The Prophet of Akhran by Margaret Weis & Tracy Hickman

Author:Margaret Weis & Tracy Hickman [Weis, Margaret]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 0553281437
Publisher: Bantam Spectra
Published: 1989-09-05T04:00:00+00:00

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.

No man would have been permitted to enter this tent, Mathew thought bitterly, closing the flap behind him. But a madman—a man who chose to hide himself in the clothes of a woman rather than face an honorable death, a man they shun, a man they consider harmless—me they will allow inside.

An honorable death. The words caused his heart to constrict painfully. Khardan would die before he let his people brand their Calif a coward. That must not happen.

We will see how “harmless” I am, Mathew resolved.

Zohra sat crosslegged on the bare tent floor. There were cushions in the tent, but after one look and a wrinkling of his nose, Mathew understood why she had tossed them into a comer rather than use them for her comfort. She glanced up at him without welcome or hope.

“What do you want?” she asked dully.

“I came to bring you a change of clothing,” said Mathew for the guard’s benefit.

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