The Diviner (38 page)

That next spring Alessid took Mirzah with him on a ceremonial visit to Il-Kadirat. The people ought to see the great Sheyqa, who at forty-five was yet a handsome woman with great presence. She impressed them with her poise and dignity, but for warmth and charm they looked to Mairid. Ten years old, lively and quick and already bidding to be a spectacular beauty, Mairid was Alessid's favorite of his children. It pleased him to see that she was Qaysh's favorite as well.

The people, in truth, were genuinely welcoming. Alessid had given them the right to live their lives much as they had always done, including the practice of their Mother and Son religion. Their fear that Tza'ab Rih would bleed Qaysh dry was shown to be unfounded when Ra'abi canceled all of King Orturro's taxes. She levied only one to replace them: a yearly payment assessed of every man, woman, and child who did not profess belief in Acuyib's Glory. Compared to what they had paid Orturro to support his ostentations, this tax was as nothing.

It helped when Mairid, instructed by Mirzah, announced to her sister's court that out of her own inheritance,
she
would pay the tax this year for every girl her own age in Qaysh. Naturally they loved her. And when in gratitude one of the noblemen gave her a pearl the size of a hen's egg, Alessid allowed her to keep it.

“You spoil her,” Mirzah said that evening.

They were private in the chambers Ra'abi had readied for them—cool and luxurious, with windows half open to the breeze that rustled the pines. At home, windows were guarded by intricate wooden grilles; here, fine silk mesh screened out the insects, and of these there were an overabundance. Alessid heard his wife's words as he inspected bubbles in the window glass, intrigued and annoyed in equal measure by the way the flaws distorted the outside world. Imperfection always displeased him, but he had to admit that the strange shapes seen through the curvatures, especially the flickering of torches in the garden, might be considered pretty. It was a concept that abruptly disturbed him. It felt like something his father might have thought. Over his shoulder, he said, “Mairid is the last of my children. I intend to delight in her.”

“There are always the grandchildren.”

“But Mairid is
mine
.” He paused an instant, and then with calculated coldness asked, “She
is
mine, is she not?”

Mirzah gasped.

“Ayia, of course she is,” he went on. “She has my eyes, my cheekbones, my mouth—and my intelligence. She'll make a fine Empress.”

“ ‘
Empress
'?”

He turned to her then, relishing the shock in her eyes.“Didn't you know? Our son Addad is a fine man, but he lacks vision.” Or, rather, he thought suddenly, Addad would see things through the distorting flaws in the glass, not as they were but as he imagined them to be—as they looked prettiest and most interesting. “The other girls will have their own lands—or hadn't I told you yet that Granidiya and Pracanza and Joharra will one day be a part of the Empire? I'm only waiting until Jemilha and Za'arifa are old enough to hold a country in their hands.”

“Why?” The silver of her necklaces and earrings shivered with her rage. “Why must you always have more? More land, more wealth, more women—”

“I care nothing for land, except as it nourishes my people. Wealth is useful for the same reason. As for women, I defy you to find even one who claims to have enjoyed my favor.”

“You haven't slept solitary all these years!”

“Prove it,” he said. “Prove it, and divorce me—and see if your daughters wish to return with you to the Shagara tents, when I can give them kingdoms.”

“Take care lest those in the Shagara tents come to
you
, as they did to your father!” She gave him a sleek smile:
I know things that even the great al-Ma'aliq does not!
“There are many who agree with those who exiled themselves years ago rather than countenance the perversion of Shagara ways.”

“A few malcontents—”

“More than you know! And remember that they succeeded in killing your father where the mighty Geysh Dushann failed! You have used everyone,
everyone
—the Shagara, my daughters, my sons—without pity, without conscience—you're not the man your father was!”

“Acuyib be praised for it,” he retorted.

“Chaydann al-Mamnoua'a be
blamed
for it! Azzad never used the people he loved! But you—you don't love anyone at all,
unless
they can be of use to you!” Tears streaked her face, aging her. “And it
kills
, Alessid—being of use to you
kills
.”

