The Lions of Al-Rassan Guy Gavriel Kay Dedication For Harry Karlinsky and Mayer Hoffer, after thirty-five years Epigraph The evening is deep inside me forever Many a blond, northern moonrise, like a muted reflection, will softly remind me and remind me again and again It will be my bride, my alter ego An incentive to find myself I myself am the moonrise of the south PAUL KLEE The Tunisian Diaries Contents Title Page Dedication Epigraph Principal Characters Prologue Part I One Two Three Four Part II Five Six Part III Seven Eight Nine Part IV Ten Eleven Twelve Thirteen Fourteen Part V Fifteen Sixteen Seventeen Eighteen Acknowledgments About the Author Critical Acclaim for Guy Gavriel Kay and The Lions of Al-Rassan The Works of Guy Gavriel Kay Copyright About the Publisher Principal Characters In Al-Rassan (All these are Asharite, worshippers of the stars of Ashar, except where noted) King Almalik of Cartada (“The Lion of Cartada”) Almalik, his eldest son and heir Hazem, his second son Zabira, his favored courtesan Ammar ibn Khairan of Aljais, his principal advisor, guardian of the king’s heir King Badir of Ragosa Mazur ben Avren, his chancellor, of the Kindath faith Tarif ibn Hassan of Arbastro, an outlaw His Sons Idar Abir Husari ibn Musa of Fezana, a silk merchant Jehane bet Ishak, a physician in Fezana, of the Kindath faith Ishak ben Yonannon, her father Eliane bet Danel, her mother Velaz, their servant In the Three Kingdoms of Esperaña (All these are Jaddites, worshippers of the sun-god, Jad) King Sancho the Fat of Esperaña, now deceased King Raimundo of Valledo, Sancho’s eldest son, now deceased In the Kingdom of Valledo (royal city: Esteren) King Ramiro, son to Sancho the Fat Queen Ines, his wife, daughter of the king of Ferrieres Count Gonzalez de Rada, constable of Valledo Garcia de Rada, his brother Rodrigo Belmonte (“The Captain”), soldier and rancher, once constable of Valledo Miranda Belmonte d’Alveda, his wife His Sons Fernan Diego Ibero, a cleric, tutor to the sons of Rodrigo Belmonte Members of Ser Rodrigo’s Company Laín Nunez Martín Ludus Alvar de Pellino In the Kingdom of Jaloña King Bermudo, brother to Sancho the Fat Queen Fruela, his wife Count Nino di Carrera, the king’s (and the queen’s) most-favored courtier In the Kingdom of Ruenda King Sanchez, youngest son of Sancho the Fat, brother to Ramiro of Valledo Queen Bearte, his wife In the Majriti Desert (Across the southern straits; home of the Muwardi tribes) Yazir ibn Q’arif, of the Zuhrite Tribe, Lord of the Majriti Ghalib, his brother, war leader of the tribes In Countries East Geraud de Chervalles, a High Cleric of Jad, from Ferrieres Rezzoni ben Corli, a Kindath physician and teacher; of the city of Sorenica, in Batiara Prologue It was just past midday, not long before the third summons to prayer, that Ammar ibn Khairan passed through the Gate of the Bells and entered the palace of Al-Fontina in Silvenes to kill the last of the khalifs of Al-Rassan Passing into the Court of Lions he came to the three sets of double doors and paused before those that led to the gardens There were eunuchs guarding the doors He knew them by name They had been dealt with One of them nodded slightly to him; the other kept his gaze averted He preferred the second man They opened the heavy doors and he went through He heard them swing closed behind him In the heat of the day the gardens were deserted All those still left within the dissolving magnificence of the Al-Fontina would have sought the shade of the innermost rooms They would be sipping cool sweet wines or using the elaborately long spoons designed by Ziryani to taste sherbets kept frozen in the deep cellars by snow brought down from the mountains Luxuries from another age, meant for very different men and women from those who dwelt here now Thinking such thoughts, ibn Khairan walked noiselessly through the Garden of Oranges and, passing through the horseshoe arch, into the Almond Garden and then, beneath another arch, into the Cypress Garden with its one tall, perfect tree reflected in three pools Each garden was smaller than the one before, each heartbreaking in its loveliness The Al-Fontina, a poet once had said, had been built to break the heart At the end of the long progression he came to the Garden of Desire, smallest and most jewel-like of all And there, sitting quietly and alone on the broad rim of the fountain, clad in white, was Muzafar, as had been prearranged Ibn Khairan bowed in the archway, a habit deeply ingrained The old, blind man could not see his obeisance After a moment he moved forward, stepping deliberately on the pathway that led to the