L azar shaded his eyes and squinted into the shimmering scene below. He and his longtime companion, Jumo, had been directed here by scouts. Out to the west the sun was already past its high point, and the fiercest heat of the day was scorching. He wrapped the tail of the white turban around his face, a gesture born purely of habit; in the foothills, sand was not a problem unless the feared Samazen whipped up, and that was a month away at least. Though it would get hotter still today before it cooled, time was against them. Night fell fast across the desert plains, and although these were only the western foothills, barely fifteen miles from Percheron, the darkness would race to claim them faster than they could ride home. Not that being away bothered Lazar. They had been out on the ridges for days and he was happiest when he was away from people.
Home! He scorned himself for thinking of it that way. Percheron had, however, become a sanctuary. It still had its distasteful elements, and immediately Herezah came to mind, but surely there could be no realm more beautiful. Percheron had seduced him and he had become her willing lover. He wondered, as he gazed down at a tiny dwelling that clung to the steppes, whether he could ever leave the stone city. Until recently he would have answered no. Now he wasn’t so sure. Herezah’s influence was already being felt and he sensed her bite was only going to get worse.
She had disbanded the harem the same day as Joreb’s funeral procession. Once more he had been forced to grind his teeth and sit out an entirely unpleasant spectacle. The Valide Zara had masterminded the event down to the tiniest detail, to the point of ordering that the horses that pulled the open-topped carriage and the old Zar’s corpse have the underneath of their eyelids smeared with pepper paste, to make it appear that even dumb beasts had shed tears for the Great One’s passing.
Lazar had never heard of anything quite so ridiculous, but there was plenty more to come. Four virgins, holy women chosen for their beauty, had been drugged and thrown into the flames of the pyre. This was supposedly to symbolize each season of the old Zar’s life, from birth through childhood, to adolescence and manhood. It was also a sly reminder that Joreb was the god Zarab’s appointed representative on the land. Burning the holy women reinforced the destruction of the Goddess Lyana and the pointlessness of those who still privately worshipped her.
Herezah’s third and final spectacle was to have the women of the harem unveiled, which was the most painful humiliation she could impose. It was more grievous than death for most of these women, who were put into ordinary clothes before being paraded on foot and forced out of the palace and into the streets. Each one was given a pouch of gold and cut loose from the protection of the harem and the lavish, lazy world she had known. These women could sew, make fine quishtar, and gossip: that was the sum total of their accomplishments…unless, of course, one counted their ability to pleasure men to heights of ecstasy. If they looked after their money, hopefully that talent would not need to be promoted in the outside world that these confused wretches now inhabited.
Where they went, how they lived, or even if they survived, Herezah could not have cared less about. They were no longer required. Their role as servants of the Zar died with him. As for those who claimed the title of wife, they no longer had status. That had died with the Zar and his eleven precious offspring.
Her next step was to assemble a new harem. Displaying her dark sense of humor, she had ordered the Spur of Percheron to join the hunt for suitable young girls. Fuming at his orders, personally delivered by the Valide, Lazar had considered riding out of the city gates and never returning.
To calm himself he had strode in the direction of the harbor, knowing he would pass some of the city’s inexplicably beautiful sculpted beasts on his way. Despite their implacable silence and stone flesh, the creatures of myth had a warm, lifelike quality to them. The only humanlike sculptures were the twin giants, Beloch and Ezram, who presided over the city’s busy harbor, a massive horseshoe-shaped sparkling bay.
No, despite Herezah’s presence, Percheron’s enchantment for him had not waned over the years. In fact, he felt more connected to this city than to his own.
His own. The thought made him sigh inwardly; it was his homeland across the ocean he had been thinking about as he had reached to touch his favorite creature—Iridor, the owl…the messenger of the Goddess Lyana.
Iridor had always attracted him and he could rarely pass any of the bird’s images dotted around the city without pausing momentarily to admire the owl or share a thought. Though Lazar would never admit it to anyone, Iridor felt like an old friend. He was the first of the stone sculptures Lazar had seen when brought through the vast Golden Gates of Percheron, and the knowing expression on the owl’s face had left a lasting impression. Lazar had often thought somewhat whimsically that it was the secretive bird who had urged him to put forward the reckless challenge to the Zar that had won him favor.
