Sanctuary

Water in a stone jug stays cool, even in the heat of day. If the jug is carved properly, of fine-grained soapstone with thick walls at the top and thinner walls near the bottom, water inside will stay as cool as the moment it was drawn from the well. Cool water is the first requirement for good bread. Not an easy requirement to meet in a desert. The east wind which rolled in from the distant sea hit the Pillars of Heaven (known to foreigners as the Khalkist Mountains) and dumped its snow on the peaks and its rain on the lower slopes. Purged of moisture, the wind then spread across the western desert, taking its dry heat to every corner of the land. Between the heat, blown sand, and flies, finding cool water and making bread for the family was no chore for the faint of heart.

Adala Fahim lifted the heavy soapstone jug and poured its contents into a brass bowl. Quickly, she stirred the water into the dry mixture of flour, salt, and soda. She never measured, except by eye. Twelve circuits of the wide, flat bowl with a wooden paddle and the dough was done. A shallow groove had been worn into the metal where her spoon circled. For thirty-two years she’d made bread in exactly the same way. For thirty-two years it had come out right, despite wind, weather, or war.

She spat on the iron griddle to test its temperature. At the right heat, a water drop danced in circles, growing smaller with every circuit until it vanished. When the griddle was ready, she poured a dollop of oil onto it. The oil ran to the edges, sheening the black surface. In the bowl, the dough was puffed up and bubbling from the soda. She tore off a piece, rolled it into a ball between her smooth brown palms, and laid it on the griddle. Sizzling, it flattened into a small round loaf.

Black shadows fell over Adala, cutting off the distant view of the gray mountains, but she didn’t look up. The first loaf was the most important. How it baked told her whether the fire needed to be hotter or cooler.

The three men standing over her were nomads in the prime of life, men of the Weya-Lu tribe. Although none had gray eyes, they were of the Leaping Spider clan and Wapah’s cousins.

“Wapah is back,” said the one in the middle.

“I’ll make an extra portion,” Adala said, her attention still F on the cooking loaf. She gave it a quick flip with her fingers. F Other women used knives to turn their bread. Not Adala.

One wrong stab and the frying dough would deflate; the loaf would be flat and tough as sandal leather.

“He has important news, Weyadan.” Her title meant “Mother of the Weya-Lu.” “Do you know who he was hired to guide from the city to the desert and back?”

She shrugged one shoulder, busy rolling a new ball of dough.

“Shobbat, son of Sahim Zacca-Khur!”

In quick succession, four new balls of dough hit the griddle, replacing the first, now done. “So the prince of Khur finally left the shaded halls of the city to visit the land of his ancestors. What is that to us?” she said.

“He went to the Oracle. The Hidden One.”

The men were certain this news would bring Adala to her feet, dusting the flour from her hands. It did not. She removed the four freshly baked loaves from the griddle and put down four more.

“Weyadan, please,” entreated the nomad. “You should hear what Wapah has to say!”

“And so I will. When the bread is done.”

It took some time to cook forty loaves. Although the men shifted their feet impatiently once or twice, none complained.

When at last the baking was done, Adala left her fifth daughter, Chisi, to clean the bowl and griddle. Hitching U her black robes, the leader of the Weya-Lu left the shade of her tent and made for Wapah’s dwelling across the stony ravine. it was just past noon, the hottest part of the day, and few nomads were moving about. Even the desert hounds the Weya-Lu were so adept at breeding were still, sleeping in whatever spots of shade they could find.

Adala entered Wapah’s family tent and gave the customary greeting: “Those on High stand by us.”

Wapah returned it. “And by you, Mother of the Weya-Lu.”

He was seated facing the door. Other men of the clan formed a ring, their backs against the walls of the tent. Several of them had the gray eyes that stood out so boldly against swarthy faces and dark or tawny beards. Adala was the only woman present.

“I rejoice to see you,” she said. “I hear you have a tale to tell.”

“As grave as a plague, as loud as thunder. Take your ease.”

She sat in the center of the male circle. As wife of the clan chief, Adala could not be touched by any man save her husband. Since Kasamir di Kyre had perished years before while fighting in the pay of the Knights of Neraka, she had become Weyadan, literally mother to everyone in the Weya-Lu tribe. She was just past her fortieth year, younger than some of her ostensible children.