ISBN:
1893687546
Prologue
At
last, our guardian, you slumber. Sated.
Sleep,
jadughar---wielder of power. Holder of the universe.
Disgusting fool. You are holder of nothing. Ujad.
More blind than our enemy, little mouse. Surrounded by power yet
unaware.
Nibbling at crumbs while a feast surrounds you. Too stupid, too frightened to dare true
greatness.
Sleep
on, oh great lord. Mighty in your
dreams, beloved by all your beguiled.
Feared by those too dull to penetrate your illusions.
Son of dogs.
Snore and drool, yadu spawn. You may yet live another day in your
ignorance and delusions---
---For
so long as you keep our treasure safe from all others we allow you to draw breath.
For
now, you serve our purpose.
#
CHAPTER 1
In
late afternoon, the wind howled down the knife-sharp cliffs of the Thardachuri mountains, carrying with it the moans and shrieks of demons,
numbing cold in the winter, stinking and sour in the heat of summer, it bit the
skin like ragged teeth.
Some
few claimed no demons existed, that the wails came from air whistling through
the holes and gaps in the crags of the high peaks. But more made secretive
signs against the evil eye and offered silent prayers of thanks that the holy
Basharas had set up the sacred lingas with rituals and invocations around the
edges of their village, Karpur. And sometimes, over the courtyard cooking
hearths, through the pungent smoke of the dung fires, the women quietly
whispered that the village was lucky the jadughar, their wizard, had also set
protections in the foothills where the goats grazed.
And
if no one ever saw the Rahkshasa, well, it simply meant that both the wizard
and the Basharas were successful, gods be blessed. There was nothing---almost
nothing---to fear.
Besides,
the shrieking and groaning came every afternoon, and chores still had to be
done whether moans slid down the cliffs or not. Dhobis continued to beat wet
laundry at the water's edge; children, pretending to be demons themselves,
dashed down the narrow lanes between high courtyard walls in wild games of
chase that scattered chickens, ducks and geese in clouds of feathers and
squawking protest; and merchants simply called out their wares a bit louder in
the market square to drown out the howling. In the mountain pastures, herders
habitually drove their flocks down closer to the blessed stones and bespelled
wards each day before the shadows reached a certain length, and played their
pipes to calm the goats and sheep.
And
if no one in the village mentioned the wizard to the Basharas,
that was only to be expected---religion and magic rarely got along, and
there was no need to anger the religious leaders with open talk of sorcery. Nor
did the villagers see fit to refer to the Basharas in their more furtive
dealings with the wizard. Best keep the two separate and be glad the village
was doubly protected.
Still,
on sultry nights when the villagers slept on charpoys set on the rooftops to
take advantage of any faint breezes, strange lights flickered sickly green
among the cliffs long after the sun set. Then the village folk shivered in the
heat and hoped that both wards and prayers would continue to hold.
And
no one even whispered what would happen if they didn't.
#
At
the southeast end of Karpur, the one nearest the mountains, one courtyard stood
apart from the others, not just because its outer walls were undecorated,
unlike the others with their coats of whitewash, paints and bits of bright
stone or pottery, nor because the garden walls were higher than the rest of the
village houses could claim. Few visited that courtyard or the mirror pool it
opened onto, though the water there was deep, clear and cold even in the worst
summer's heat. No one watered livestock; no one filled a water jar. Unless they
were driven by necessity, no one dared pass the place. For that pool and that
courtyard belonged to the wizard.
And
while it was one thing to have the protections of a sorcerer---it was quite
another to spend much time with one.
Especially one like Xikander.
Xikander
al-Mumit kept apart from the village and its inhabitants, much as he avoided
the Basharas, to the secret relief of both. And though he was blind, no one
pitied or dared to mock him. The wizard accepted gifts and provisions from the
villagers for what few services he condescended to perform for them. But he
attended none of their festivals, sent no presents or greetings for their weddings
or births, offered no condolences to families at
funerals.
Unless
he wanted something, the wizard spoke to no one on those rare occasions when he
walked about the village paths. It made life much simpler for the village, and,
though they speculated, people never dared question the thin, gray figure who
came and went as he pleased.