No one else, or so it appeared, bothered with the owl or any of the other magnificent engravings or sculptures. Some argued that Percheron was spoiled for art treasures and that the Percherese, who grew up surrounded by such beauty, took it for granted. But there was more to it than that. Lazar knew that the people had been taught from childhood that the ornate statues of the beasts and giants were linked to the Goddess, and Lyana had no place in Percheron. Her followers had long ago been dismissed as cranks, and although some women still continued to worship at her shrine, they were few and far between.
Percheron’s spiritual well-being had been cared for by the priesthood for many centuries now and Lyana had faded to myth. It was thought that the statues themselves dated back to the last occasion when the cyclical battle of the gods had erupted, but no one knew for sure.
Nevertheless, whether it was truth or folklore, Lazar loved the story. He thought about it again as he stared at Iridor, sworn enemy of Lyana’s nemesis, Maliz, the demon warlock granted eternal life by the jealous god Zarab. Hating Lyana’s popularity, Zarab had offered Maliz the ultimate prize if he would rid the world of the Goddess and give men ultimate ruling over the matriarchal society in which form Percheron had thrived.
Lazar gave a rare smile as he thought about the rising of Iridor, which signified the return of Lyana and triggered the reincarnation of Maliz. They would do battle every four or five centuries, or so the story went. But too many battles had been fought since Lyana had prevailed, her memory all but wiped out as a result of constant defeat; the statues were the only testament to her once powerful hold over Percheron. According to the myth, these beasts had been part of her army, supposedly turned to stone by Maliz in the last great battle.
The few true believers swore Lyana would rise again to fight another battle. Lazar liked this notion.
He had left behind the city proper to stroll down to the harbor, into the more seedy area of Percheron, always a hive of activity and somewhere to lose oneself. Here, in the mass of twisting lanes that had sprung up haphazardly around the eastern rim of the harbor, he could be anonymous. This was not a place where the wealthy or famous went. It was the haunt of the peasant Percherese and thieves, sailors, low-class merchants, and prostitutes. Lazar, wearing the common robes of the streets, had moved swiftly through the market area and beyond to an open road that led to a lonely temple, a tiny one that sat on a narrow strip of a peninsula jutting a mile into the bay. Not as far out as Beloch, of course, but only people on boats could get close to the brothers. Lazar looked out to where the enormous stone giant stood proudly guarding his city. Opposite him, flanking the other tip of the harbor’s horseshoe shape, was Beloch’s twin, Ezram.
Arriving at the tiny place of worship, Lazar had climbed the short flight of stairs into the small vaulted space of simple design. This was a temple that harkened back to the old ways, to a time when goddesses were worshipped and priestesses led prayers. Although he had never been inside it before, Lazar liked its remoteness, and as Lyana had been in his mind, it seemed a good enough place to go for some quiet. He lit a small candle and knelt at the altar below a sculpture of a serene woman who looked down upon him. He should have bowed his head in prayer but he could not take his eyes from the statue. Her soft smile was so tranquil, her eyes so sad, reflecting his mood. He fancied that her expression had been carved just for him, for this very day when he entered her temple with a heavy heart and a question on his mind. On her right shoulder sat an owl—Iridor—and amid the folds of her dress flitted an assortment of birds and strange symbols. Just looking at her soothed his anger.
“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” a voice had said, and when he turned a tiny hunched woman emerged from the shadows. She was dressed in aquamarine robes the color of the sea her tiny temple overlooked.
“I am Lazar, Spur of Percheron, Priestess,” he had said, standing and bowing.
When he straightened she was smiling. “We have been expecting you.”
He had been taken aback. “We?”
In answer she had looked toward the sculpture. “This is Lyana. She especially welcomes you.”
“She is the loveliest of all the stone sculptures in Percheron,” he had replied.
“Has she helped?”
“Pardon?”
“Did she answer your question?”
He had frowned. “I haven’t asked anything of her.”
