Call of the Trumpet (44 page)

Aza closed her eyes, rocked back on her heels, and hugged her arms to her breast, shaken by the flood of knowledge … and regret that she had not understood long, long ago. From the moment when El Faris had asked her, so abruptly, to be his wife.

It all came back now with perfect clarity, and Aza bit her lip to keep from crying aloud. Al Dhiba and El Faris, both so alike … so fine and courageous, so stubbornly and defiantly proud. They had loved each other from the first, from the very beginning, long before they had reached the camp of Shaikh Haddal. Yet the very fire of their passion and pride had burned them.

Something had happened the night El Faris had asked her to marry him. She knew not what, but something. It was Al Dhiba he had wanted. As Al Dhiba had wanted him. But the sparks between them had ignited a fire. It had burned between them and kept them apart.

Just as a fire burned now.

Aza clasped her hands and pressed them to her breast. What had happened to come between them? For two such as these, even a small thing could become a conflagration. What had caused it didn’t matter. Only one thing mattered. One of them must speak. And it was, perhaps, she herself.

For she knew what she must say now. Allah, in His Wisdom, had given her the knowledge … and now the words with which to wield it. She must speak first. Before it was too late.

“My lord,” Aza whispered. Then, a little louder: “My lord … hear me, please, I beg you.”

The voice came from very far away. Like the drone of a fly, it was a nagging irritation, nothing more. Matthew absently flicked his hand at the distraction, but it persisted.

“Listen to me, my husband … listen!” Aza pleaded, and once again clutched at the hem of his robe. His glance flickered in her direction, and she pounced on the advantage. “Remember, my lord? Remember when I came to you and asked you to hear my plea?”

Matthew nodded vaguely, and Aza hurried on before his fading attention could be lost. “Well, I must ask you once more to hear me … and to grant what I ask.” Aza swallowed and took a deep breath. She knew, without reservation, that what she asked was right. She had not even needed the wise words Hagar had recently spoken to her. She had known, in her heart, before the old woman had come to her. “You … you must give me my freedom, my lord. You must divorce me, too.”

The statement plunged Matthew abruptly back into reality. The shroud of his misery was pierced, and he stared at Aza in disbelief. “I must … what?”

Something strange had happened, Aza realized. In the last few minutes, a change had come over her, and from the depths of her sorrow something new had emerged. She did not know what it was, but it lent her a courage she had never known she possessed. Barely aware of what she was doing, Aza rose to her feet and stared eye-to-eye at her lord.

“I ask that you grant me my freedom,” she continued evenly, “so I may return to the desert and my people, to the place where I truly belong. And so that you, my lord, may call Al Dhiba back to you, and live with her as Allah intended. There is no other for you. Call her back. Set me free.”

Once again silence descended upon the huge, echoing room. Matthew stared at Aza as if seeing her for the very first time. As he stared, the fragment of a dream came to him, then the whole cloth.

He had known what to do in the dream. Only one thing, the right thing. Give Aza her freedom, and Al Dhiba, security. He had told Dhiba he loved her. He had mourned for the pain he had caused Aza and had called to …

“Oh, no,” Matthew groaned. He pressed his fingers to his suddenly throbbing temples. “Oh, God, no. What have I done?” Hopelessly, helplessly, he gazed down at Aza. “It’s too late, Aza … Oh, God, and now it’s too late …”

Or was it? Was there a chance? Was there?

Aza recognized his silent plea and answered it. Even as she ached for his sadness, the newfound courage welled inside her and the words Allah had given her tumbled from her lips.

“It is not too late, my lord. Do you remember the tale of the Prophet and his mares? I have often heard you tell it. He gave them their freedom, you said. After many days without food or water, he set them free near an oasis. Then he recalled them. He blew upon his trumpet, sounding the call to war, and summoned them back to his side.”

Aza took another deep breath, then said softly, “And the faithful returned. They repaid the love and devotion he had shown them. They returned. He had only to call. Only to call.”

The day was mercilessly beautiful. The sun, now directly overhead, shone from a cloudless sky and glittered on the surface of the sea. Gulls whirled and swooped and dropped to the water to ride the lazily rolling swells. A stirring breeze whispered through the palms along the cliff’s edge and, to the right, through the lush-leaved branches of a pecan orchard. A salt tang mingled with the clean, moist smell of the earth, and the last of the season’s blossoms bloomed crimson by the side of the road.