Even
his apprentices---until this current one---were outsiders, strangers who
appeared and disappeared at the jadughar's pleasure.
Or his anger.
There
was gossip about strange noises from the wizard's house and the wizard's
diatribes overheard before an apprentice disappeared; but since the previous
apprentices were not from Karpur, no one worried aloud what might have become
of them.
Never
once did Xikander join community projects such as the digging of a new
well---not that anyone would have ordered him to join the work parties, or
berated him for failing to assist. One simply didn't hand the jadughar a spade,
or expect him to haul away baskets of dirt. The people of Karpur
merely---respectfully---requested charms to build into the walls and wells, the
same way they asked the holy men for blessings upon them.
In
truth, the villagers felt, in an odd way, quite proud of their aloof wizard. He
was the only jadughar they'd ever seen. No other village in the known area
could boast even a mere jadi with her weeds and poultices. They had, of course,
heard vague rumors of other wizards. Only names---Majnu, Pajmar, Vibikar---but no one they could see, not like Xikander who
actually walked their own roads and drank at their wells.
They
were even rather delighted at his arrogance, whispering tales about his mostly
imaginary wonders and curses. Still, there was tangible enough evidence of his
abilities that the villagers felt just as happy that Xikander kept to himself.
They viewed the wizard with the same awe and thrill of a man who has waked to
find something dangerous, powerful and absolutely untamable in his storeroom.
Only
his latest apprentice, Kehan ka Shadid, dared to come and go freely through the
wizard's gate. And only at Xikander's sufferance. The
village wisdom was unable to decide whether Kehan was more blessed than others,
or more cursed.
#
"What
is the essence of stone, apprentice?"
Kehan
worried his bottom lip between his teeth. "Power?" he ventured.
"No!
Worthless amaq." The blind wizard waved him away.
"Bah, you understand nothing---you see less than I do. Go away." The
old man stood up, leaning heavily on his wooden staff. "I tire of your
presence."
"Yes, sa'ab." Kehan closed the grimoire, wrapped
it back in its silks and left it on the edge of Xikander's worktable. Kehan
stood, trudged to the doorway and scraped back the faded tapestry that covered
it. He hesitated, hoping Xikander would call him back.
"Take
your study stone and go." The old man didn't even turn around.
Kehan
leaned back in to pick the rock up from the roped surface of the stacked
charpoys and gulped back emotion that made his throat tight. What can I tell
Ami-jan? Gods. Am I dismissed? He was too tired to
pull his shoulders back.
Besides,
there was no one to see if he stood straight or slumped until he left the
courtyard.
"Be
back at nightfall," Xikander added casually as the tapestry swung back
against the doorframe. "You will try water-scrying again. But know that I
grow impatient with your failure."
Another chance. Kehan sagged against the wall with
relief. Thank you, Matara, Mother of Everything. He huffed out a deep
breath. "Yes, sa'ab, I'll be back, sa'ab."
He left
before the wizard could change his mind.
#
Kehan
could hear the villagers' whispers start as he left Xikander's gate and took
the path toward the market square. Watching the wizard's home---from a safe
distance, of course---was a favorite village pastime. And everyone---from the
Chowdhry to the children---had theories regarding what went on behind
Xikander's courtyard walls. Theories Kehan knew the village folk shared back
and forth, day after day. Old gossip and sniggering laughter---about Kehan's master,
the jadughar, Kehan's family, his dubious parentage, and the thrice-damned
study stone Xikander required him to carry everywhere.
It
was nothing he hadn't heard or overheard nearly every day of his life.
And
there was nothing he could do to change the situation or silence the wagging
tongues---at least not until he learned to be a true jadughar. Then village
opinions would change and their laughing would stop, please the gods. And if it
didn't, perhaps he would silence it with his powers.
Kehan
tucked the study stone in among the loose folds of his kurta, for once thankful
that he hadn't fully grown into his father's tunics and that the rock was
covered. He'd endured enough humiliation from Xikander today, why provoke more
gibes from people who couldn't even conceive of a stone having essence, let
alone name it. They'd never understand his need---to learn, to know, to be
someone.
