outsider, a nomad, a kafir. The second—he was Qannadi’s friend.

  There was much speculation among the ranks concerning this relationship. Everything was guessed from a love interest to the somewhat wilder theory that the boy was really the Crown Prince of Tarakan who had been sent away from the court of the Emperor for fear of assassination. No matter where the young man walked in the camp, he was certain to overhear conversations like the one he’d listened to only days before.

  “Peacocks, that’s what Qannadi’s sons are, the lot of them. Especially the oldest. Waving his tail in the Emperor’s court and picking up crumbs that fall at his feet,” grunted one.

  “What do you expect?” said another, watching with a critical eye the roasting of a lamb upon a spit. “The boy was raised in the seraglio by women and eunuchs. The general saw him maybe once, twice a year between wars, and then he took no interest in him. Small wonder the youth prefers the easy life at court to marching about all day in the heat.”

  “And I heard his wife, the sorceress, made certain the general took no interest in the boy,” added a third. “The son will pull the boots off his father’s corpse and measure them to fit his own feet as the saying goes. And when that day comes, Quar forbid it, that’s the day I’ll go back to that fat widow in Meda who owns the inn.”

  “Perhaps the Kafir will be the one wearing the boots,” said the first in an undertone, his eyes darting about the camp.

  “At least they’d fit him,” muttered the second, giving the spit a half turn. “The Kafir’s a fighter, like all those nomads.”

  “Speaking of boots, if I was in the Kafir’s, I’d keep mine on day and night. A qarakurt’s a nasty thing to find in between one’s toes in the morning.”

  “And no need to ask how it got there. Yamina’s not his deadliest enemy,” said the third softly. “Not by half. The general’s being careful, though. Not favoring the Kafir above others, not keeping him about during the day, not even sharing his meals. Just another young hero. Bah, let me take over! You’re burning it!”

  The Kafir. That was what they called him. Achmed didn’t mind the name any more than he minded the danger that Hasid, an old friend of Qannadi’s, had taken care to explain to the young man. At first Achmed scoffed at the thought that anyone might view him as a threat. But as time went by, he found himself shaking out his pallet every night before he slept, upending his boots every morning, eating his meals out of a cooking pot shared by others. And it wasn’t Yamina’s eyes he saw staring at him from the darkness.

  The eyes he feared were the burning eyes of the Imam.

  Yet Achmed accepted it all—the danger, the ostracism, the whispers and sidelong glances. He had affirmed this to himself that terrible day when Qannadi fell in the midst of his enemies, and Achmed had stood prepared to sacrifice his life for this
man who had come to be father, friend, mentor. Yes, he would sacrifice his life for this man, but what about the lives of his people?

  I can’t prevent their deaths. Neither can Qannadi. They must convert or at least pretend to. Surely they will be able to see that! I will talk to them.

  Talk to them. Talk to someone who understood him. Talk to friends, family. The empty, hollow pit within the boy deepened and widened. He was lonely—bitterly, desperately lonely. Tears stung his eyelids, and he very nearly threw himself down among the rugs and the saddles that were used as backrests and wept like a child. The knowledge that at any moment one of the officers might take it into his head to have another look at the route to Kich forced the sobs back down Achmed’s throat. Choking, wiping the back of his hand over his eyes and nose and rebuking himself severely for giving way to unmanly weakness, the young man strode hastily from the tent.

  He wandered aimlessly, restlessly, among the soldiers’ encampment. It was late evening, he had no duties to perform. He could have returned to his own tent, but sleep was far from him, and he had no desire to spend another night staring into the darkness, holding memory at bay and scratching at fleas. He continued to roam, and it was only when he heard soft voices, muted groans, and deep laughter that Achmed realized where it was his feet had taken him.

  Known as the Grove, it had other names in the soldiers’ vernacular—names that had brought a flush to the young man’s cheeks when he’d first heard them. That had been months and battles ago, however. Now he could grin knowingly when the Grove was mentioned. He’d even—out of curiosity and desire— availed himself of its dubious pleasures one night. Too bashful and ashamed to “examine the wares,” he’d purchased the first merchandise offered him and discovered too late that it was old, ill made, and had undoubtedly known many previous owners.

  The experience sickened and disgusted him, and he’d never—until now—gone back. Perhaps he had truly come here by accident, or perhaps his loneliness had led him here by the hand. Whatever the reason, the young man had heard enough talk among his elders to know now how business was conducted. Disgust vied with desire and, most burning, the need to talk, to touch, to be held, and at least—for the moment—to pretend that he was loved and cared for. A soft voice called to him, a hand reached from the shadows of the trees.

  Clutching his purse, Achmed swallowed his nervousness and tried to appear hardened and nonchalant as he stepped farther into the Grove. Rustlings and glimpses of shadowy forms and the sounds of pleasuretaking increased his desire. He ignored the first who grabbed at him. They would be the professionals, the women who followed the troops from camp to camp. Deeper within the Grove were the ones new to this business—young widows from the town who had small children to feed and no other means to earn their bread. Their families would kill them if they discovered them here, but stoning is a quick way to die, compared to starvation.

  Achmed was moving among the deepest, darkest part of the stand of trees, trying to push the image of his mother out of his mind, when he concluded with certainty that someone was following him. He had suspected it when he’d first entered the Grove. Footfalls that moved when he moved, stopped when he stopped. Only they didn’t stop soon enough, and he could hear soft, padding footsteps through the cool, damp grass behind him. He moved forward again, heard the faint patter upon the ground, came to a sudden halt, and heard the patter continue—one step, two, then silence.

  Fear and excitement banished desire. Slipping his hand to his belt; he felt for the hilt of his dagger and gripped it reassuringly. So this was it. He had supposed the Imam would hire someone more skilled. But no, this made sense. They would find his body in the Grove and assume he had been lured here by a woman, then murdered and robbed by her male accomplice. Such things were not uncommon. Well, he would give them a fight at least. Qannadi would not be ashamed of him.

