The Diviner

turned to Alessid and complained, “You could have put up a bit more fuss, you know. I was looking forward to some resistance. It’s much more fun that way.”

“Why should I resist what I have wanted this year and more?” Alessid asked, and took Mirzah’s hand. And wanting it more every moment, he thought, and hoped his eyes were telling her so.

That night, very late, after the feasting and dancing and singing had quieted somewhat, he again took his bride’s hand and led her to her new tent. Outside were wind chimes that rang sweetly in the cool wind: for happiness, for love, for many children. Inside were bright cushions, beautiful rugs, and an iron brazier for warmth in the winter night.

Mirzah removed her veil in a swirl of silk, and folded it carefully away in a small wooden chest. She stripped off the belt, rings, earrings, bracelets, necklaces, and hairpins that were the collected finery of all her unwed friends, and sorted them by owner for return in the morning. It was considered a good omen to lend jewelry to a bride, in the belief that her happiness rubbed off.

At last she stood before him in the dim glow of the coals, slim as a flame in her loosened amber dress, the hazzir glinting in the hollow of her throat.

“Ayia, husband?”

He looked her up and down, much as she had done to him—but without any sense of teasing her. Abruptly uneasy, he asked, “Would you have taken me if I had been stolen by your father from another tribe?”

“Oh, yes.” A tiny smile quirked her full, soft lips. “But I would have asked to see you naked first.” She untied the ribbons at her neck. “I would ask now, but virgin men are notoriously shy.”

“And Shagara women are notoriously bold.” He froze. “Who says I am virgin?”

“I do. And so does Fadhil.”

He mentally cursed his father’s old friend. But in mid-invective he was struck by a horrible thought.“Are you—your father told me you had never—”

“He did not lie, Alessid. My father never lies.” Suddenly he saw that her fingers were trembling. “I could have, when I was fourteen. But then you came to us, and I decided that each of my children will not be only Shagara—though that is enough pride in itself—they will also be al-Ma’aliq, descended of powerful sheyqirs.”

So he would be her first, as she would be his. He had a momentary twinge of nerves. What if he couldn’t please her? In the next instant he relaxed, for if she was as inexperienced as he, she’d never know the difference.

Because of him, because she wanted her children to be al-Ma’aliq, she had refused to bear a child to prove she could do so, and perhaps provide a Haddiyat for the Shagara as well. He drew himself up proudly, knowing she valued him more than her own traditions.

But what if she were barren? What if she could not give him the sons and daughters he required? They could not divorce except by her declaration—and the onus would be on him, not her. That was how it was done with the Shagara; a woman who did not conceive within three years of marriage divorced her husband for infertility and married someone else. It held even for women of other tribes who wed Shagara men. What if—

There was only one way to find out.

At least she was as ambitious for their children as he was. They would make fine babies together, Shagara sons and daughters descended from sheyqirs. He had to believe that. He had to convince himself that she—

“Alessid,” said Mirzah, “I know that you are often away elsewhere, even when you are standing before me. I don’t mind it, not usually. But I do mind it very much when I am standing before you like this.”

He looked, and saw. Abruptly—urgently—he wanted to find out if he and she could make babies together.

But within a few scant minutes, he forgot about babies completely.

“Good! Excellent! Now sweep to the left—the left, Hassam!—and attack!”

Alessid watched his “cavalry” maneuver their horses across the plain. They were far in advance of the main caravan of Shagara, on their way to the winter encampment. For more than a year, since before his marriage, Alessid had been drilling more and more youths his own age and slightly older in the techniques of armed, mounted warfare. This was all a secret from their elders.

In this generation, one of the marks of full manhood had become the acquisition of one’s own horse. Alessid had come to the Shagara with his own mare, Zaqia, and fifty-six more horses besides; by the standards of the Shagara, he was insanely wealthy. Eventually he would be the one gifting young men with horses, and their loyalty would be to him.

Azzad al-Ma’aliq had always gelded the colts marked for sale. He warned buyers of fillies that as strong as they looked, they were too delicate to be bred to the native studs. “Try it, and you’ll end with a dead foal that has killed its mother.” Three times it had happened, and that had been enough to convince people that the al-Ma’aliq mares must not be bred. And so Azzad had kept total control of the supply.

Alessid had to admit that his father had been clever in this, at least. The Shagara and the Harirri were clever, too, following the same policy. The descendants of Khamsin and the Geysh Dushann stallions were kept separate from the huge draft horses, trained differently, and doled out to boys when they became men.

Now, as Alessid watched his troop sweep down on an imaginary foe, he stroked Zaqia’s sleek neck and smiled. They knew the basics. Soon he would teach them more complex tactics. And their horses, trained for riding, would be trained for war.

“Alessid! Alessid!”

He turned in his saddle, scowling at the sight of a lone rider galloping toward him. A quick whistle broke the lines of cavalry into chaos that would disguise their maneuvers as a game of yaqbout—he only hoped someone would be quick about putting into play the stitched sheep bladder that served as a ball. Fortunately, the man riding toward him was not the observant sort regarding anything but medicine.

“Your wife has birthed the child!” shouted Nassayr.

Alessid gripped his saddle. Fadhil, Meryem, Leyliah—all had said Mirzah’s time was another month distant. “She lives?”

“Of course—Chal Fadhil is with her. And the baby is fine—a strong son!”

“Acuyib be praised,” he whispered, then heeled Zaqia around and galloped the four miles back to the main caravan.

Fadhil was just emerging from Leyliah’s wagon. Alessid leaped down from Zaqia to embrace him. “Fadhil! I have a son!”

“Yes, and a second time yes.” The healer grinned wearily. “Nassayr raced away to tell you before he knew there was more to tell. Twin sons, Alessid. A very good omen. Come and see.”

Mirzah lay on piled rugs, her mother kneeling beside her. Leyliah smiled and held up two babies, one cradled in each arm.

“Beautiful,” Alessid said, looking at his wife.

“Now I know why I could get no sleep,” she replied with a sigh. “When one stopped kicking, the other started!”

“Have you named them yet?”

“Kemmal and Kammil,” she replied. “’Beautiful’ and ‘perfect,’ because that’s exactly what they are. I hope you approve,” she added—for courtesy, because the naming of a child was the mother’s prerogative. He had wanted something a little more powerful, but was well-pleased with her choices. At least Mirzah had not followed her mother’s suggestion; at least she had not named a son for Azzad.

“They’re very fine names for very fine boys.” He knelt down to inspect his sons, taking one into his arms. “Which one is this?”

“Kammil,” said Leyliah. “You can tell by the white yarn around his wrist. We put yellow on Kemmal.”

Staring first at one and then the other, he appreciated Leyliah’s wisdom. The boys were as alike as two ears on a horse. All at once he began to laugh. The al-Ma’aliq dynasty had begun.

When he became a father for the first—and second—time, Alessid was ten moons older and two inches taller than when he married. He was eighteen when Mirzah bore Addad, and over the next eight years