Head
up, no expression. He could ignore the comments he'd hear. Or pretend to.
Or
take the long route home. A better choice he decided, and turned left---around
the eastern edge of Karpur, where he could look at the purple-shadowed
mountains instead of smirking faces. Away from the big extravaganza Mirza was
setting up for his niece's wedding. A fete staged to demonstrate the Chowdhry's
wealth and power. A fete everyone, except he and his mother, would be invited
to attend.
He
was tempted to throw Xikander's damned study stone into a hole and be done with
the entire mess . . . rock, apprenticeship, everything. He hefted the stone a
couple of times, testing, considering. Just big enough and
heavy enough to be awkward. Not beautiful, not special, just a stone.
And if he threw it away he'd never have to worry about the essence of the
damned thing again. He drew back his arm. Hesitated. And no chance to be anything other than a failure and the center
of more gossip. He lowered his arm, glaring down at the study stone
and willing it to give up its secrets.
What
is the essence of stone?
Nothing
came to mind.
Frustration
is the essence of stone.
#
"Piyareh. You are home for supper? How
wonderful." Ami-jan's face lit with delight and surprise as she
rose from her mat by the cooking fire. Then she frowned. "That man
has finally given you time off?"
Kehan
nodded. "Until sundown." He glanced at the
platters of food which lay about the room in various stages of preparation.
"This is far too much for us to eat," he said. "No matter how
you think he starves me."
"It's
for the wedding. Mirza-ji's niece. Surely you saw the
tents being set up?"
The
Chowdhry's niece, and the Chowdhry's huge party to
celebrate. "Then they've finally invited you . . .
" Kehan blurted out.
His
mother looked away.
"No.
But Rubina-ji will have so much to do with all the relatives arriving, I wanted
to help her." She lifted her chin and stared straight into his eyes.
"It's the right thing to do," she told him, stopping his protest with
her expression.
He
was at once proud of his mother for her thoughtful heart . . . and furious that
her thoughtfulness was wasted on people who hadn't thought to help her when
she'd needed it, when his father had been killed last year and he himself had
been lucky to escape with only a torn-up leg. Furious that they could even
think she'd ever---would ever ---do anything to dishonor his father. Furious that men stared at her, openly leering, now that she was a
widow. If he wasn't there, gods knew they'd do more than leer.
He
started another protest---and she tapped flour-covered fingers against his
lips.
"Hush.
What others think doesn't matter. What others do doesn't matter. Words are like
wind, and I can endure the wind." Then she lifted the edge of her daputa
and used the end of the scarf to wipe the flour from his face. "Sit. Rest. You can sample the food first." She tugged at his
arm, pulling him toward a charpoy. "Will you be home tonight?" When
he shook his head, she added, "Then you will help me deliver what you
haven't eaten to the wedding party on your way back to that man."
"Then
I'll try to eat all of it."
#
As he
helped Ami-jan haul the food-laden bowls, platters and pots to the Chowdhry's
compound, Kehan wished he'd been able to eat more. Ami had likely used most of
their stores in making all the dishes he carried. He'd probably be dining on
plain rice for days. Anything she had left would go to prepare the wizard's
meals. She cooked for Xikander because it brought in a few pias to add to
Kehans’s apprentice wages.
Her
own son would suffer so that Mirza could impress everyone.
That
was unfair. He wouldn't starve. It wasn't his mother's fault that he was always
hungry. Still, the idea of Mirza feasting---
"What
are you doing here?" The village Chowdhry stood frowning at them, hands on
his hips. His wife peered out from behind her husband's shoulder, wringing her
hands.
"Mirza-janab,
I've brought food for your niece's wedding." Ami held out the platter she
carried. "Rubina-ji has so much to do---"
"We
don't need anything." Mirza blocked his wife as she tried to reach for the
dish. The unspoken 'not from you' hung heavy in the air.
