The Caliph sat glowering at the man, who shrank back, bowing his head, heart beating wildly until at last the ruler nodded brusquely and said, “I thank you for bringing this news so faithfully. Go now.” He turned his eyes to the captain of the guard. “See that he is given rest and refreshment.”
The messenger stammered. “I—I thank Your—”
“Praise Allah, not me. Go.”
The messenger went.
The Caliph sat with head bowed, face thunderous. His vizier, Ali ben Oran, approached him warily. “O Light of Wisdom, we must shield your people from these monstrous horsemen!”
At last Caliph Suleiman raised his head. “We must indeed. More, we must beat them back from the lands they have already taken. Call up my generals and all of their armies.”
The vizier gestured to an attendant, who turned, bowed, and ran.
“Send out agents,” Suleiman told the vizier, “and summon my wizards. Tell the one to spy and the other to scry, that we may learn who these invaders are, whence they come, and why.”
Ali bowed. “O Lord, it shall be done.”
When Balkis was fifteen in human terms, Ludwig died, and Greta seemed to fade even as she followed his coffin to the churchyard. Balkis walked beside her, grieving herself, but even more concerned about her foster mother. When they came back to the cottage, Greta gave a sigh that seemed to send her soul with it after Ludwig’s and sat down in a way that plainly said there was no point in ever getting up again.
Balkis was past concern now, and well into fear. She had been orphaned once, and had no wish to suffer it again. She bustled about the cottage, lighting the fire and swinging the kettle over it to heat, fetching a lap robe and tucking it about Greta’s knees. The old woman looked up at her with a smile in which some trace of life revived and said, “Bless you, child.”
That was the way of it for the next half year-Balkis doing the housework and gardening, while Greta sat and prayed and told herself over and over again the stories she knew from the Bible—the ones she had learned by heart, from so many years of Sunday church—and gained comfort from them, comfort and reassurance that she would be with Ludwig again in Heaven. She yearned to be with him so ardently that she faded day by day, and would have gone much sooner to the Heaven for which she ardently longed had it not been for Balkis’ love calling her back every evening. Together they would sit by the fire, Balkis reading the parts of the Bible that Greta had never heard, and the old woman would smile and bask in the care of the child she had reared.
But even Balkis’ love could not hold her for long in the world of the living, and when the snow was melting and the first greening showed in twigs returning to life, Greta parted from it, and died in her chair by the fire with her hands on her Bible and a smile of utter peace on her lips. Balkis followed her coffin to the churchyard with only friends to support her now.
At the funeral, she noticed the speculative glances of the young men, and shuddered. Afterward, they called frequently, properly accompanied by mothers or sisters, to chat with Balkis and relieve her grief—but she noticed their gazes roaming the cottage, calculating its worth and the price of its furnishings, and she knew that their interest was not solely in the beauty of her face or the sweetness of her form. Nonetheless, she was glad of their company, for the little cottage was lonely indeed with neither Ludwig nor Greta there to embrace or to fuss over.
Accordingly, when April had taken the chill of winter from the land, and May sent flowers and warmth, she buried her most treasured mementoes of her foster parents in a wooden box beneath the roots of an oak, asked the tree to guard it for her, dressed in a brown traveling dress, walked into the forest, and changed into a cat.
She stood a moment, rigid with foreboding, but the aching, craving, and tickling did not come. Relieved, she set off deep and deeper into the wood, hurrying, but wary of wolves, wildcats, and bears, hoping she could find the wise woman of whom everyone whispered before her cat-body might go into heat.
She found the cottage after four days, far deeper in the woods than she, or most folks, ever went. The little house stood in a small clearing, grass kept short by half a dozen grazing sheep. It was decorated with carvings that tugged faintly at a memory she hadn’t known she’d had, and painted the green of new growth, with the decorations in pastels and the door and shutters sun-bright yellow.
Balkis watched from the shadows for several hours, until a woman came out to tend an herb garden. There were only a few streaks of gray in her black hair; she was still buxom and handsome, not at all the witch Balkis had pictured, clad not in black embroidered with arcane symbols, but in ordinary, everyday blouse and skirt of homespun cloth, with the wooden shoes of a peasant on her feet. The only thing special about her attire was a pendant of glittering crystal, worn about her neck on a silver chain. She hummed as she worked, and Balkis recognized the tune with a shock—it was a hymn!
The wise woman took a few herbs back into the hut with her and shut the door. Reassured by her appearance, Balkis changed back into human form, but still stood among the trees, trying to pluck up her courage to go knock on the door. Just as she was feeling that she would be horribly rude and intrusive to do so, the door opened and the woman stepped forth again, this time with a black shawl over her white blouse and gray skirt. “Whoever you are, you might as well come out and stop bothering me with your lurking!”
Balkis stared in amazement, then took a faltering step.
Instantly the woman’s eyes focused on that slight movement. “That’s right, come forward, now. No need to hang back. You’ve nothing to fear, no matter what you’ve heard about me—if you mean no harm, that is.”
“I mean none.” Balkis stepped forth into the sunlight. “In fact, I seek protection from harm.”
“Don’t they all!” the woman said, with a sardonic smile. “Well then, come in, lass, and tell me your troubles.” She turned on her heel and went back inside, leaving the door wide.
Balkis took a deep breath, plucked up her nerve, and followed.
Inside, the cottage was every bit as attractive as outside. It was all one room, perhaps thirty feet by twenty, with a fireplace against one wall and a bed across from it, a square table and two chairs between. A padded chair stood by the hearth in one inglenook, a low table beside it with a candlestick. There were windows in each inglenook, too, and to either side of the doorway and in the wall by the bed, with horn instead of glass—all a lonely woman could afford, surely, and even that was luxury. Each window wore damask curtains with a bright floral pattern, and the floor boasted an actual carpet with a similar motif. The walls were plastered and whitewashed. Against the far wall, across from the door, stood a long table with ceiling-high shelves, filled with jars with strange names painted on them, such as Wortroot, Umber, and Nightshade. From the rafters over the table hung bunches of dried herbs, lavender and thyme and savory among them.
Balkis stared. Could these be the stuff of witchcraft? Surely not! Some were as likely to be spices for cooking as others were poisonous—but none were strange or arcane.
“I am Idris.” The wise woman seemed severe, but her eye glinted with pleasure at having company. “Who are you, lass?”
“I—I am Balkis, ma’am.” “An odd name.” Idris frowned. “Come from a foreign land, have you?”