fountain “Ammar?” Muzafar said, hearing the sound “They told me you would be here Is it you? Have you come to lead me away from here? Is it you, Ammar?” There were many things that could be said “It is,” said ibn Khairan, walking up He drew his dagger from its sheath The old man’s head lifted suddenly at that, as if he knew the sound “I have, indeed, come to set you free of this place of ghosts and echoes.” With the words he slid the blade smoothly to the hilt in the old man’s heart Muzafar made no sound It had been swift and sure He could tell the wadjis in their temples, if it ever came to such a thing, that he had made it an easy end He laid the body down on the fountain rim, ordering the limbs within the white robe to allow the dead man as much dignity as could be He cleaned his blade in the fountain, watching the waters swirl briefly red In the teachings of his people, for hundreds and hundreds of years, going back and away to the deserts of the east where the faith of the Asharites had begun, it was a crime without possibility of assuaging to slay one of the god’s anointed khalifs He looked down at Muzafar, at the round, wrinkled face, sadly irresolute even in death Epilogue The rapid resettlement of the Kindath community of Sorenica in Batiara was something that could be regarded in a number of different ways Burned to the ground nearly twenty years before, on the eve of the disastrous Jaddite campaign against the Asharite homelands in the east, Sorenica had been rebuilt and was thriving again Some viewed this as a sad demonstration of the Kindaths’ desperate desire for roots and a home —any kind of home, however precarious Others saw the speedy restoration of a devastated city as emblematic of endurance in the face of hardships that would have destroyed a people with a lesser heritage to sustain them The Kindath physician Alvar ben Pellino, who had been one of the first to settle here in his youth —he had completed his studies at the newly re-established university—had a different perspective from most, and a more pragmatic view Men and women of all faiths struggled to find ways to shape a life for themselves and their children When opportunities emerged they were grasped Sorenica’s revival was simply such an opportunity being seized In the aftermath of their army’s destruction twenty years ago, the Jaddite princes of several kingdoms had been informed by their spiritual advisors that the god had not been pleased by the brutal attack on Sorenica before the fleet sailed The Kindath had not been the real targets of that holy war, the clerics solemnly decreed, conveniently forgetting their own role in the massacre Sorenica’s destruction, they decided, had represented a failure of piety, a deviation from proper awareness of the holy mission that lay ahead Jad had sent his punishments: storm winds at sea, sickness, murder among princes, deaths in battle in far-off, inhospitable lands Those leaders and their followers who finally came home two long years later had wearily agreed to make atonement for the Sorenica massacre The Kindath had been invited back, royal monies were allocated for the rebuilding of their sanctuaries, markets, houses, the university, the harbor, warehouses, city walls Taxes were remitted for all who agreed to settle there in those first years The highest lords of Batiara—many of them the sons of men who had died in the Asharite homelands —put their seals to a long, clerkly document drawn up to attest to the assured safety of Sorenica and its inhabitants One did not have to believe such things, Alvar ben Pellino thought, striding quickly past the stalls of the market towards the harbor, to have decided that in an uncertain, violent world, Sorenica offered no more risks than anywhere else and a few benefits not otherwise available In his case, more than a few benefits, in that long-ago year when they’d escaped the savagery that was consuming Esperaña and Al-Rassan, tearing the peninsula apart the way wild beasts shred a carcass Ben Pellino was well-known and well-loved in Sorenica Hasten as he might, his progress towards the harbor was slow Every few steps he was forced to stop and exchange pleasantries with someone or another A surprising number of men and women wished him the moons’ blessing on his fortieth birth day The Kindath, with their charts of birth, paid more attention to such days than his own people had: a small adjustment among larger ones It was his daughters, Alvar gradually understood, who had been busily informing everyone Ruefully smiling, he acknowledged all the good wishes, agreeing with cheerful suggestions that his youth