The Parched Sea
Troy Denning
For Barry,
who’s always been a great brother.
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank Jon Pickens for burying me beneath a mountain of research material, all of which proved crucial; Jim Lowder for being so courteous with his scalpel; Lloyd Holden of AKF Martial Arts in Janesville, WI for recognizing the techniques in the fight scenes; and most especially Andria Hayday, for not killing me in my sleep when the words wouldn’t come.
One
Ruha woke abruptly, unsure of what had disturbed her languorous nap. The young woman lay next to her sleeping husband, their bodies touching at the hip and shoulder. She turned to look at his weathered face. Ajaman had the rough skin and thick mustache of a mature man, but his hairless chest was young, lean, and muscular. He was the only man Ruha had ever seen undressed.
As the young wife gazed at her husband, her vision suddenly blurred. An instant later, it cleared and the face of another man appeared in place of Ajaman’s. She gasped in astonishment, but did not cry out.
The stranger’s visage was unlike any she had ever known. His skin was red and sun-blistered, with a creamy white underlayer showing through where he had peeled. A black patch covered his right eye, and his left eye was as blue as the desert sky. Though his features were drawn and haggard, they were not so careworn that he could have been more than twenty-five.
Any other bride would have run screaming from her new home, concluding that her father had married her to a djinn—but not Ruha. She had been suffering visions since before she could walk, so she recognized the image for what it was: a mirage from tomorrow. Sometime soon, the stranger would appear. What would happen then, Ruha could not say, though she knew it would be some mishap or catastrophe. She lacked the talent to interpret the mirages, but nothing good had ever followed one.
Her first vision had been of thousands of butterflies. The butterflies had turned out to be moths, and within two months every yard of cloth in the tribe was full of holes. Another time, during a terrible drought, she had seen a vast green meadow to the south of the tribe. Her father, the sheikh, had taken the herds in search of the fresh pasturage. After a week of thirsty riding, they had finally found the meadow. It was on the edge of a contaminated pool, and half of their camels had died from drinking poisoned water.
Not surprisingly, Ruha had come to regard her premonitions as more of an affliction than a gift. Without giving the vision further thought, the young wife shut her eyes tightly and hoped it would pass.
Ajaman stirred beside her. “Is something troubling you, my wife?”
The heat rose to Ruha’s cheeks, for being addressed as “wife” gave her a capricious feeling that she found embarrassing.
Opening her eyes, she was relieved to see Ajaman instead of the one-eyed man. The young bride smiled and answered, “Nothing we should worry about.”
She said nothing of her vision, for she did not want Ajaman to blame her for whatever misfortune the one-eyed stranger was bringing. Besides, the desert tribes were wary of magic, and if her new husband suspected her of being a witch, he would cast her from his tent.
Abruptly Ajaman glanced at his nude body, then blushed. He reached for his aba, the loose-fitting robe of the Bedine tribes, and pulled it over his head. The couple had only been married for two days, and the bride knew it would be many weeks before they felt completely comfortable together.
Ruha sat up and pulled her own aba over her nakedness, then studied her new khreima with a warm feeling of satisfaction. The dimly lit tent was nearly empty, for she and her husband had not yet acquired many possessions. A dozen cushions lay scattered over the ground carpet, her loom and cooking pots rested in one corner, and Ajaman’s weapons dangled from hooks on the wooden tentpoles.
The afternoon breeze drummed gently at the khreima, and Ruha heard feet scuffling outside. Several men began whispering to each other in jocular tones, probably speculating as to why the tent was closed on such a hot day. Irritated by the men’s presence, Ruha lifted her chin toward the entrance.
“We have visitors,” she said. By the custom of her people, only her husband could welcome guests to their khreima.
Ajaman nodded. “I hear them.” Turning to the entrance, he called the host’s traditional greeting, “Has somebody come to my khreima in need of help?”
“Time for the watch,” came the reply. Ruha didn’t recognize the deep voice, but that was to be expected. She had not been a member of the Qahtan tribe until her marriage.
Ajaman scowled. “It can’t be dusk so soon.”
“You have the night watch?” Ruha asked, frowning at the memory of her premonition. “We’ve only been married two days. Let someone else take the duty.”
“And shame our family so soon?” Ajaman replied, rising from the carpet.
Given her husband’s reply, Ruha knew arguing the point would do no good. If Ajaman considered the watch a matter of family integrity, even the certain knowledge of impending death would not have stopped him from going. Like all Bedine, he considered honor more important than his life.
“Besides,” Ajaman added, “there is danger of raiding tonight. The Mtair Dhafir is not the only khowwan within riding distance, you know.”
The Mtair Dhafir was the tribe of Ruha’s father. Her marriage to Ajaman had sealed an alliance between their tribes. There would be no raiding between the two khowwans while both Ajaman and Ruha lived. Unfortunately, there were many other tribes with whom the Qahtan had no such ties.
It was not raiding that worried Ruha, however. By his pale skin, she knew that the one-eyed foreigner did not belong to any Bedine tribe. Whatever his reason for coming to the camp of the Qahtan, it was not intertribal raiding.
“Come, Ajaman,” grumbled the deep voice outside. “We’re due at our posts.”
Ajaman took his keffiyeh off its hook and slipped the white head-cloth over his hair. Ruha stood and straightened it so the long apron hung square across his shoulders. “Stay alert, Ajaman,” she said. “I would be disappointed if you let some boy cut your throat.”
Ajaman grinned. “Have no fear of that, Ruha,” he replied, reaching for his scimitar. “I watch from El Ma’ra’s crown. I’ll see our enemies from miles away.”
Ruha knew the place to which her husband referred. A mile outside the oasis, a lonely spire of yellow sandstone towered more than one hundred feet over the desert. That pinnacle was El Ma’ra Dat-ur Ojhogo, the tall god who lets men sit upon his head.
Keeping her voice low so she would not be overheard, she said, “After dark, I’ll bring you apricots and milk.”
Ajaman nearly dropped his scabbard belt. “You can’t do that!”
“Why not?” the young bride demanded. “Is there any shame in a wife bringing food to her husband?”
Ajaman scowled at the challenge to his authority. “There is enough shame in violating your purdah,” he countered.
“The purdah is to keep frightened young brides from returning to their father’s khowwan,” Ruha said. “I am hardly frightened, and I have no desire to go back to the Mtair Dhafir. You have no need to isolate me.”
“I know,” Ajaman whispered, his tone losing its earlier sternness. “But if someone should see you—”
“I’ll say you told me to bring you supper,” Ruha responded slyly.
Seeing that his wife would not be denied, Ajaman sighed. “If all women of the Mtair Dhafir are this willful, perhaps they are the ones who should pay camels the next time they send us a bride.”