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Gather Thorns for Flowers Prologue |
For generations, Sakhari have served the emirs of the Dharzin deserts. As scholars and scribes, they write the history of Dharzin and odes to emirs' victories, recording their glory for the ages. In return for their faithful service, the emirs long ago granted the lush Dharzin oasis to the Sakhari. Establishing it as their stronghold, the Sakhari use settlements of workers and breeders as a barricade against outsiders. A sacred academy, walled-off and impregnable, dominates in the center of the city for their scholars and priests. Nomad tribes are kept away and merchant caravans enter only as far as the marketplaces. It is a secure, tightly controlled world in which the scholars live, unseen and untouched by their desert cousins. Legends surround them. They are desert spirits with wings. They subsist on air alone. They live forever. None of this is true, of course. The Sakhari are just like every other desert tribe. They are mortal, they live, they die. Sakhari scholars, however, are not like any other desert dweller. The priests watch for boys with a gift for languages or storytelling or music, those with forms and faces pleasing to the eye, whose intellects can be shaped and nurtured. Such boys are taken into the academy for testing, bringing much honor to their family. The studies are rigorous, the training intense, and rejection frequent. Those rare few who pass all tests, perhaps only two or three each generation, move from the academy to the temple and are seldom seen again by their families. Their days are spent in study and training as they are groomed to serve the emir and uphold the honor of the Sakhari. And they are spoiled, these shining lights of the Sakhari people. When their studies are over for the day, they eat the finest food, drink the best wines, sleep on the softest beds. Their slightest whims are met immediately, their hands remain smooth and uncalloused, they are cosseted and protected and cherished. But they are also wrapped in long, linen burnooses to hide all but their hands, feet and ice-blue eyes. The chosen, according to the priests' edicts, are never to expose themselves again, not to desert sand or burning sun, not to each other, not alone. Nor do they touch or pleasure each other or even themselves, the rules are very clear. Everyone, even the lowest desert nomad, has a body with its base needs, but none have the mind of a Sakhari scholar. Their bodies are subjugated to their mind. Basic needs, food and sleep, are met, but other, more animalistic needs are disregarded; a Sakhari must remain pure and untainted for the emir. Such is the life of the chosen. When the time is right to send a Sakhari emissary to the emir, there is no doubt who will go. With his quick intelligence, gift for language and arrogance that comes naturally to one so clearly above his peers, Sandren is chosen. The Sakhari priests and elders are justifiably proud of their prize pupil and have taken every precaution to keep him untouched and pure. On the day he is to leave for the emir's palace, Sandren is bathed and oiled by elderly but nonetheless blindfolded priests and dressed in the softest linen. His litter atop a freshly groomed camel is layered with silk pillows and wreaths of laurel hang from the roof. Three heavily muscled Sakhari guards will escort this most precious being to the palace of the emir. Sandren is impatient to leave the oasis. He is looking forward to the emir's lavish attention and admiration. He eagerly anticipates the worship he is certain to receive. He intends to impress and intimidate the palace scholars. He rebukes the guards for being so slow and lashes out at the camel. Finally, his journey begins.
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