Again the soft knowing smile. “Not yet, perhaps. Forgive my disturbance, son. Please continue.” The old woman had made as if to leave.
“Wait.” When she had turned to look at him, he had hesitated. “What did you mean, you were expecting me?”
“We have been waiting many years to meet you, Lazar. You have a reason for being in Percheron. You are welcome here always.”
He had had no idea what she was talking about but her soft voice had been mesmerizing, as soothing as her sculpture’s smile. “I don’t know your name.”
“I am Zafira. We shall meet another time soon.” Once more she had turned to leave and again he had stopped her.
“What can she tell me?” he had asked.
She hadn’t turned that time. “Please stay—you are needed here,” she had said as the shadows swallowed her.
Lazar had puzzled over that brief conversation for many days now. How could the old priestess have known he was thinking of leaving the city? In fact, it had been her words that had convinced him not to ride out of the city in anger but to remain in Percheron—for now anyway. There was something about the certainty of the way she spoke to him that made him obey.
Jumo disturbed Lazar’s thoughts. “Is all well, Master?” he asked, guiding his horse to stand alongside Lazar’s.
Lazar smiled. He and Jumo had long ago ceased being master and slave, ever since Lazar had granted the reed-thin man his freedom. But Jumo had neither refrained from using the title nor from serving Lazar. They were now the closest of friends, their deep bond an unspoken commitment between them. Lazar had once described to Pez that losing Jumo would be like losing his limbs or his sight.
“All is well,” he answered, looking into his friend’s swarthy face, the color of molasses and creased in bemusement. Jumo came from an exotic land far to the north that Lazar had never seen and was unlikely to see. “Am I making you nervous?” he asked, knowing full well that very little, least of all silence, unsettled Jumo.
They had been a party of twelve, but as each girl had been found, she had been sent off with two escorts to the city. Herezah had demanded six girls from Lazar’s foray into the foothills. He had sent five safely on their way.
Jumo’s face broke into the smile he reserved for very few. “No, your quiet manner is not making me nervous. What is troubling you, Master?”
Lazar sighed. “Nothing, my friend. I’m fine. Just still questioning this unpleasant task of ours.”
“They will fill a harem with or without your help,” Jumo offered. “We need only one more girl to fill our quota. Her family will be happy, the Valide will be happy, surely the Zar will be happy, and you, Master, you will be happy to be returning to your proper duties. Everyone will be happy.”
“Typical Jumo reasoning,” Lazar replied drily. “You’re right, although I don’t know why I feel so reluctant to disturb that gentle scene down there.”
They both looked at the hut, its chimney smoking cheerfully. Outside two young girls, presumably sisters, sat, their backs to the men. They were as different as two sisters could be; the elder was dark, the younger one lighter; the sunlight picked up fiery glints in her hair as her sister brushed it. A much smaller child, a boy, buzzed around them like a fly. Nearby another female squatted, sorting rice in a large basin, her repetitive action one Lazar had often seen in the neighborhoods of Percheron. Lazar and Jumo watched her drag her hand flat across the surface of the grains, spreading them, then begin sorting grit and stones from the rice.
“Do you think that is the mother, Master?”
“Looks rather young,” Lazar replied, slightly mesmerized by the simple toil that the woman somehow managed to make elegant with her slim arms and long fingers. “No, this would be the mother,” he added as a broader, clearly older woman emerged from the hut. He watched her squint as her eyes adjusted to the brightness.
“The father is a goatherd, I gather,” Jumo said, nodding toward the small pens beside the dwelling.
Lazar nodded. “The scouts warned he would probably be away.”
“Does that bother you?”
“To take one of his children in his absence? It is up to the mother, I suppose.”
“You will offer a high sum for the lighter-colored child, of course,” Jumo said, referring to the youngest girl.
“We need to see her face first,” Lazar answered, his tone dark with gathering anger. “Herezah might blame me for not selecting suitably but I know how her mind works—she’d punish the child to get to me. No, we’ve done well so far, even the Valide could not complain, but I’ll be damned if I’ll give her anything to gripe about. I’ve seen what she’s capable of and age is of no relevance to her.”