All
around them, wedding preparations stopped. Men setting up the colorfully
patterned tents put down their mallets and stared, openly grinning at the
exchange. Women laying carpets on the ground inside the tents stood up and pulled
their daputas across their faces as they whispered to each other. Kehan's
cheeks burned. He watched the men eye his mother with more than polite
attention and longed to fling the pots and bowls into their leering faces. He
stepped forward, stopped when his mother's elbow caught him in the ribs.
Unshaken,
his mother nodded. "I'm sure you have more than enough to feed your
guests. Perhaps this food could be given to the poor as an
appreciation for all the gods have provided you and your family."
Ami offered the platter again.
"Husband,"
Rubina ventured, "surely we can use extra to feed those crowds of less
fortunate who will gather outside the wedding tents." She crept around him
and reached out to take Ami-jan's platter. "Every village for two days' journey
will know about this wedding. We will be expected to have more than anyone else
would have to provide. Four days of hungry mouths, husband."
Mirza
was trapped. Red-faced and angry, he gave a short nod and women hurried up to
take the rest from Kehan. Before anyone could say more, Ami bowed and turned
back toward her home. Kehan followed her, still fuming. When they were out of
sight of the wedding tents he began a protest.
Ami-jan
silenced him. "It is only the wind," she said and touched his cheek.
"Come fetch your supper before you return to that man."
#
"You
are late."
Kehan
squinted into the setting sun. He wasn't late---it was before sunset---but
arguing with the wizard was pointless. "I was helping my mother. I've
brought our supper," he added hopefully.
"Then
give it to me and fetch the grimoire, amaq." The wizard gestured
impatiently. "We've much to do before the moons rise on the mirror
pool."
#
Rolling
over and lifting his head, Kehan choked and vomited out brackish water. Dizzy.
Stay still till it passes. He dropped his head back down on the bank,
jerked away when his forehead hit something hard. Damn, it hurts. Cursed, double-cursed study stone. Nausea choked him and so he lay back
down, this time rolling his head to one side to miss the rock.
Gods. At it all night again.
The
worst part, he decided, was coming back to himself. It
wasn't like waking from sleep or regaining consciousness. More as if he had
been gone, been shoved out for a time and fought his way back.
Kehan
shivered, gingerly lifted his head from the grassy bank again. No, not a good idea. Closing his eyes against the
bright morning sun, he lowered his head. The grass felt cool against his skin.
Worse,
he never knew how he'd be when he did come back.
Oh,
he could predict some things. Always by the mirror pool.
Always the exhaustion, a bone-deep weariness that left him dragging about for
two days after, hunched over like the old men crowding the Chowdhry's hall. And
always the confusion which left him to wonder how much of his befuddled dreams
might be true---or why the thought of mice and books now sent shudders
skittering down his spine.
Only
half-remembered visions remained after these scrying sessions. Visions Xikander
wouldn't explain, and that Kehan could never consciously recapture no matter
how long he stared into the mirror pool and concentrated. Sometimes there were
strange bruises for which his master gave no account, sometimes nausea that
left him too sick to eat. Usually, violent headaches as well.
And always
the wizard's disapproval when he still couldn't do whatever it was that the old
man wanted of him.
Slowly
sitting up, he held his pounding head with one hand---felt something thick on
his face. Now what had the old man done to him?
He
wiped his cheek. Mud.
Flung
him into the mirror pool, that was what.
Today
there were bruises and headaches, and he was soaked to the skin.
He
coughed, spat out more water. Spat again to get the taste of mud out of his mouth,
then dropped his head onto soggy knees, wrapped his arms around his legs, and
shivered in the morning sunshine.
Behind
the miserable ache at the base of his skull lay an irritating, teasing,
frightening wisp of a memory that included stacks of books and scrolls in
flickering candlelight. More books than he would have thought possible. . .enough to last a man for years. More,
certainly, than the Basharas possessed. More even than
Xikander had. And behind that the flash of an image of
a fat mouse capering across a heavily laden table.