He turned and left her, shutting the door behind him. He leaned against the carved wood, listening to the sound of her weeping. Long ago, he remembered, he had returned to her tent to find her crying over their Haddiyat sons. Her tears had moved him then. Not now. He wondered when he had stopped caring for his wife, and after a few moments' thought decided it had happened just now, tonight. Today he had been proud of her as she met the people of Qaysh; he had watched with pleasure as they admired her mature and dignified beauty; he had smiled when she smiled on accepting flowers from little girls. Not his wife for years now, she was an able Sheyqa, and that had been enough to retain his love.

It was no longer enough.

Mirzah was the mother of his children—surely he ought to love her still for that. But what was she, truly, other than a woman who used to be his wife, who had given him children in the past, whose function was to appear at his side and smile? He respected her as a Sheyqa, but he no longer loved her as a woman. Perhaps she was right about him. Perhaps he only loved where there was usefulness to his ambitions.

No. He loved his children unreservedly. Each time he passed the place where Kammil had died beneath the walls of Hazganni, he nearly wept anew.

Kammil had died being of use to him.

Alessid was not Azzad. Why should he regret this? He was alive, and he would make his children rulers of vast lands. What had charming, foolish Azzad done to match that?

 

After a brief and entirely satisfactory little war, Za'arifa became Queen of Granidiya. Two years later, King Joaono do'Trastemar was deposed and killed, and Jemilha became Queen of Ibrayanza. Yet even watching what happened to its neighbors, the land of Joharra resisted conquest by the Riders on the Golden Wind. This was a curious circumstance, for its army had been wiped out and Count Garza killed. But Nadaline yet lived, and her son as well, in the fastness of a mountain castle said to resemble the ancient alMa'aliq lands in Rimmal Madar, and loyalty to the girl and her baby was comparable to that of the people for the al-Ma'aliq. Alessid reluctantly respected this and decided the easier lands would be added to his empire first before he turned his attention to Joharra once and for all.

There was plenty to do in organizing the three countries already acquired. Tza'ab Rih flourished, as did his family. There were four grandsons and seven granddaughters to help Alessid celebrate his fifty-fifth birthday. He loved all of them—but part of his heart was reserved for the children his beloved Mairid would have one day. She was nearly sixteen, and it was time she married. He had kept her with him too long, cherishing her too much to relinquish her.

The day after his birthday banquet, he called her into the great tent in the gardens. He had done the same with her sisters to announce the names of the men from whom they would select their husbands. Ra'abi, Jemilha, and Za'arifa had all dressed in their finest, jingling with hazziri and swirling with silks, aware of the importance of the occasion even though it was private between each girl and her father. Mairid arrived in a plain work tunic and trousers, barefoot and bareheaded, filthy from working in the herb garden.

“I know what you want to say, Ab'ya,” she told him before he could do more than open his mouth. “But I've already chosen my husband.”

“Ayia?” was all he could manage.

“Ayia,” she agreed, smiling. “Jefar.”

“Jefar!” Alessid sat up straight on his piled cushions. “He's twice your age!”

“If that's your only objection—”

“It is not!” he roared.

She picked dirt from beneath her nails. “I can't think of a single reason why I shouldn't marry him. And I really don't want to hear any that you make up for the occasion. Should you forbid me, I'll simply take him into my bed. If you don't want a scandal, Ab'ya, for all of Hazganni to tittle over the way they did over that silly Nadaline girl, then you'd better let me marry him without making a fuss.”

“You won't be taking anyone anywhere if you're locked in your rooms,” he said darkly. “And I find it difficult to imagine how you could become pregnant if Jefar is posted to a garrison in Ga'af Shammal.”

“Don't be silly, Ab'ya,” she scolded, smiling. “You need him here. Don't you want to know why he'd make a good husband for an Empress?”

“No!”

