The Diviner

niece, the Empress Za’avedra, and asking for documents guaranteeing safe passage across the border into Tza’ab Rih for herself and her son. But this is undoubtedly a forgery.

Il-Ma’anzuri, having left the seven brief, brilliant pages of the Kita’ab to enlighten his people, chose to emulate his pious grandmother, Empress Mirzah, and spent the rest of his days in solitary devotions, and he was never seen again.

And so I have told you of him, and any telling of his life that differs in any respect from this one is a lie.

—HAZZI NAL-JOHARRA, Deeds of Il-Ma’anzuri, 813

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Basically, you see, it’s very strange sometimes, the way books get written.

Even now I recall perfectly receiving a fax at the Athens Gate Hotel in Athens, Greece. The gist of it was that my agent wanted to know if I’d be interested in doing a book with two of his other clients, Jennifer Roberson and Alis Rasmussen. So, the three of us being friends anyway, we agreed and in January of 1994 met at Jennifer’s house in Phoenix, Arizona. (You may imagine the profundity of Alis’ joy at sitting outside in shorts and a t-shirt, soaking up winter sunshine; her home was in Pennsylvania back then.) As we worked (and we did work, honest!), we sparked ideas off each other in ways that had never happened to any of us before and had ourselves a fine, creative, splendid time, and a lot of fun.

Not to put too fine a point on it, though, once we were off on the 1996 book tour, we were all flummoxed by the insinuations (and more than insinuations sometimes) that three women couldn’t possibly work together on a book without multiple catfights. Drastic drops in ambient room temperature followed these interview questions—I can remember the first time it happened, when I sort of sat there with my jaw flapping open, Alis’ eyes widened to approximately the size of teacups, and Jennifer’s posture became that of a soldier on parade. (Some people “get their backs up” as the saying goes; Jennifer’s spine becomes a ramrod.) How and what we answered, I’ve forgotten. Essentially, the implication was that nobody thought three women could work together on a project, especially one of this size and scope, without behaving like peevish children rather than professionals who admire and respect each other’s work. Is it cantankerous of me to wonder if that sort of question would be asked of three male writers who wrote a book together?

Looking back, there is one shocking thing about that book. As presented in that original fax, the concept of The Golden Key was “about 50,000 words each.” Clearly, this was ridiculous; the thing ended up being 337,000 words long. And I accounted for about 105,000 of them. Now, many people are skeptical that mine could be the shortest section, but I am occasionally capable of restraint. Kind of.

It’s documented in the faxes we exchanged even before the Phoenix meeting (yes, faxes; not emails), that prior to working out the ideas and plotlines, we were determined that the book would give the readers the experience they expected from our solo novels. Should a reader come to The Golden Key as a Rawn, Roberson, or Elliott fan (or, most desirably, of course, a fan of all three!), we wanted to provide the feel of our individual work while ensuring that the story flowed as seamlessly as possible from section to section. Surely this sort of thing is impossible without knowing, understanding, and liking each other and each other’s work?

Many years have gone by, but I’ve finally finished The Diviner. Yattering on about what happened betweentimes is fairly pointless; all I can do is apologize for taking so long. It had its start with questions we all had about where the Grijalva gift came from. Right before The Golden Key was published, I was traveling in Morocco, a land so amazingly beautiful that I wanted to use it as a backdrop. I add that whereas the best of Tza’ab Rih originates in Morocco, the politics, history, and religion of the former are the products of my imagination. Simply put, it ain’t real—but my job is to make it feel real. Having received a Bachelor’s in History from Scripps College, I worry sometimes that the distinguished professors who tried to make of me a scholar would cringe at the use to which I’ve put my education. Apologies to them, too.

Special thanks to Darcey (for linguistic advice which I then skewed to my own purposes—this is the difference between a Scholar and a Novelist). So too I need to thank Gordon Crabbe; Russ Galen; Laurie Rawn; B.J. Doty and Primus St. John; Rodney, James, and Jeane Relleve Caveness, Ph.D.; Teresa Taylor; Lee and Barbara Johnson; Jay and Sonia Busby.