So
what do books and mice have to do with the pool? Only gods know. Another
chill raced up his spine. Now his half-visions were becoming mixed with images
from the nightmares he'd been having with increasing frequency of late. Mice
danced unaware before strange creatures with hideous tusks. Misshapen monsters
that vaguely resembled people troubled his sleep by melting into shapeless
blobs and reassembling into worse creatures, while mocking laughter filled his
dreams to remind him of his failures.
He
was beginning to regret telling his mother that he would not be a goatherd.
Kehan
shoved mud-coated, dripping hair away from his face and looked around for his
master, waiting for the angry voice to berate him as usual.
But
today Xikander sat rocking back and forth on his skinny haunches, cackling to
himself and rubbing his bony hands together, his blind eyes glittering black as
jet.
"Hidden---must
have been---or how could I have overlooked it? At last, I have found the path. All that I have lost. I will have it all back---just as it
was, as it should have been. Yes, yes, surely. I should have known, after . .
." He broke off suddenly, as if aware of his apprentice's scrutiny.
"Well, no matter," he added with a shrug.
What was
the old man babbling about?
The
wizard struggled to his feet, a tall, gaunt figure leaning on his knobby staff.
He turned toward the courtyard doorway without looking back. "Pack for at
least a pair of tendays. We shall leave immediately." Words tossed off
over a shoulder.
Leave?
What for?
Something
must have happened this time---otherwise why would the old man be so excited?
Kehan staggered to his feet, leaned back down to grab his study stone, and
stumbled up behind the wizard, clapping arms about his own body to warm up. "Xikander-ji?"
Without
turning, the wizard swung the staff back at him.
He
easily ducked under the swing. Lately, the jadughar mostly missed, proving his
apprentice was not the idiot Xikander had called him daily for the last year.
Besides,
he had obviously done something right this time, study stone or no study
stone.
Now
if he only knew what it was.
He
tried again, through chattering teeth. "al-Mumit,
sa'ab, may I ask just one question?" The wizard just started walking, but
since he didn't swing again, Kehan decided to risk pressing it further. "Where are we going, and for what? What happened
today?"
Xikander
didn't answer.
Sometimes
his master would only answer if he came up with the right question. Then again,
sometimes the old man just wouldn't answer.
"Sa'ab,
is it that flower, that Night's Blossom you speak of all the time? What does
that have to do with what I dreamed---the books and the mouse? Or are those
books something else?"
Only
silence.
Damn.
He hurried after the old man across the courtyard, hard-pressed to keep up. Oh,
Seba Matara, goddess mother, protect us. He could barely stand, exhausted
as always after these sessions. "How can we leave today? It's almost
Still no answer.
"You
never travel---why are we going?"
Xikander
didn't even slow his pace. The staff whipped out once more, and this time it
caught Kehan’s arm.
"Ow!"
Kehan rubbed his already sore shoulder. Sometimes there were no right
questions.
"What
is the essence of stone, apprentice?"
Kehan
frowned, hiding his rock behind him. He should have quit earlier. "Is it .
. . endurance?"
"No.
Until you can answer correctly, you will not question anything I say. You are
here to listen, to learn and to obey my wishes. Nothing else, apprentice."
Xikander crossed the courtyard and entered his workroom, leaving the heavy
tapestry to swing back into Kehan's face.
That
trick had also stopped working. He dodged in behind the wizard, crouched and
stuffed his study stone beneath his charpoy.
"Now, you amaq." Xikander stopped. "Pack
quickly, supplies and my pouch. No. . ." The
wizard waved a hand in negation, turning sightless eyes on him. "I'll
attend to my pouch. You prepare the rest."
Gods, how he hated those eyes---deep-set and black, colder
than the mountains in winter and surrounded by a hatchwork of scars. He didn't
know how the wizard had come by those scars, and he wasn't sure he even wanted
to know.
"And
wash yourself before we leave. You smell like dead fish . . . unless, of
course, you'd prefer to resemble one. Permanently."
The jadughar turned back to his shelves in the corner, gathering up small
wooden boxes and dusty stoppered clay or glass jars, placing them carefully
into the pockets of a leather pouch more gently than he handled anything
living.