“Let us see for ourselves, then. Come,” Jumo replied. “It is getting late.”
Lazar sighed. He looked out from the foothills. Through the hazy heat he could just see the whitish sprawl that was Percheron, but the sea and the sky blended into a mass of bright blue. He wondered briefly whether he should take a voyage. It had been a long time since he’d seen his parents and siblings. His mother might even have forgiven him by now, although he doubted it. She was carved from the same block as Herezah—neither of them would ever forgive.
“You love the desert too much to leave it, Master,” Jumo said softly beside him, and their eyes met.
“You frighten me the way you can read my mind.”
Jumo grinned. “I’ve just known you long enough to guess.”
Lazar thought otherwise. It was uncanny how often Jumo seemed to know his private thoughts. But he left it alone, as he always did. “Lead the way,” he said, and as he did so the younger of the two girls turned and looked directly at them. She did not seem troubled by their presence, but the others were when she pointed, the mother gathering up her family around her and watching their approach wide-eyed, ready to flee like a startled animal.
Lazar pressed on doggedly down the incline, for even from this distance he could see the child was pleasant enough to look upon. Herezah would certainly have nothing to complain about.
“Don’t be frightened, woman,” Lazar assured the mother as the land flattened out and he was able to dismount. “I am the Spur of Percheron. This,” he said, nodding behind him, “is Jumo.”
The mother nodded at both of them. “What do you want?”
Lazar had done this five times in the last few days but it never got easier. It was unlikely that anyone had brought these people news of the Zar’s death, so it was not as though they could even guess at his purpose. How he hated this task.
“May I know your name?” he asked the mother.
“Felluj,” she said abruptly.
“Well, I bring a proposal from the palace, Felluj.”
Felluj looked momentarily startled. “No one in the palace knows us.”
Lazar cleared his throat. “That’s probably true. But I have offered this same proposal successfully to several families in the foothills in the last few days.”
“You come for my girls, don’t you? My brother-in-law warned you might.”
There was no point in denying it or hedging around it. He nodded. “Not all of them.”
Her solemn expression did not change but he saw something flash in the dark eyes. “You can have only Ana.”
“No, Mother!” the daughter who had been brushing her young sister’s hair cried, and Lazar turned to her, despising himself for the pain he had caused to cross her features. His gaze shifted to the small child whose hand she clutched.
“Ana,” he began, talking to the youngest girl.
“That is not her,” the mother interrupted, before turning to the daughter who held the rice bowl. “Fetch her.”
“Uncle Horz said—”
“Hush!”
“But Father won’t—”
“Do it!” the mother ordered. The girl disappeared into the hut. “How much?”
Lazar was taken aback by the harsh exchange between mother and daughter and unsettled by Felluj’s cold attitude. “Er, we need to see her first.”
“Oh, she’ll suit your purposes. But I won’t let her go cheaply.”
To add to Lazar’s discomfort, the two younger girls were weeping now. At least the young boy continued to run in small circles, chasing insects and wholly oblivious to the transaction that was occurring.
The mother must have heard some movement because she called into the silence: “Don’t hide, Ana! Come here, girl.”
The elder sister who had been sent to fetch Ana appeared first, scowling, reluctantly pulling another girl who seemed unaffected by all the attention.
She looked like a young colt, with long legs and square shoulders tapering through a slender body beneath the loose-fitting sheath that clothed her. Despite the roomy garment, the definite swell of a woman’s body was visible beneath. In truth, only Jumo noticed the rest of the child; all Lazar could focus on was her face, which was oval and framed by darkly golden hair that fell carelessly to her shoulders and seemed to absorb the very sunlight. But it was her eyes, shadowed by long dark lashes, that dragged him completely into her spell. Lazar could not register their color even though he was staring right into them, for they seemed to dominate him, to own him. There was a sense of drowning in those dreamy pools.
“Master?” Jumo urged quietly.
Lazar pulled himself free of his suddenly muddled thoughts and saw that the girl’s eyes were a sea green and that her mother was mocking him with a sly smile.