“He's beloved of our people. He's Shagara—and we al-Ma'aliq need a link in this generation, after the Harirri and Azwadh and Tallib marriages. He's smart, and he's watched you govern all these years, just as I have, so it isn't as if I'd have to teach him anything. He's a brilliant war leader—having proved that at your side time and again—and the troops trust and love him. Just as important, the barbarians in the north have been defeated by him personally, so they'll know not to make trouble.” She paused, and for the first time a powerful emotion shone in her eyes. “And I love him.”

Alessid felt the air leave his lungs in a rush. She had thought it all through, like the Empress she would one day be—but she was also a young girl in love. He had never denied her anything, but he had to deny her this. Because it hurt him to do so, his voice was rough as he said, “Your feelings have nothing to do with it. You will not marry Jefar Shagara.”

Suddenly she was no future Empress. Her jaw jutted, her eyes ignited, and her fists balled at her sides. “I
will
marry him! You can't stop me!” And with that she ran out of the tent.

Alessid jumped up and followed her. “Mairid!” he shouted, aware that it was undignified to be racing through the gardens after his wayward daughter. The workers were trying not to stare. “Mairid!”

She vanished into the stables. Cursing, he went after her, and in the noise and bustle of a hundred splendid horses and their grooms and trainers, he lost her. Grabbing a grizzled veteran of the war against Za'aid al-Ammarizzad, he demanded to know where Sheyqa Mairid had gone. The old man dropped the saddle in his arms, trembling with nerves at this furious aspect of the usually self-possessed al-Ma'aliq. Nothing came out of the aged veteran's mouth but panicky mumblings. Alessid abandoned him and strode along the alley between stalls. Beneath lofty rafters, magnificent stallions and noble mares looked curiously at him, many of them with Khamsin's eyes. He reached the last stalls, where Mairid's favorite filly, munching contentedly on oats, glanced around curiously when Alessid began a string of lurid curses.

Pushing through the back door into the sunlight, Alessid swore anew as he saw a slight figure on horseback galloping across the small paddock toward a fence. She had gone into the stables only to snatch a bridle from the tack room. Tempted to do the same and follow her, Alessid abruptly recalled days in his childhood when he had behaved exactly as Mairid did now. Frustrated, angry, unhappy, or simply bored, how often had he leaped onto a horse and ridden out of Sihabbah, putting speed and wind between him and his troubles?

He had done the same on that horrible night when his father and mother and sisters and brother had died. Escape—was there truly such a thing?

She was like him, his Mairid. She would return when she was ready. She would flee into the croplands, and then the forested hills, but eventually the horse would tire, and she would be back by nightfall. It wasn't like when he was a boy, and his mother worried about the Geysh Dushann. There were no such dangers in Tza'ab Rih, especially not to its ruler's favorite daughter.

Mairid did not come back by nightfall. Alessid worried, but told himself that a night spent sleeping on the hard ground wouldn't do her any harm. She would have sense enough to return home when morning came.

But morning did not come. Instead there blew in from the Barrens to the south a thick, choking wind, laden not with fine white-gold sand but with heavy black grit, thick and sticky. To go outside was madness, yet the daily life of Hazganni demanded that people indeed go outside—bundled in cloaks and veiled in silk and scarcely able to see.

Jefar Shagara went outside, draped from head to foot, his horse protected by thin silk over eyes and nostrils. Alessid waited for him to return with Mairid. He sat in his maqtabba, listening to the whining dark wind, his gaze shifting slowly from lamp to glowing lamp by which he was supposed to be tending the business of his Empire.

At last a servant came in. “Al-Ma'aliq, they're back.”

Alessid went to the windows that overlooked the courtyard, but of course they were tightly shuttered. Even had they been open he would have seen nothing for the obscuring dirt. He stared grimly at the bubble-distorted glass and the carved screens beyond it, and said, “Send her to her rooms. Let no one see her but the servant who draws her bath and brings her food. If she is hurt, send her grandmother Leyliah to her. But no one else. And she is not to leave her chambers for three days.”

The dark wind died down that night. Windows were gratefully opened to fresh air. Brooms wore out sweeping streets and zoqalos free of dirt. And everyone prayed to Acuyib for a swift rain to wash Hazganni clean.