Picking
up an old blanket and a handful of soapweed, Kehan headed for the pool, sparing
a nervous glance for the tools by the corner table as he passed. He didn't dare
ignore his master's threat. Xikander's last apprentice was supposed to have
ended up as a fire poker, the previous as a cooking pot. He had no intention of
becoming a sand smelt.
Besides,
he remembered one long night. One miserably long night.
He'd never told anyone. Who would've believed him?
And
how could he have explained what it felt like to be a cabbage? A slightly wilted cabbage, at that.
In a
few moments he managed a fair semblance of cleanliness and changed to his only
other clothing, a worn, though fairly neat brown kurta and loose pants. Kehan
hastily soaped his wet things in a bucket to remove any possible smell from the
kurta-shalwar and rinsed them twice. Wringing his clothing out as he walked
back to the workshop, he shook both pieces to smooth out some of the wrinkles.
He
slicked back his still-wet hair and wriggled his shoulders back and forth,
working out the soreness. Everything still hurt, but at least he was now only
partially wet, and considerably warmer. Even if he still felt a hundred years
old.
Pack
for two tendays. That would take very little time. His home, Xikander's
home actually, was barely more than a small shed---one tiny storeroom and a
tinier workroom surrounded by a courtyard wall. Xikander had informed him once
that a wizard had no need for material gain, that sacrifices were necessary to
pursue the powers of Magic---though Kehan had noticed that the wizard accepted
the presents the villagers left, and that the few bits of furniture in the
workroom, though ancient, were of extremely good quality. He wondered if, deep
down, the old man truly believed in all that sacrifice.
And
he didn't understand why someone with Xikander's power would want to wither
away in a tiny, backwater spot like Karpur. Stupid decision, if you ask me,
which he hasn't. Still, where would I be if the old man wasn't here?
Still
stinking of goats---or left for dog meat on the hillside, more likely.
Kehan
shuddered. No, that led to thoughts better left alone.
Still,
if he had asked me, I'd have said it might be better to make a few less
sacrifices for a bit more comfort. What use is power if you can't enjoy it?
Of
course, Xikander never requested his apprentice's opinion, and should Kehan
venture one unasked---well, the sorcerer just might decide he needed another
fire poker, and the position of sorcerer's apprentice would be open again.
Quietly,
so as not to disturb his master, Kehan slipped back into the storeroom, packed
what food they had at hand---a small jar of oil, several bags of dried lentils
and rice, a stack of cold naan wrapped in a cloth. The round flat bread fit
easily into the bottom of a sack. Onions, garlic, and paper twists filled with
spices went in next. He added the tinderbox, a few of the old man's candles,
two wooden bowls, a spoon and a small sheathed knife. He placed a change of
clothing in the bag for Xikander, but left his own wet things drying on the
hardened clay floor nearby.
After
tying off the sack, Kehan took their two best blankets, folded them and placed
them beside it. He added a few water skins, his sandals and a length of cord to
the pile. That and the small copper cook pot were all they would be able to use
for travel, and probably all he could carry.
Well,
except for the wizard’s sack of powders and potions. Kehan turned around,
watching through the workroom door as the wizard rearranged the contents of the
pouch. Xikander would carry that himself---that and the grimoire. Kehan never
touched the book of spells except in Xikander's presence, and he could only
sound out its words, not understand them, even after six months of tongue
lashings and beatings while the wizard made him spell out words and describe
letters that made no sense. Six months of practicing sounds his tongue could
barely make.
It
bothered him that he couldn't make sense of the book---because he could read.
Which was more than most of the villagers could do, including Mirza. He'd
learned from the village Bashara, after much persuasion and semi-bribery of the
priests. Every free moment before the accident and all during his recovery he'd
studied until he could get through even the more difficult religious texts.
But
here, under Xikander's tutelage and after far harder work, all he was allowed
to do was spew out meaningless syllables while the wizard fumed.