was now behind him He’d had a highly dramatic life in his early years and people knew something of that He’d been a Horseman and even a royal herald in Valledo, before coming away from that peninsula, adopting the Kindath faith and beginning his training in medicine He was much sought after and trusted as a physician: calm, learned, reassuring A steady hand and eye in surgery His services had once been in demand among the mercenary armies of Batiara but he had never gone with the soldiers, ever A season’s summons to a princely court he would accept—to deliver children, attend to gout, couch cataracts—but never a position with an army in the field Had he wanted to tread or ride a battlefield, ben Pellino said calmly to all who asked, he would still be a Horseman in the army of Ramiro the Great of Esperaña He was a doctor, he said, and his labor was preserving and easing life He would not, given a choice, freely venture into death’s own domain of war His wife did so, however Also a physician—an even better one in the view of some, since she’d been trained from childhood by her celebrated father—she was not averse to a campaign or two among the armies One saw injuries and ailments in the field that could only serve to broaden and deepen a doctor’s knowledge Her father had done the same thing in his day Alvar, disengaging from yet another well-wisher, made a mental note to chastise his daughters when he returned home They’d no business proclaiming his advancing years to the whole community! He didn’t look forty; everyone said as much He wasn’t ready to be venerable and sage; unless it helped in disciplining two girls hovering precariously on the brink of womanhood In the case of his daughters Alvar rather doubted anything would greatly help On the other hand, they were the ones who had decided to have a celebration today, and who’d been busy all week preparing it They’d ordered the cook out of the kitchen They had been making the confections themselves His wife, more sympathetic to his desire to pass the day quietly, had tried to deter them—to no avail When the two girls acted in tandem, the idea of deterrence was naive Knowing he was expected home by now for the celebration, Alvar hurried along the slip where ships from all over the world were loading or off-loading cargoes He looked for and found the one with an Esperañan flag: yellow sun on a pale blue field, Queen Vasca’s crown above it A boy from the docks had run a message to their treatment rooms A letter was waiting for them, entrusted to the captain Alvar had finished with his patients first and had come to collect it He didn’t recognize the captain who granted him permission to board the ship They exchanged pleasantries He did know the writing and the seal, and he took a deep breath when he accepted the salt-stained packet from the man It was addressed to him and Jehane both, so after offering his thanks and a silver coin and striding back down to the wooden planks of the wharf, Alvar opened it Normally he let Jehane read their mail from Esperaña first, but today was his birth day, after all, and he allowed himself this much luxury He was immediately sorry My dear Jehane, my dear Alvar, he read, may the god and his sisters guard and preserve you and all your loved ones We are well, though events, as you will have heard from others by now, have been turbulent this summer Alvar stopped reading, his heart thudding They hadn’t heard anything from others He turned back to the ship He called out The captain turned at the rail to look down at him “What’s happened in the peninsula?” Alvar shouted up He spoke in Esperañan Heads turned towards him “You don’t know?” the captain cried “You’re the first Esperañan ship here in a month.” “Then I can be tale teller!” the captain said, visibly pleased He brought his two hands together above his eyes, making the sign of the god’s disk “Belmonte took Cartada and Aljais this summer, and then Tudesca surrendered to him! Ramiro the Great has ridden his black horse into the sea at the mouth of the Guadiara Jad has reconquered Al-Rassan! The peninsula belongs to Esperaña again!” There was a babble of noise along the harbor The news would be all over Sorenica by the time Alvar got home if he didn’t hurry He began moving quickly, almost running, barely pausing to throw a thank you over his shoulder He didn’t want this news to come from the street There were those at his house today who would need a warning, some shelter from this He needed that himself, in truth Even as he hurried back through the market, Alvar was remembering a long-ago night north of Fezana, when King Ramiro had told