Alessid knew all this about himself. With the example of a charming, thoughtless, carefree fool of a father behind him, a man who would not even have known how to analyze his own character—and would have seen no use for such analysis—Alessid ruthlessly subjected himself to scrutiny. Every motive, every emotion, every action and reaction, all were examined for signs of likeness to his father. And at fifteen, he was satisfied that there was nothing of Azzad al-Ma’aliq in him.
He knew that he had sacrificed charm along with self-ignorance. Smiles had departed when he rejected humor. The characteristics he despised in his father were the very same that had made Azzad capable of winning hearts. Even so, Alessid was sufficiently attractive to have won the most eligible girl in the Shagara tents: Mirzah, daughter of Challa Leyliah and her husband Razhid Harirri. And now that they were both fifteen, they were to be married.
Abb Shagara would preside over the ceremony. It would in all probability be his last official act. Though not yet forty, he looked and moved like a man twice that age. His chosen successor, who spent most of his time trying to hide his eagerness for authority, was a young man proud of his full black beard and abundant black hair, prouder still of his position in the tribe, and proudest of all of the name the Shagara had gained as breeders of horses. Alessid considered him a fool. But Alessid considered almost everyone a fool.
The exceptions were Chal Fadhil, Challa Meryem, Challa Leyliah, her husband Razhid Harirri, and their daughter, Alessid’s bride. Yet even the three healers had not his total respect, for they remembered his father with affection and sadness, and spoke of him often. Alessid thought of him only with contempt, and talked about him not at all.
The other exception was Abb Shagara. When it was learned that the al-Ma’aliq had been murdered by apostate Shagara, everyone else cried out in horror. Grimly silent, Abb Shagara stared long and hard at Fadhil, then went to the private tent where he did his work. Two days later he emerged, exhausted by his labors—for though he was not yet forty, he had not been young for many years—and ordered every close friend and near relation of the renegades brought before him. To each of these people in turn he gave a weighty silver bowl, newly made, studded with lapis. And then he asked his questions.
Did you know of their plans?
Did you help them in any way?
Are there others who believe as they believe?
What are their names?
In this manner he discovered twelve who knew, four others who helped their friends without knowing what their friends were truly doing, and the names of six Shagara not present at the inquiry who secretly supported the rebels.
Alessid watched it all, part of him believing in Abb Shagara’s method, part of him howling that Fadhil’s hazziri had not saved his family, and still a third part knowing that it was no fault of Fadhil’s, for the renegade Haddiyat had obliterated his work with their own. As the questions were asked, he sensed Meryem observe him closely, probably expecting rage or tears or cries of hatred or some other emotional display; he kept his feelings to himself, as his father had never bothered to do, and stood in silence at Fadhil’s side. Meryem could worry about him as she pleased. As Challi Dawa’an, that was her function in life. His was to wait until he was older.
That same evening he was summoned to Abb Shagara’s tent.
“Alessid. Take this.” Fadhil gave him the silver bowl.
Abb Shagara, reclining on cushions, regarded Alessid narrowly. “Lie to me, boy. How old are you?”
He started to say “Thirty-nine.” What came out of his mouth was, “Fourteen.”
“Does Khamsin still live?”
He tried to say “Yes.” What he said was, “No.”
Abb Shagara poured from a pitcher of hot, sweet qawah. His fingers were shaking a little, and his face was haggard with weariness. “Alessid, do you believe that this hazzir can pry the truth out of even those most determined to tell lies?”
This time he didn’t bother to attempt a lie. “Yes.”
Fadhil took the bowl from his hands, and bowed to Abb Shagara.
“The guilty will be executed,” said Abb Shagara. “Haddiyat or no, they deserve death for what they have helped to do. Those who assisted but did not understand will be watched by special hazziri until their loyalty is no longer in doubt. Does this satisfy you?”
“Yes,” Alessid replied. But it was as well that the bowl was no longer in his hands, for what he was thinking was, “No.”
The reason his father had been a fool was that he had allowed himself to be distracted from the true work of his life by the pleasures life could offer. These had been given him in abundance: family, friends, wealth, influence. Jemilha el-Gallidh had given him children and the power that came with land and money. His time with the Shagara had given him an invaluable asset in friends—and their magic. But Azzad had stumbled blindly into all of them, as if the most potent hazzir for luck ever made had rested against his skin from birth.
Alessid saw the world very differently: not as a marvelous place in which one might discover unexpected joy at any moment, but as a place filled with things and people to be used.
Children were meant for marriage alliances. Wealth’s power was meant to be hoarded until it would be spent most effectively. And brotherhood with the Shagara meant access to their magic, which was the greatest power of all.
Thus Alessid would marry Mirzah Shagara. They would have many daughters, who would marry men of strength and authority; they would also have many sons, who would bring kinship with important tribes. One of these sons might be Haddiyat—possibly even becoming Abb Shagara in time—and Alessid hoped this would be so. What such sons did not produce in grandchildren would be more than compensated for by their magic.
On the night of his wedding, he dressed in a new white wool robe and donned the two rings that would be his only jewelry until Abb Shagara placed the marriage hazziri on his wrists, he did not think as any other young man would about the night to come. He did not think of his bride’s sweet young body, or the wealth of her soft black hair, or the best ways to please her. He thought about the results of this night, or a night in the near future, and wondered if he would sire a son first or a daughter.
His father’s ring, the only keepsake of the al-Ma’aliq he possessed, glinted from his right hand. From his left glowed Bazir al-Gallidh’s pearl, given by that noble man to Azzad and taken, like the topaz carved with a leaf, from his dead hand by Fadhil. Both had since become hazziri through the efforts of Fadhil. The pearl gave health, purity, and wisdom; the topaz was for wealth, long life, and fame. Alessid intended to make specific use of his health, wealth, and long life. Fame would come as it would; he cared nothing for it, except as it would provide confirmation of his destiny. Of wisdom he had no need. He was already wise enough at fifteen to reject his father’s example—no, to set his father up before him as an example of how not to live his life. As for purity—pure was the purpose of his life’s journey, and marrying Mirzah Shagara was its first step.
For the al-Ma’aliq, he would take final revenge on Sheyqa Nizzira.
For himself, he would take back what was his.
And he would take the Shagara and their magic with him.
On the night of his wedding, Alessid waited calmly inside his tent until dusk. At length Razhid Harirri shoved aside the tent flap. Alessid glanced up quickly from the book in his hands. The ceremony had begun.