Worse,
it had taken over half a year before he could sound out the words well enough
to please the old man. How am I supposed to remember how to pronounce
something, if I don't know what it says? Xikander could have taught me the
language. He wouldn't---he still won't. Not yet, he says. Always,
not yet. Won't even let me touch the jars and pots,
except to dust them.
No,
Xikander certainly wouldn't ask him to carry that bag. Xikander probably
wouldn't let him near it or the grimoire.
But
maybe that would change, now that Xikander had found a clue about his
mysterious flower. A clue found with his apprentice's help.
Next
Kehan would figure out the cursed study stone, and the answer to its essence.
Yes! He'd made a start on the magic. The rest should come much faster and
easier now.
Looking
around, he searched for anything Xikander might complain about. The food stores
were securely capped, and no one would dare to bother anything else in the
place. That left only. . .
"al-Mumit, sa'ab, may I take leave of Ami-jan? I must arrange
for someone to care for her if I'm to be gone more than a night or two."
The
silence grew long and uncomfortable. Kehan stared out the doorway, biting his
lip. Patience. Don't rush, not if you want
the favorable answer. It isn't as if al-Mumit's finished his own packing.
Only
a few hours after dawn, food coming, and now the old man wanted to hurry off
into the wilderness. Where in Bhima's lifeless hell was Xikander planning to
go?
And
demons, Seba save them. He'd forgotten about the demons. Probably
lurking out there, just beyond the wards. Waiting for unwary
travelers---
"You
may inform your mother that I shall require no meals for the next two
tendays." He did not turn around. "I expect you to complete this
errand promptly." Xikander returned to his packing.
"Yes, sa'ab, thank you, sa'ab." Kehan bolted out
the doorway leaving the tapestry flapping behind him, hurried through the
courtyard and down the narrow lane, as fast as sore muscles could carry him.
Why is the old man so determined to make this trip immediately? It's not like
him, not like him at all. And, truth, Xikander al-Mumit had never walked
more than five hundred paces from his door in all the time Kehan had known him.
Never. At least, not that he'd ever seen.
Nor
had he heard of the sorcerer making a journey. As far as he knew, the wizard
had always been in the village, as the mountains had always been beside it._
That
was one of the reasons Kehan had asked the old man to take him on as apprentice.
No more spending days alone, freezing in the cutting wind on the hillsides with
no one to talk to. No more slogging through rain chasing stray goats, or
sweating on cliffs watching livestock bent on flinging themselves into bogs or
ravines, or down the throats of wild dog packs. A warm, dry workshop, someone
to talk to, and a blind master who couldn't see light hair or pale eyes which
did not match the dark ones common in the village. It had seemed a fine
opportunity---at the time. Because what the wizard couldn't see would raise no
questions, or require answers Kehan didn't have. Xikander paid no attention to
the village gossip, including that about his mother or him.
Besides,
Kehan told himself, it wasn't as if he had much choice. He and his mother had
sold the last of the goats while he'd been healing from the wild dogs' attack,
and the only other apprenticeship, grudgingly offered, had been as a stone
cutter for an uncle in Qaraq, which would have meant backbreaking labor and a
two-day journey for infrequent visits to Ami-jan, since that uncle had been
specific that his mother was not to come with him. And that left her
alone in Karpur. . .with no one to protect her. No,
there were worse positions than apprentice to a powerful jadughar. He could
become a wizard, respected and feared. There'd be no remarks about him or his
mother then.
Still,
for Xikander to suggest a journey, and one of twenty days or more, either this
impulse was vastly important . . . or the wizard had finally sniffed one too
many of his own concoctions and gone completely mad.
In
either case, now my only choice is between following him off into the
wilderness or breaking rocks in Qaraq.
Kehan
turned a corner to see his mother walking carefully up the pathway, steadying a
steaming bowl in her hands.
"Ami-jan." Kehan bowed and took the bowl from her.
She
touched his cheek, smiling, then frowned. "Piyareh, why
is your hair wet? And you look pale. What has happened? Not more of
al-Mumit's tricks? He hasn't hurt you this time, has he?" She tried to
push Kehan's damp hair back, but he shook his head and pulled away from her
hand.