Cecile noticed none of it. She stared straight ahead, her eyes fixed to Ahmed’s broad-shouldered back. The beauty of the land she traversed, for the last time, was yet another dagger in her heart, and she could scarcely endure the pain of it. She did not want to look, to bid it farewell. She wanted only to forget.

It wasn’t difficult. The pall of her misery wrapped her in its folds and dulled her senses. Even her thoughts were still. Only an aching emptiness accompanied her as she followed Ahmed along the road to Muscat.

The way dipped, then rose again, climbing a gentle hill. The pecan orchard gave way to a gnarled stand of tamarisk, then to an open sweep of countryside, brilliantly green with the life-giving rains. From here at the top of the rise, Ahmed knew, his master’s home could be clearly seen in the distance. It was the last glimpse they would have before beginning the long, slow descent toward the city.

Al Chah ayah had stopped, Cecile realized vaguely. Pulling herself up from the dark well of her pain, she glanced dully at Ahmed.

He had paused automatically. Whenever he traveled this way, on some errand for his master, he always stopped to take in the breathtaking view. But the look on Al Dhiba’s face froze him. The hand with which he had been about to gesture at the scene dropped numbly to his side. He urged his horse forward, and they crested the hill and disappeared from sight on the downward slope.

The wind had risen. It tangled the robe about his ankles as he walked briskly through the garden, following the winding path that led to the cliff’s edge. A sense of urgency descended upon him, and he broke into a jog.

The road to Muscat paralleled the sea, curving in and out, back and forth as it followed the shoreline, then up and down as it reached the distant range of hills. Matthew squinted, his hand shading his eyes. The road was empty. They had covered the miles quickly and must have already begun the descent toward Muscat. Something cold gripped his bowels. Too late.

Or was it? Matthew transferred the horn from his left hand to his right and took several long, deep breaths as he raised it to his lips.

It had been a long time. Could he do it? It was not easy to bring the full throat to the war trumpet, and he had had little practice the past few years. Would he be able to give it the strength it needed? Would she hear? Hearing, would she return?

Matthew’s hand dropped to his side, the trumpet dangling. It was insane, unreal … was he really doing it? He must be mad!

Yet he had divorced Aza, as she had asked. He had been thinking very clearly when he did it. For she was right. Her life needed to be lived with another, just as he and Al Dhiba needed only each other.

Which was why, Matthew knew, he would go ahead and take the risk. For he was sure, deep in her heart, that Al Dhiba felt the same. He had loved her deeply and truly. Aza was right, and whatever reason Al Dhiba had for leaving him might be forgotten, put aside. She would respond to the devotion he had shown her if only he called to her. If only he called.

The horses heard it before their riders. Their sensitive ears picked up that first, low, sliding note that slowly, inexorably grew in strength … grew until it burst into the air in all its brassy, full-throated glory.

Al Chah ayah reared and wildly tossed her head from side to side. Cecile reined her sharply, but as the clear notes rang again, the mare pawed at the earth and tried to take the bit in her teeth.

“The war horn … the summons to battle!” Ahmed exclaimed, trying to control his own plunging mount. “El Faris calls to the Faithful!”

“But why … ?” Cecile’s jaws clamped together tightly, cutting off the question. A lightning bolt of feeling exploded in her breast and flashed through her body, setting her entire being aflame.

War mares … the trumpet … the Prophet. He had set the mares free, to test the Faithful … then he called …

Could it be? It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, for she no longer had control. As if of their own will, her hands loosened on the reins. Al Chah ayah bolted.

“What is it? What’s happening, old man?”

Jali turned from the window of the large, airy room he now shared with Hagar. “El Faris has … has blown the war horn,” he said uncertainly. “I do not understand.”

“The war horn?”

“Yes. He has sounded the call which summons the war mares from pasture. But why? Horse thieves again, perhaps …”

Jali stopped short, aghast at the look on Hagar’s face. Suddenly, and for no apparent reason, she beamed from ear to ear. “What … what is it, old woman?” Jali stammered. “What’s wrong? What … ?”

“Ha
ha!”
Hagar cackled. “There is no enemy, no horse thieves, you foolish, blind old man. Just two stubborn donkeys. And one of them is standing out in the garden, right this very moment, braying his heart out. That’s what you hear … haha! That’s what you hear! Now, come on, you lazy old fool. Hurry up and let’s go watch!”