  Spinning on his heel, Achmed jumped at the hint of movement he saw in the darkness behind him. His hands, grappling for the neck, closed—not on male muscles and sinew—but on perfumed silk and smooth skin. A gasp, a scream, and Achmed and his pursuer fell heavily to the ground. The body beneath his went limp. Startled, shaken by the fall and his own fear, Achmed heaved himself off the inert form and peered at it intently in the starlit darkness.

  It was a woman. Reaching out his hand, Achmed drew the veil from her face.

  “Meryem!”

  Chapter 7

  The woman stirred at the sound of his voice. Too astonished to do anything except stare at her, Achmed remained crouched over her, the veil clutched in a hand that had gone as limp as the unconscious body. Her eyelids fluttered; even in the dim light, Achmed could see the shadows they cast upon the damask cheeks, delicate as the wings of dragonflies. Blinking dazedly, not looking at him, keeping her eyes lowered, Meryem sat up.

  “Young sir,” she said in a low, trembling voice, “you are kind, gentle. I . . . will give you pleasure. . .”

  “Meryem!” Achmed repeated, and at the sound of her name and the shock and anger in the voice, the woman looked fully at him for the first time.

  A deep flush suffused the pale skin. She snatched the veil from the young man’s hand and covered her face. Rising swiftly to her feet, Meryem started to flee but slipped in the wet grass. Achmed caught her easily.

  “Let me go!” She began to weep. “Let me take my shame and cast myself into the sea.”

  Her crying became frenzied, hysterical. She tried again to break away from Achmed’s grip, and the young man was forced to put his arms around the slender shoulders and hold her close, soothing her. Gradually, Meryem calmed down and lifted blue eyes, shimmering with tears, to gaze into his.

  “Thank you for your kindness.” She gently pushed him away. “I am better now. I will leave and trouble you no more—”

  “Leave! And go where?” asked Achmed sternly, alarmed by her talk of the sea.

  “Back to town.” Meryem lowered her lashes, and he knew she was lying.

  “No.” Achmed caught hold of her again. “At least, not right now. Rest here until you feel better. Then I will take you back. You should not be wandering out here alone,” the young man continued firmly, acting—for both their sakes—as if he had not heard her alltooclear solicitation. “You have no idea what this place is.”

  Meryem smiled—a sad, wan smile that touched Achmed to the heart. A tear crept down her cheek, sparkling in the starlight like a precious jewel. Unconsciously the young man raised his hand to catch it.

  “Thank you for trying to save me,” Meryem said softly, her head drooping near but not quite touching his breast. “But I do know what this place is. And you know why I am here—”

  “I don’t believe it!” Achmed said stoutly. “You are not like. . . like these!” He gestured.

  “Not yet!” Meryem hid her face in her hands. “But I soon would have been if not for you!” Looking up suddenly, she grasped hold of his tunic. “Achmed, don’t you see? Akhran sent you! You saved me from sin! This was my first night here. You. . . would have been my first. . . first. . .”

  Her skin burned; she could not say the word. Achmed put his hand over her lips. Catching hold of the fingers, she kissed them fervently and fell to her knees before him. “Akhran be praised!”

  The woman’s beauty dazzled him. The fragrance of her hair, the perfume clinging to her body, intoxicated him. Her tears, her innocence, her sweetness, mingled with the knowledge of where they were and what was going on around them inflamed Achmed’s blood. He staggered like a drunken man, and it was the weakness in his limbs that made him sink down beside her.

  “Meryem, what happened? Why are you here? You were in Kich, the last I heard, living with Badia, Khardan’s mother—”

  “Ah! Do not mention her name!” Meryem pressed her hands over her bosom, clutching at the silken gown, rending it in her despair. “I am not worthy to hear it spoken!” Rocking back and forth on her heels, moaning in grief, she let her hands fall, the torn fabric of her gown p
arting to reveal creamy white skin, swelling breasts.

  Achmed drew a shivering breath. Taking hold of her chin, he turned her face to his and concentrated on looking into the wide, tearshimmering blue eyes. “Tell me, what has happened? Is Badia, are my people—” Fear chilled him, his grip tightened. “Something terrible has happened, hasn’t it?”

  “Not that bad!” Meryem said hastily, catching hold of the young man’s wrist. “Badia and all your people living in Kich have been taken from their homes and put into the Zindan. But surely you knew of this? It was by Qannadi’s order.”

  “Not Qannadi,” Achmed said grimly. “The Imam. And are they all right? Are they being mistreated?”

  “No,” said Meryem, but her eyes faltered before Achmed’s gaze. His grip on her hand tightened.

  “Tell me the truth.”

  “It is so shameful!” Meryem began to weep. Her tears, falling on Achmed’s flesh, burned like cinders. “I was in a cell with Badia and her daughters. One night the guards came. They said . . . they wanted one of us . . . willingly . . . or they would take all by force—” She could not continue.

  Achmed closed his eyes, pain, anger, desire, surging through him. He could visualize the rest and, putting his arms around Meryem, drew her close. At first she resisted him but gradually let his strong arms comfort her. “You sacrificed yourself for the others,” he said gently, reverently.

  “When the guards tired of me,” she continued, sobbing against Achmed’s chest, “they sold me to a slave trader. He brought me here. I . . . escaped, but then I had nowhere to go, no money. Akhran forgive me, I thought I could sink no lower, but—praise his name—he set you in my path.”

  Achmed stirred uncomfortably, not liking to hear the name of the God, liking still less the thought that Akhran might have used him to save this poor girl.

  “Coincidence,” he said gruffly.