him and Ser Rodrigo of his firm intent to ride into the seas surrounding Al-Rassan and claim all the lands that touched them for his own He’d done it now Ramiro the Great Nearly twenty years after, but he’d done it He was king of Esperaña Of Valledo, Ruenda, Jaloña Of Al-Rassan, though that name would be gone now From this summer forward, that name was a word for poets and historians Clutching the letter, Alvar broke into a run People looked at him curiously, but there were other running figures in the street now, carrying the same tidings He cut along a laneway and past their treatment rooms Closed Everyone would be at his house by now For the party His happy celebration Alvar was aware that he would need to weep before this day was done He wouldn’t be the only one The outer doors of the house were open He walked in No one to be seen They would all be in the courtyard, waiting for him He paused before the looking glass, startled by his reflection A brown-haired man, unfashionably bearded, beginning to grey White-faced, just now So much so that were he his own patient, Alvar would have ordered immediate rest He’d had a blow An extreme one He heard sounds from the kitchen and turned that way In the doorway he stopped His wife was there, still dressed for work, checking on the small cakes and pies the girls had been making Even now, even with what had just happened to him, Alvar offered his prayer of thanksgiving to the god and the moons that he had been vouchsafed this gift of love, so unexpectedly, so profoundly undeserved He cleared his throat She turned to look at him “You’re late,” she said lightly “Dina, your darling little girl, has been threatening to—” She stopped “What has happened?” How did one say this? “Al-Rassan has fallen.” He heard himself speaking the words as in a place that echoed, like the valley of the Emin ha’Nazar “This summer All of the peninsula is Jaddite now.” His wife leaned back, her hands behind her, against the table by the hearth Then, pushing herself forward, she took three steps across the stone floor and wrapped her arms around him, her head against his chest “Oh, my love,” she said “Oh, Alvar, this must be so hard for you What can I say?” “Is everyone here?” “Almost Oh, my dear,” said Marisa bet Rezzoni, his wife, his colleague and Jehane’s, daughter of his teacher, mother of his children, light of his days and nights “Oh, Alvar, how are you going to tell them?” “Tell them what?” Jehane asked, coming into the kitchen “What is it? One of the children?” “No No, not that,” Alvar said, and fell silent He looked at the first woman he had ever loved He knew he would love her and in more than a way of speaking until he died She was still, with silver in her hair and a softening to her features now, the same astonishing, courageous woman with whom he had ridden across the Serrana Range to King Badir’s Ragosa all those years ago Another known footfall in the hallway outside “We’re in here,” Alvar said, lifting his voice “In the kitchen.” In a way it was better like this Ammar, hardly using his stick today, paused in the doorway and then came to stand beside his wife He looked at Jehane, at Marisa, at Alvar He laid a hand on Jehane’s shoulder and said, in his beautiful voice, “Alvar has had the same tidings I have He is trying to think of how to shelter us Me, mostly, I suppose.” “You, mostly,” Alvar agreed quietly “Ammar, I’m so sorry.” “Please!” Jehane said “What is it?” Her husband released her and she turned to look at him “I was going to wait until Alvar’s celebration was done, but there is no point now A ship from Esperaña is in, my love Fernan Belmonte took Cartada, and my own Aljais of the nightingales this summer Tudesca opened her gates immediately after They were the last, those three.” Alvar saw that his wife, who alone of the four of them had never even been in that beloved, tormented peninsula, was weeping Marisa could feel for the pain she saw, could almost take it into herself It was a part of her physician’s gift, and it frightened him sometimes Jehane had gone white, much as he himself had appeared in the looking glass She did not cry She said, after a moment, “It was going to happen There was no one to turn the tide back, and Fernan ” “Appears to have become something close to what his father was,” Ammar finished for her “It was going to happen, yes.” He smiled, the smile they had all come to know and need over the years here in Sorenica “Have I not been trying to write a history and an elegy for Al-Rassan all this time? Would it not have been a cruel jest upon me, if—” “Don’t!” Jehane said, and stepping forward, put her