“Good enough?” she asked, unable to hide her sarcasm.
The Spur’s mouth felt so dry that he could not trust himself to speak. His gaze was drawn back to the girl who stared unerringly at him.
“How old is she?” he finally asked.
“I’m nearly fourteen summers,” the Ana replied.
“She’s ripe for your purposes,” the mother said matter-of-factly.
Lazar watched the eldest girl scowl again. “What is your name?” he asked.
“I am Amys,” she answered sullenly. “And my father will not agree to this.”
“Hush!” Felluj admonished. “I will make the decision. Come, Masters, let us talk in private over kerrosh.”
Lazar could not refuse. Hospitality was the way of the desert people; even the poorest family would slaughter its last goat to entertain a visitor. The brewing of the bitter kerrosh was high tradition in Percheron, and among the harem women it was nothing short of an art form.
“Where is your husband?” he asked the woman when they were seated in the hut.
“He is moving some of the goats. He has been away for several days.”
“Why is your older daughter worried about her uncle? She’s also adamant that her father will object—is this true?” It seemed a stupid question even to him. Which father wouldn’t object to losing his daughter to a stranger?
Before the woman could answer, Jumo spoke up. “The harem will take care of your daughter and raise her in unrivaled splendor,” he assured the mother. His eyes met Lazar’s, and Lazar realized the words were meant for him as well.
“She will be taught skills and she will read, write, dance. She will be given wealth and even status if she pleases her elders.”
“How much are you prepared to pay for her?” the mother demanded, ending Jumo’s gracious explanation.
“You seem quite keen to be rid of the girl,” Lazar commented.
Felluj shrugged. “She’s not my child.” As Lazar’s eyebrow rose in query, the woman explained. “She belongs to my husband.”
“She’s his daughter?”
The woman laid three glasses on the scrubbed table.
“She’s not his either. He found her.”
“Pardon?”
The woman poured a steaming glass of kerrosh before him. “I’ve put in one ball,” she said, referring to the sticky mass of sugar favored by most in the beverage.
“Thank you. Please continue.” Lazar sipped his drink. It was good, strong and sweet.
The mother passed Jumo his glass. “My husband found Ana as a newborn on the northern ridges. It had been a wild night, the Samazen had blown through, and the next morning he went in search of the goats that had been pastured up there. He’d lost his animals but found her instead. A useless exchange as far as I’m concerned. At least goats keep us fed, give us milk, provide yarn and skins.”
“A baby survived the storm?” Jumo voiced Lazar’s silent incredulity.
Again the woman shrugged. “I’m telling you what happened. You can believe me or not. He brought her home and raised her as his own. In truth, one more mouth didn’t matter so much then, but we’ve had two more children since. I’ve never felt about Ana the way my husband does.”
“Your daughters show a concern you don’t,” Lazar commented.
“Pah! They’re just worried about their father’s feelings but I worry about how we will feed and clothe ourselves. She’s another woman’s daughter! I’m glad to see the back of her.”
“Clearly,” Lazar muttered, as if he were tasting something bad. “This must be done properly, Felluj. I won’t be accused of stealing a child.” There was derision in her laughter at these words and Lazar understood. Girls were often stolen from these tiny foothill families by bandits and sold into slavery. “I am a royal representative of the highest law in the land,” he qualified. “Your husband must—”
She interrupted him. “He will understand when he sees your coin.”
Lazar felt suddenly sickened by her attitude; it reminded him of Herezah. Two mothers, both using children to elevate their status. He knew what it was to live without a mother’s love. Perhaps a life of luxurious imprisonment was better for Ana than what was on offer here.
“What price freedom?” Jumo said, as though responding to Lazar’s silent thought.
“You tell me,” Felluj said, “and then I’ll tell you whether it’s enough to appease my husband.”
“Twenty-five karels,” Lazar offered, which was low. He hated Felluj’s greed.
She laughed. “Fifty and you can have her.”
He drained his glass. “Fifty?” He raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to capitulate and decrease her price.
“She’s worth twice as much,” Felluj said, not at all intimidated.
