Chapter 1

Far from the Kurdin Sea, where the ship of ghuls sailed amid its own storm; far from where Mathew struggled against inner darkness; far from Serinda, where a djinn battled against Death; another young man fought a battle of his own, though on much different ground.

Quar’s jihad had begun. In the first light of dawn, the city of Meda, in northern Bas, fell to the troops of the Amir without putting up more resistance than was necessary for the citizens to be able to meet each other’s eyes and say, “We fought but were defeated. What could we do? Our God abandoned us.”

And it did seem as if this were true. In vain the priests of Uevin called for the God of War to appear in his chariot and lead the battle against the armies of the Emperor. In vain the priestesses of the Earth Goddess called for the ground to open and swallow the Amir’s soldiers. There came no answer. The oracles had been silent many months. Uevin’s immortals had disappeared, leaving their human supplicants to cry their pleas to deaf ears.

Uevin’s ears were not deaf, though he often wished they were. The cries of his people rent his heart, but there was nothing he could do. Bereft of his immortals, losing the faith of his people, the God grew weaker by the day. Ever before him was the vision of Zhakrin and Evren, their shriveled and starved bodies writhing upon the heavenly plane, then blowing away like dust in the wind. Uevin knew now, too late, that the Wandering God, Akhran, had been right. Quar was intent on becoming the One, the Only. Uevin hid inside his many columned dwelling, expecting every moment to hear Quar’s voice summon him forth to his own doom. The God, quaking and trembling, knew there was nothing he could do to stop Quar.

The army of Meda—outnumbered, beset by dissension within their ranks, aware that their Governor was hastily packing his valuables and fleeing through the back wall of the city as they prepared to defend its front—fought halfheartedly and, when called upon to surrender, did so with such promptness that the Amir remarked to Achmed drily that they must have ridden forth to battle with white flags in their saddlebags.

Achmed never had a chance to fight—a fact that made him burn with disappointment. Not that he would have seen battle this day anyway. The young man rode with the cavalry and they would not be used today unless the Medans proved more stubborn than was expected. Chafing with inaction, he sat his magical horse high on a ridge overlooking the plains on which the two armies rushed together like swarms of locusts.

Achmed shifted in his saddle, his gaze darting to every boulder and bush, hoping to see some daring Medan raise up out of the cover with bow poised and arrow at the ready, endeavoring to end the war by killing the general, Achmed saw himself hurling his own body protectively in front of the Amir (the king’s bodyguards having fled, the cowards!). He saw the arrow fly, he felt it graze his flesh (nothing serious). He saw himself draw his sword and dispatch the Medan. Cutting off the man’s head, he would present it to the Amir. Refusing all assistance, he would say, with eyes modestly downcast, “The wound? A scratch, my lord. I would gladly be pierced by a thousand arrows if it would serve my king.”

But the Medans selfishly refused to cooperate. No assassin crouched in the bushes or crept among the rocks. By the time Achmed saw himself, in his vision, carried away on a shield, the Medans were throwing their own shields on the ground and handing over their weapons to the victors.

When the battle had ended, the Amir rode up and down the long line of prisoners that were drawn up outside the city walls. Most of the Medans stood with heads bowed, in sullen or fearful silence. But occasionally Achmed—riding at Qannadi’s side— saw a head raise, a man glance up at the king out of the corner of an eye. The Amir’s stern and rigid face never changed expression, but his eyes met those of the prisoner, and there was recognition and promise in that glance. The man would look back down again at his feet, and Achmed knew he had seen someone in Qannadi’s pay—a worm the Amir had purchased to nibble at the fruit from the inside.

Achmed heard mutterings of disgust from the Amir’s bodyguards, who rode behind him. They, too, knew the meaning of that exchange of glances. Like most soldiers, they had no use for traitors, even when the traitors were on their side.

The young man’s face burned, and he hung his head. He felt the same stirrings of disgust for the treacherous who had betrayed their own people, yet all he could ask himself was, “What is the difference between them and me?”

