It had, in fact, been ibn Khairan who foretold this. "If it comes to an ending," he had said to Mazur ben Avren on the spring morning he rode back west with Jehane bet Ishak, "try, any way you can, to surrender to Valledo."
Unexpected words, and both the king and his chancellor saw them as such, but they became rather more explicable after the very different occupations of Fezana and Salos later that summer.
Unfortunately, there seemed no obvious way to negotiate such a surrender, and ibn Khairan himself—the ka'id of Cartada's armies now—was engaged in making life as miserable as he could for the Valledans as they approached Lonza. If King Ramiro had begun this invasion in a tolerant cast of mind, he might well be abandoning that attitude by now, under the deadly, morale-sapping raids of Cartada's brilliant commander, and with autumn and the rains coming on.
King Badir's servant built up the fire again and then deftly refilled the glasses of both men. They could still hear the rain outside. A companionable silence descended.
The chancellor felt his thoughts drifting. He found himself taking note of the trappings of this, the king's most private room. He looked, as if for the first time, at the fireplace with its mantel carved in a pattern of grapes and leaves. He gazed at the wine itself, and the beautifully worked goblets, at the white candles in their gold sconces, the tapestries from Elvira, the carved ivory figures on sideboard and mantelpiece. He smelled the incense imported from Soriyya, burning in a copper dish, observed the etched windows over the garden, the gilt-edged mirror on the opposite wall, the intricately woven carpets ...
In a way, Mazur ben Avren thought, all these delicate things were bulwarks, the innermost defenses of civilized man against the rain and dark, and ignorance.
The Jaddites outside the walls did not understand that. Neither, to an even greater degree, did the veiled ones from the desert—the longed-for saviors of everyone's prayers.
It was too bitter a truth even for irony. These things in Badir's room—these measures of having found the space to strive for and value beauty in the world—were seen by those to north and south as the markers of corruption, decadence, frivolity. Impiety. Dangerous earthly distractions from a properly humble, cringing appeasement of a blazing god of the sun, or a far, cold deity behind the stars.
"The lady Zabira," he said, shifting position to ease his hip, "has offered to present herself as a gift to the young king of Jalona."
Badir looked up. He had been gazing into the fire.
"She believes she might be able to kill him," ben Avren added, by way of explanation.
King Badir shook his head. "No point. A brave offer, but that young man means little to his army. What is he, sixteen? And his mother would have Zabira torn apart before she came anywhere near the boy."
"My thought as well, my lord. I thanked her and declined, on your behalf." He smiled. "I told her she could present herself to you, instead, but that I needed her more with winter coming."
The king returned the smile, briefly.
"Do we make it to the winter?" he asked.
Ben Avren sipped his wine before answering. He had been hoping this would not be asked. "I would rather we didn't have to, to be honest. It will be a near thing. We need an army from the desert to at least land in Al-Rassan, to put the Jalonans on warning that they are at risk of being trapped outside walls and shelter. They might withdraw then."
"They should have taken Fibaz before besieging us."
"Of course they should have. Give thanks to Ashar and I'll offer a libation to the moons."
The king didn't smile this time. "And if the Muwardis don't land?"
Ben Avren shrugged. "What can I say, my lord? No city is ever safe from betrayal. Especially as supplies begin to dwindle. And you do have a principal advisor who is one of the hated, evil Kindath. If the Jalonans ever offer a measure of clemency ... "
"They will not."
"But if they did? If we then had something to offer back to them, in partial redress of their king's death ... ?"
Badir scowled. "We have been through this. Do not vex me again. I will not accept your resignation, your departure, your sacrifice ... none of these things. What am I clinging to, so desperately, that I would allow myself to lose you?"
"Life? The lives of your people?"
Badir shook his head. "I am too old to clutch like that. If the veiled ones come, my people may survive ... after a fashion. This city—as we built it—will not."
He gestured around the room. "We made this together, my friend. If it goes, one way or another, I will make an end drinking my wine with you. Do not speak of this again. I regard the subject as a ... betrayal."
Ben Avren's expression was grave. "It is not that, my lord."
"It is. We find a way out together, or we do not. Are you not proud of what we have achieved, we two? Is it not a denial of our very lives to speak as you are speaking now? I will not cling to some miserable form of existence at the price of all we have been."
His chancellor said nothing. The king, after a pause, said, "Mazur, are there not some things we have made here, some things we have done, that are worthy to have been in Silvenes, even in the golden age?"
And Mazur ben Avren, with rare emotion in the deep voice, replied, "There has been a king here, at the least, my lord, more than worthy to have been a khalif in the Al-Fontina in those most shining days."
Another silence. King Badir said, at length, very softly, "Then speak no more, old friend, of my losing you. I cannot."
Ben Avren inclined his head. "I will speak of it no more," he said. "My lord."
They finished their wine. The chancellor rose, with some difficulty, and bade his king good night. He went down the long palace corridors, his slippers silent on the marble floors, walking under torches and past tapestries, listening to the rain.
Zabira was asleep. She had left one candle burning on a table with a flask of wine and another of water, and a glass for him, already filled. He smiled, looking down upon her—as beautiful in sleep as she was awake.
The northerners, he thought, the desert tribes: how could they even comprehend a place and time—a world—that had produced a woman such as this? She would be a symbol of corruption for them both. They would kill her or degrade her, he knew. They would have no idea what else to do with Zabira of Cartada or the music that she made, moving in the world.
He sat down with a sigh in the carved, deep-cushioned wooden chair he'd commissioned from a Jaddite craftsman in the city. He drank a glass of wine, and then, eventually, another, not really sleepy, deep in thought.
No real regrets, he told himself. And realized it was true.
Before he undressed for bed he went to the inner window and opened it and looked out, breathing the night air. The rain had stopped. Water dripped from the leaves of the trees to the garden below.
A long way to the south and west another man was awake that same night, beneath a very different sky.
Past the peaks of the Serrana; past Lonza, huddled and afraid behind its walls, waiting for the Valledans to come; past Ronizza whose lacework was known through all the world; past arrogant Cartada in the valley of its power where the red dye was made; past Aljais and the canals of Elvira, and Silvenes where ghosts and ghostly music were said still to drift among the ruins; past, even, Tudesca at the mouth of the Guadiara, where ships put out to sea with the wealth of Al-Rassan and brought eastern treasures home.
Past all of these and beyond the waters of the straits, outside the walls of Abirab at the northern tip of the Majriti sands, Yazir ibn Q'arif, lord of the tribes of the desert, Sword of Ashar in the West, breathed the salt air from the sea and, sitting alone on an outspread cloak, looked up at a clear sky strewn with the stars of his god.