"You
should quit that man. He is not trustworthy. We'll find someone else, someone
to apprentice you. . ." She bit her lip, and a worried look joined the
frown on her face.
"Ami,
it was just an accident." It was an old argument and Kehan had no time to
waste. "I tripped and fell into the pool." He pulled himself up very straight,
chest out. "But that's not important. I'm to accompany Xikander on a
journey today. A quest. Very
urgent."
She
waved his explanation away as if it were a gnat. "No! No, I forbid it.
It's an amaq's chase or some sinister secret a boy has no business in. I can
imagine what dark plans his type would make!" She stared into his face,
searching. "I would box your ears and drag you home, if I thought it would
do a moment's good." Kehan could see the wetness well up around the edges
of her dark eyes. "al-Mumit will only lead you
into danger. He's a demon."
"Ami-jan,
there's no time for this." Kehan wiped a tear that trickled down her cheek
and added softly, "I'm his apprentice and have been for a year. It's my
duty. Besides, we'll only be gone for two tendays---what can happen?" No
need to remind her of demons. "I'll ask Ramdas to look in on you while I'm
away. Now, I have to hurry. Xikander's waiting."
She
shook her head, lips thinned. "You are determined, aren't you? And he is
your master, though it breaks my heart to let you travel with him."
Ami-jan fumbled under her long scarf, reached beneath the neckline of her
cameez and drew out a cluster of necklaces, heavily strung with talismans,
charms and amulets. They clattered and jangled as she untangled them from her
long braid. " I have heard stories." She
removed two cords, tried to slip them over Kehan's head. Tucking the bowl into
one arm, he brushed them away with his free hand, but she pressed them back at
him. "Promise me, promise your mother, you will
wear these at all times."
"Matara's molars, no!"
She
slapped him hard enough to make his ears ring. "Don't blaspheme! Don't you
dare blaspheme against the gods!"
Balancing
the bowl in the crook of his arm, he rubbed the side of his head with the other
hand. "Ami-jan, please, no more. Look, look at all these." From his
collar, Kehan pulled out a set of talisman-loaded cords which jangled softly.
"I already sound like a silly girl with her arms full of bangles." He
sorted through them. "See, these have all been blessed or inscribed with
sacred words. And you've sewn bits of jet and onyx into the hems of all my
clothing. There is no evil eye, no demon, no curse
that could get past all this. I'm safe from anything. The jingling alone
would either scare a Rahkshasa or irritate it into running away. Believe
me."
"Promise
me. Promise, or I shall say you're no son of
mine." She clouted him on the shoulder, making the contents slosh up
almost over the bowl's rim.
"Ami,
you worry for nothing. You know that most of the gossip around here is a
lie." He remembered what the villagers had said about her, about his dead
father . . . and about him. He didn't want to remind her of the lies jealous
tongues had spread.
Instead
he took her hands in his free one and kissed them. With a heavy sigh, he took
the cords and added the charms to the jumble he already wore. He stuffed them
back down the collar of his kurta.
"I
am always your son. You know that." He smiled winningly. It usually
worked. It seemed to work now; his mother smiled back.
"Now,
I must go. I'm afraid we won't have time to eat this before he,
ah, that is, we wish to go." As the scent of the spiced dish drifted up,
Kehan's stomach rumbled in response. He held out the bowl, reluctant to let it
go.
"You foolish boy." Ami-jan chuckled fondly and
lightly slapped his cheek. "Perhaps that demon can feed solely on evil and
I'd let him starve, I can tell you that. But I'll not have my only child go
hungry waiting on that---that wizard. Go on. I'll take this home, pack it for
you and bring it to al-Mumit's." She touched his
forehead with her lips, and he bent down to touch her sandals, then ran.
Kehan
wanted to find Ramdas. Needed to find Ramdas.
Quickly---before Xikander decided personal errands were an inconvenience. He
raced through the village to his friend's home, but Ramdas was not there, nor
at his father's bakery when he checked there next.
That
left only one place.
Kehan
had been hoping to avoid it. Damn.
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