The inspection came to an end. Qannadi announced that the Imam would speak to the prisoners. The Amir and his staff rode off to one side. Achmed, still brooding, took his place beside and a few steps behind Qannadi.

A creaking of the Amir’s leather saddle and a slight cough caused Achmed to raise his head and look at the man. For a brief moment a warm smile flickered in the dark eyes.

“You came to me out of love, not for money,” was the silent message.

How had Qannadi divined what he was thinking? Not that it mattered. This wasn’t the first time their thoughts had ridden together over the same path. Feeling comforted, Achmed allowed himself to accept the answer. Knowing it was true in part, he could feel satisfied with it and firmly shut out any efforts by his conscience to question it further.

In the past month that they had been together, Achmed had come to love and respect Qannadi with the devotion of a son—giving to the Amir the affection he would have been glad to give to his own father, had Majiid been the least bit interested in accepting it. Each filled perfectly the void in the other’s heart. Achmed found a father, Qannadi the son he’d been too busy fighting wars to raise.

The Amir was careful not to let his growing affection for the young man become obvious, knowing that Yamina watched her husband jealously. Her own child stood to inherit the Amir’s position and wealth, and neither she nor her mincing peacock of a son would hesitate to send a gift of almonds rolled in poisoned sugar to one who might pose a threat. Long ago, a pretty young wife of whom Qannadi had been especially fond and who was to have delivered a baby near the same date as Yamina’s had died in a similar manner. Such things were not unusual in court, and Qannadi accepted it. But it was one reason, perhaps, that he afterward exhibited no great affection for any of his wives.

The Amir gave Achmed the rank of Captain, put him in charge of training both men and horses in the cavalry, and took care—while they were in court—to speak to him as he would any other soldier in his army. If he spent a lot of time with the cavalry, it was only natural, since they were the key to victory in many instances and required much training in advance of the war against Bas. Yamina’ s single, jealous eye saw nothing to give her concern. She sent her son back to the glittering court in Khandar, both of them happy in the knowledge that generals often met with fatal mishaps.

Qannadi himself had no illusions. He would have liked to make Achmed his heir, but he feared that the young man would not last even a month in the palace of the Emperor. Honesty, loyalty—these were qualities a king rarely saw in those who served him. Qualities the Amir saw in Achmed. The Amir didn’t attempt to instruct the young man in the dangerous machinations of court intrigue. The nomad’s blend of brute savagery and naive innocence delighted Qannadi. Achmed would not hesitate to hack to bits a rival in a fair fight, but he would allow himself to be devoured by ants before he would slyly murder that same rival. What was worse, Achmed fondly believed that every man worthy of being called a man abided by the same code of honor. No, he wouldn’t last long in the court at Khandar.

Let my paintedeyed, paintedlipped son grovel at the Emperor’s feet and smile when His Imperial Majesty kicks him. I have Achmed. I will make of him an honorable, dutiful soldier for Quar. For myself, I will have one person who will fight at my side, who will be near me when I die. One person who will truly mourn my passing.

But the ways of Quar are not the ways of Akhran. Qannadi himself was naive in thinking he could uproot the thorny desert Rose, bring it into the stifling atmosphere of court, and expect it to thrive. The cactus would have to send down tough new roots in order even to survive.

The Imam had watched the battle from the protection of a palanquin borne on the long journey from Kich to Meda by six sweating, struggling priests of Quar. At the Amir’s signal, they hauled the covered litter out onto the plains before the city walls that were lined with Medans waiting in hushed, breathless silence to know their fate.

Feisal emerged from the palanquin, his thin hand pushing aside the golden curtains decorated with the head of the ram. A change had come over the Imam since his illness. No one knew what had happened to him, except that he had come very close to death and had been—according to his awestricken servant— healed by the hand of the God. Feisal’s body, always slender from fasting, now appeared emaciated. His robes hung from his spare frame as they might have hung from a barelimbed tree. Every bone, every vein, every muscle and tendon was visible in his arms. His face was skulllike, with cadaverous hollows in the cheeks, the sunken eyes appeared huge.