“Not to us,” Lazar said, and stood. “Thank you for the kerrosh.”
She said nothing but he saw a slight hesitancy in her expression.
The children watched them wide-eyed as they emerged from the hut, squinting from the bright sun, and only Ana smiled, a bright, spontaneous gesture. Lazar felt the jolt of it catch in his throat; the warmth in her innocent expression reached into his chest and touched a cold heart. How long had it been since he had felt anything for anyone? Oh, the friendship between himself and Jumo was indestructible, as was the curious affinity he felt for the strange dwarf, Pez; and he liked Boaz well enough. But love? Love had visited briefly in his youth and then been torn away; since that time he had let no one into his heart. Something about Ana’s simple smile stirred thoughts long buried and wounds he had healed through detachment and determination. He felt suddenly weakened.
“Farewell, sister,” he said deliberately—the words were meant for Felluj but he spoke toward Ana’s soft green gaze.
No one responded as the two men silently climbed onto their horses. Lazar gave one last look at Ana, who was now expressionless, and at her stepmother, in whom he sensed growing disbelief. He turned his horse back toward the steep path and began counting. He would give it to fifty.
He had passed the count and was resigning himself to having read the situation wrongly when he heard a voice. It was Felluj; she had run swiftly up the incline at a sharper angle than they were traversing and was waiting for them at the top of the ridge. She was breathing hard and still looked defiant. There was no preamble or pretense at dealing with honored guests now; there was a bargain to be made and goods to be negotiated. He had seen it often enough in the slave markets—this was no different. “How much, then?” she demanded.
“I told you before,” he said coldly. “Twenty-five.”
“That is too low, sir,” she pleaded, her first display of courtesy since they had arrived, save the kerrosh.
“It is fair,” he replied feeling rather than seeing Jumo’s unease. They both knew Ana was worth three, maybe four times as much, and even Lazar couldn’t understand his reluctance to pay a premium for the stunning girl.
“My husband will grieve for her. She is his favorite and she’s not even of his own flesh.” Felluj spat into the sandy soil of the ridge.
Ana appeared behind her stepmother, clambering up the ridge. Lazar could see in those long-lashed eyes that this girl knew no affection existed for her in Felluj’s heart. And it was this notion alone, this sense of pain on behalf of the girl—a pain he understood—that forced Lazar to relent.
“I shall give you forty karels. Ask no more, woman, for you shall get not a zeraf extra from me.”
“I shall take it,” she replied instantly, “if you take her now. She has no possessions.”
“Will she not want to wish her family farewell?” Jumo asked.
“Take her, I say!” Felluj urged, pushing Ana toward them.
“Give her to Jumo,” Lazar ordered, reaching for a pouch at his side. He counted out the karels and said: “Hold out your apron.”
She did so and he dropped the silver from a height, not even bothering to reach down. One karel bounced out and Felluj went scrabbling after it.
“I don’t want to leave my father or my brother and sisters,” Ana said into the awkward silence.
“Hush, child,” Jumo murmured. “You must come with us now.”
She did not struggle but began to weep softly, looking behind to wave pitifully to her brother and sisters below.
“Fret not, Ana,” Jumo soothed. “In the palace you will have fine gowns and beautiful jewels, all the food you can eat, and lots of friends.”
“But I have no desire for fine gowns and I have never wished for a jewel. We eat well here—simply but well, and I have all the company I could ever want.” Her tears continued to fall down her cheeks as she fell quiet.
All the purchases of young girls had been hard on Lazar but this one touched his heart, for in truth the other girls had been seduced by the idea of wealth and luxury. Ana was by far the most beautiful, but by her own admission, neither riches nor pampering held any appeal for her.
They departed with the sound of forty pieces of silver jangling in Felluj’s apron as she stomped back down the ridge to her family, and soon Ana’s home and even the ridge she lived below was out of sight.
“What do you want me for, sir?” she asked, reaching from Jumo’s horse to tug at Lazar’s sleeve.
“I do not want you for anything, Ana,” he said, more sorrowfully than he intended. “You belong to the Zar now, his odalisque.”