Melanie Rawn: The Diviner

“I must know,” the other man repeated.

“How kind of your brother Yberrio to anticipate your need,” he snapped. “Did he prepare it himself, or have a healer do it? Ayia, did he remember to send along something to help her through the next day or two, as she returns to her right mind?”

“The hawk,” Solanna whispered, arms wrapped around herself. “The hawk flies from the empty mountain—across the river—”

Miqelo leaned toward her, his face obscured by flames and smoke. “Who is still alive?” he demanded. “Tell me what the hawk sees—”

“Be silent!” Qamar snarled.

Solanna heard neither of them. “Tents . . . carpets . . . the river and the hill . . . the white horses and—and—”

“And what?” Miqelo urged.

“—the book, the book—by lantern light—the boy has come, he’s finishing—”

“Qamar’s book? What boy? A Shagara, to take and preserve the book? Do you see our success? Solanna, answer me!”

But her eyes rolled up in her head. Qamar caught her as she collapsed toward the fire, barely keeping her from the flames. Without another word he gathered her into his arms and rose, carrying her to the deeper darkness beneath the trees. There he held her until dawn, ignoring the sounds of bridles and harness as the others made ready to go separate ways. At length all was silent. Qamar cradled his unconscious wife against his chest and did not stir from his place beneath the trees.

The boy Nassim eventually called out very softly, “Sheyqir, Miqelo and the others have departed. If the lady is well enough, we ought to go. Sheyqir?”

He rose to his feet, still with Solanna in his arms—and almost stumbled as his stiff knees grated with pain. So it was beginning for him, he thought; he could not blame this on the cold, for it was high summer, nor on the damp, for it had not rained in a month. It was beginning.

“Where is Tanielo?” he asked.

“Waiting with the horses. The others—”

“I don’t care about the others.” So Miqelo had assigned his son to protect Qamar, had he? Unable to face him or Solanna after what he’d forced upon her with the fire and smoke? “Bring my horse. We cannot ride far today, but we must ride.”

Tanielo was wise enough to stay as far as he could from Qamar. By midafternoon, his whole body aching now with the strain of holding Solanna secure in the saddle before him, Qamar was more than ready to call a halt. But this morning’s sharp ache had warned him that from now on he would have to learn how to hide pain. So it was nearly twilight before he reined in and told Nassim to bring Tanielo to him.

“Your father was my friend,” he said flatly. “I will treat you with the respect I would show to the son of a friend who has died. Because he is dead to me now, for what he did last night. Don’t even think of doing the same. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Qamar.”

“Sheyqir. You will address me as Sheyqir. All of you will. Bring Leisha to me now, and tell Nassim to make camp.”

Just after dark, Solanna woke. Qamar was still holding her, dozing at her side beneath a light blanket. That day they had climbed far enough so that the air was thinner, colder, sharper with the scent of pine. It reminded him of his journeys to Sihabbah.

“How much did I say aloud?”

Qamar jerked awake, arms tightening around her. “Don’t worry about that now. You need to eat.”

“Tomorrow morning,” she murmured. “Water will do, tonight.”

As he sat up and reached for the nearby jug of stream water, he said, “I can’t believe Miqelo did that to you.”

“It was wrong of him, but I understand it. Did I say anything?”

“Something about a hawk.” He handed her the water jug and wished there was a fire nearby, so he could see her expression.

“Nothing else?”

“No.”

“Good.” She drank long and deep, then set the jug aside. “Miqelo wouldn’t have liked it.”

He waited. At length she pushed her tangled hair from her face and sighed.

“The Sheyqa’s army was camped on a wide, flat plain. It was autumn—the trees were red-gold and the river was shrunken from its banks.”

“White horses, you said.”

“Yes. The—what did you call them? The Qoundi Ammar. Many tents, many flags. One tent especially, red with gold, on the highest ground, with carpets flung all around it, as if to spare someone actually touching the earth—”

“—with her exalted feet,” he finished. “The Sheyqa’s tent, then.”

“Likely.” She sipped more water. “There was another army, behind a hill to the north. Cazdeyyan, Ibrayanzan, Qayshi—but some were golden-skinned. Tza’ab, Shagara—” She shook her head. “There were no walls to be toppled. Only the plain, and the two armies. Thousands of men, thousands.”

Again he waited. When he could bear it no longer, he asked, “What did you see by lantern light?”

Solanna gave a start of surprise. “Did I say that?”

He nodded. “And something about the book.”

Her smile was weary and triumphant. “ Your book, meya dolcho. I saw your book!”

Then she had seen success. He smiled back and kissed both her hands.

It was still high summer when they rode into a sanctuary that remains unlocated to this day. Miqelo Shagara had learned of it from his father, and he had told his son, and it was to this place that Tanielo guided the Diviner so that the great work might be accomplished.

Meantime, the armies of the Sheyqa of Rimmal Madar continued their assault on the land and its people. Towns and cities fell. Joharra remained untouched. The march northward to Cazdeyya was accomplished.

Some have said that Qamar hid himself and his wife and servants in the deepest reaches of the mountains out of fear. This is a lie, and any account of his life that asserts otherwise is false.

Qamar was sure that it would not happen that autumn. The assembly of so many soldiers from so many places simply wasn’t possible in so brief a time. It might be the next autumn, or the one after that. But it would not happen this year.

This did not mean he worked any less persistently at the task he now believed Acuyib meant for him to accomplish. And if it was destined that he do this thing, then it was also destined that, like his grandfather and great-grandfather before him, he would succeed. Solanna had seen it.

The pocket in the mountains where Tanielo guided them was inhabited only by sheep. But there were stone huts already built for the convenience and comfort of the shepherds when they came at irregular intervals to check on their flocks. Within these snug little shelters were sacks of flour, dried fruits, and other provisions. There was even a small garden planted with root vegetables that were evidently unappetizing to the native animals, for no fencing had been placed around it.

Qamar took the largest of these huts for his workroom. The second he and Solanna used as living quarters; the third, which contained the provisions and a cooking hearth, was gradually expanded over the summer to provide sleeping room for Leisha, Nissim, and Tanielo. Qamar tried to ignore the noise as a wall was knocked down and the stones rearranged to form a foundation for the wooden slats of the disassembled wagon. But sometimes he needed absolute quiet, and took a sheaf of notes, a pen, and a bottle of ordinary ink and walked up to the narrowest part of the tiny valley, where a spring rippled down the rocks to a small pool. Seating himself beside the stream that whispered into the valley, he would mark off what was essential, what was important, what could be included if there was room, and what could be eliminated without damaging the whole. As the summer went on, he had to become more ruthless in his editing. The notes made over a dozen and more years had been distilled into sharp summations of his classes, his talks with fellow Haddiyat, other books, and his own experimentations. But he did not possess the luxury of infinite pages within his green leather book. He must restrict the final text to what was vital.