These eyes had always glowed with holy zeal, but now they burned with a fire that appeared to be the only fuel the man needed to keep the body functioning. The sun was blazing hot on the plains in midsummer. Achmed sweated in the leather uniform trousers worn by the cavalry. Yet he shivered when the Imam began to speak, and, glancing at Qannadi, he saw the black hair on the sunburned arms rise; the strong jaw—barely visible beneath the man’s helm—tighten. The Imam’s presence had always inspired discomfort. Now it inspired terror.

“People of Meda!” Feisal’s voice must have been amplified by the God. It was hardly creditable that the lungs in that cavedin chest could draw air enough to breathe, let alone to shout. Yet his words could be clearly heard by all in Meda. It seemed to Achmed that they must be heard by every person in the world.

“You were not this day defeated by man,” the Imam called out. He paused, drawing a deep breath. “You were defeated by Heaven!” The words rolled over the ground like thunder; a horse shied nervously. The Amir cast a stern glance behind him and the soldier quickly brought his animal under control.

“Do not grieve over your loss! Rather, rejoice in it, for with defeat comes salvation! We are children in this world and we must be taught our lessons of life. Quar is the father who knows that sometimes we learn best through pain. But once the blow has been inflicted, He does not continue to whip the child, but spreads His arms”—the Imam suited his action to his words— “in a loving embrace.”

Achmed thought back to when he’d heard these—or similar—words, back to that dark time in prison. Clenching his hands over the saddle horn to keep himself calm, he wished desperately this would end.

“People of Meda! Renounce Uevin—the weak and imperfect God who has led you down a disastrous path, a path that could have cost you your lives had not Quar been the merciful father that He is. Destroy the temples of the false God Uevin! Denounce His priests! Melt down His sacred relics, topple His statues and those of the immortals who served Him. Open your hearts to Quar, and He will reward you tenfold! You will prosper! Your families will prosper! Your city will become one of the brightest jewels in the crown of the Emperor! And your immortal souls will be assured of eternal peace and rest!”

Growing lightheaded in the heat, Achmed imagined the Imam’s words leaping from the man’s mouth in tongues of flame that set the dry grass ablaze. The flames spread from the priest to the prisoners lined up against the wall and lit them on fire. The blaze burned hotter and hotter until it engulfed the city. Achmed blinked and licked thirstily at a trickle of sweat that dropped into his mouth. The plains reverberated with the sound of cheering, started on cue by the Amir’s forces and picked up eagerly by the defeated Medans.

Feisal had no more to say, which was well, since he could never have been heard. Exhausted, drained, he turned to make his way back to the palanquin, his faithful servant hurrying forward to assist the priest’s feeble steps. At the city walls, enthusiastic crowds shoved open the wooden gates. Chants of “Quar, Quar, Hazrat Quar” reverberated across the plains.

Unexpectedly the Medan prisoners broke ranks and surged toward the Imam. Qannadi acted swiftly, sending his cavalry forward with a wave of his hand. Riding with the others, Achmed moved his horse in a defensive position around the priest’s palanquin. Sword drawn, he had orders to hit with the flat of the blade first, the cutting edge second.

Achmed’s horse was engulfed by a tide of humanity, but these men were not out for blood. Risking life and limb amid the horses of the cavalry, they sought only to touch the palanquin, to kiss the curtains. “Your blessing on us, Imam!” they cried, and when Feisal parted the curtains and extended his bony arm, the Medans fell to their knees; many had tears streaming down their duststreaked faces.

Feisal’s dark, burning eyes looked at Qannadi, giving a wordless command. The Amir, lips pressed grimly together, ordered his men to fall back a discreet distance. The Medans lifted the Imam’s palanquin onto their own shoulders and bore him triumphantly through the city gates. The roar of the crowd must have been heard by the sorrowing Uevin as far away as heaven.

It’s all over! thought Achmed with relief and turned to share a smile with his general.

Qannadi’s face was stern. He knew what was coming.