The Diviner by Melanie Rawn Page B

the al-Ma’aliq stood on flat ground. Nothing in those hills had prepared him for the summits looming above him now. At least the puzzle of why Rimmal Madar knew nothing of this distant land was solved—for who would dare these peaks and cross the desert unless absolutely necessary?
    â€œAyia,” he muttered to Khamsin, “we’ve come this far—Acuyib won’t let us die now.”
    There was good hunting and forage and plentiful water. Yet as the cold sank into his bones every night, more cruel than the dry chill of the desert, he huddled in his cloak and wished that he believed in the Shagara spells and that such spells included one of warmth. He should have gone to the seacoast after all.
    At noon one day he emerged from a narrow tree-lined defile into a bowl-shaped valley. The creek ran full, and the grains and grasses were lush, even in early winter, and the grazing land was strewn with fat brown sheep. A road snaked up the hillside, and stone houses perched along it at intervals. Azzad counted thirty individual structures and a cluster of buildings about halfway up the road—probably markets and workshops. Bayyid Qarhia? he wondered. If so, he’d best stay only tonight and then move on, before his would-be mistress and her family arrived home.
    Staying even one night was, however, out of the question. He had barely emerged from the trees when a shepherd whistled shrilly. Within moments a contingent of fiercely bearded men were marching down the road, carrying scythes and axes and other instruments of peaceful agriculture easily turned to murderous intent. The laws of hospitality quite obviously did not apply in this country. Azzad hastily weighed his chances of proving himself harmless to man, woman, and sheep—and pulled Khamsin’s head around.
    â€œHold!”
    A shepherd blocked the path. It would be simple enough to run him down, but for the fact that he held a massive bow with an iron-tipped shaft nocked, aimed, and ready to loose. Azzad sighed, dropped the reins, and held both hands open and away from his body.
    â€œI mean you no wrong,” he said. “I am but a traveler, alone and unarmed.”
    He heard the men approach behind him. Pressure of one heel turned Khamsin once more to face them. Too late, he remembered the tempting glint of silver on the stallion’s saddle and gold from the necklace on his own chest.
    â€œWho are you?” the eldest of the men demanded, teeth showing yellow, like an aged wolf’s, through his thick white beard. “Why are you here?”
    â€œMy name is Azzad. I am from a faraway land and seek only to pass through your mountains.”
    This did not impress. The elder came forward, leather boots soundless on the gravelly road, his iron-headed staff poised. When he was within three paces of Khamsin, the stallion took advantage of the lax reins and stretched his head forward, teeth bared. The old man stopped and glared, but neither flinched nor retreated.
    â€œI apologize,” Azzad said humbly. “He is not kindly disposed to strangers.”
    After a moment, the man nodded thoughtfully. Over his shoulder he said, “This one is safe. Let him pass.”
    â€œBut—Abb Sharouf—”
    Azzad repressed an untimely impulse to laugh. Father of Sheep ? Either he had peculiar habits or there was a lack of women—
    â€œI have decided!” snarled the old man. “Further, he may have water for himself and his horse. Further, a loaf of bread and a portion of fresh-cooked meat. Further, a woolen blanket for the nights he will spend in the high country. Further—”
    â€œYou are too generous, Abb Sharouf,” Azzad said, wishing nothing more than the furtherance of his journey.
    The interruption won him another glare. “ Further , a satchel of herbs to ease his breathing in the heights.” He reversed his staff and thunked the metal tip on a rock, striking a spark. Khamsin danced