The Diviner by Melanie Rawn Page A

Khamsin—like a little boy who desperately desires to climb a date palm, yet fears that he might fall.
    â€œWhen I return,” Azzad said, “I’ll teach you to ride him.”
    â€œMe?” The big eyes blinked. “On his back?”
    â€œIt’s easy, once you learn how.” Turning to Meryem, he bowed. “Lady, I thank you.”
    â€œTravel safely.” That was all she said before leaving her son alone with Azzad.
    â€œYou would truly teach me how to ride?” the young man asked.
    â€œTruly. When there is more time. Abb Shagara—”
    â€œAqq Akkil. Or Akkem, or whichever of my other names you prefer!”
    â€œAqq Akkim, then, for I have learned that you are indeed wise.” He hesitated, then said softly, “Teach some of this wisdom to Fadhil, so that he’ll have the courage to ask to marry Leyliah.”
    â€œMarry?” he exclaimed with astonishment identical to Fadhil’s. And his reply was the same, too: “He cannot.”
    When a man and woman cared for each other, and there was no impediment in bloodline or wealth or status, why not get married? He frowned at Abb Shagara. “But they obviously—”
    The father of his people shook his head. “It is not spoken of. Not even to you, who know some of our secrets. You have the map of where we will be from season to season?”
    â€œFolded in my memory.”
    â€œGood.” Drawing himself up, Abb Shagara said for everyone else to hear, “Acuyib’s blessings upon you and all that you think, all that you say, and all that you do.”
    â€œAcuyib’s Glory be with you and all Shagara forever. And I promise that I’ll be back with wondrous gifts to thank you for my life.” Low-voiced, he added with a wink, “And to teach you how to ride.”
    They exchanged bows, and as Azzad straightened up, Abb Shagara placed a chain around his neck. A finger-length brass plaque set with several gemstones rested at the center of his breast.
    â€œThis will protect you, so that you return to us.”
    Azzad bowed his thanks and told himself that when he ran out of pearls, he’d still have something to sell to keep himself and Khamsin fed. So perhaps the gift was protection of a sort after all.
    As the whole tribe called out farewells, he put out a hand to soothe the stallion. He needn’t have bothered: Khamsin thought the praise was for him. He arched his neck and pranced after Azzad mounted, and without being signaled to do so reared to show off the thin streak of white on his belly.
    â€œFlaunt it for the mares some other time,” Azzad advised him, waved to the crowd, and rode away.
    It wasn’t until that evening, when he unsaddled Khamsin, that he realized the charms were not tin but silver, and the pectoral about his own neck was not polished brass but solid gold.
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    The next five days passed placidly enough. There was a trail and a rock shelter the first night, and more trail and a fencing of thorns on the second. The Shagara had even taken into account the time he would make riding a horse rather than sitting in a wagon.
    The trail he followed was a double rut in the rocky desert, distinguishable as a trail only because it had slightly fewer stones than the surrounding wasteland. The third night he reached the skirts of some low mountains and camped beside a trickle of water below a cliff, staring up at the extravagant stars. He missed the soft sounds of the Shagara camp, the gentle music of the wind chimes. But on the fourth day, even with the silver on Khamsin’s saddle and the gold on his own breast to remind him, the time spent with the Shagara began to seem dreamlike. An eighteen-year-old boy called “Father” who ruled a whole tribe. Trinkets guaranteed to turn aside arrows and swords.
    Absurd.
    On the fifth afternoon he caught up with a family returning from a visit to their nomadic relations. Parents, two sons and their