arms around her husband Ammar stopped He closed his eyes Alvar swallowed, near to weeping, for reasons too complex for words The Star-born were not his people He was Jaddite born, Kindath by choice—even before he’d met and wooed Ser Rezzoni’s youngest daughter He had made that decision, along with a resolve to pursue a doctor’s life, by the time he left Esteren, escorting Ishak ben Yonannon and his wife to their daughter on behalf of the king and queen of Valledo Jehane had already been in Sorenica, having come with ibn Khairan when the Muwardi tribesmen in Al-Rassan threatened revolt if Ammar continued to lead their armies Yazir ibn Q’arif had been urged to execute him—a man, the wadjis cried, who had slain a khalif A man more offensive in Ashar’s sight than even the Jaddites were Yazir had yielded to the first pressure but resisted the second, surprisingly He had exiled ibn Khairan but allowed him his life Partly for what he had achieved as ka’id, but mostly for one evening’s single combat as the named, holy, sword arm of Ashar Had he not defeated the man no one could defeat? Had he not granted them victory by Silvenes when he killed Rodrigo Belmonte, the Scourge of Al-Rassan? And more: had he not—above all else—thereby taken blood revenge for Ghalib? Yazir ibn Q’arif, who had traveled the sands for the past twenty years with his brother at his side, would not destroy the man who had done that for him Ibn Khairan had been permitted to leave, with his Kindath concubine “We’ve a letter from Miranda,” Alvar said, clearing his throat Jehane looked at ibn Khairan and, reassured by what she saw, let him go “You’ve read it?” she asked Alvar “I started Go ahead.” He handed her the envelope Jehane took it, unfolded the paper and began reading Alvar walked to a sideboard and poured himself a glass of wine He glanced at Marisa who shook her head, and at Ammar who nodded He poured for the other man, his dearest friend in the world, and carried it over, unmixed Jehane was reading aloud “ turbulent this summer Fernan and the king have taken the last three cities of Al-Rassan I don’t know the details, I never ask, but in two of them the slaughter was bad, it seems I know this can bring you no joy, not even Alvar, and I know it will be a great grief for Ammar Does he believe I bear him no ill-will, even now? Will he accept that I have an understanding of his sorrow, and that Rodrigo would have understood it as well? I not think Fernan does, though Diego might I’m not sure I don’t see them very much any more, of course Diego and his wife have had a boy by Jad’s grace, my first grandson, and the mother is well He is named Rodrigo, but you would know that Diego has been honored by the king with a new title, created for him: he is the first chancellor of united Esperaña The people are saying that Fernan will win our wars and Diego will guide us in peace I am proud of them both, of course, though could wish, as a mother, for more kindness in Fernan I suppose we all know where he lost his gentleness, but I may be the only one who remembers when he had it I sound old, don’t I? I have a grandchild I am old Most of the time I don’t think I’ve changed so much, but I probably have You wouldn’t recognize the king, by the way—he’s grown enormously fat, like his father They moved Rodrigo’s bones this spring, before the summer campaign began I didn’t want him to leave the ranch, but both boys and the king thought he ought to be honored in Esteren and I didn’t have the heart to fight them all I used to be better at fighting I did insist on one thing, and Diego and King Ramiro, to my surprise, agreed The words above him are from the ones Ammar sent me so long ago I thought I would be the only one who felt that was proper but I wasn’t I went there for the ceremony Esteren is greatly changed, of course—Alvar, you wouldn’t know it at all Rodrigo lies now in a bay to one side of the god disk in the royal chapel There’s a statue, in marble, done by one of Ramiro’s new sculptors It isn’t really Rodrigo, of course—the man never knew him They gave him his father’s eagle helm and the whip and a sword He looks terribly stern They carved Ammar’s words at the base of the statue In Esperañan, I’m afraid, but the king did the translation himself, so I suppose that counts for something, doesn’t it? He did it like this: Know, all who see these lines, That this man, by his appetite for honor, By his steadfastness, By his love for his country, By his courage, Was one of the miracles of the god Jehane stopped reading, struggling visibly At times Alvar thought she would better if she let herself cry Marisa had said the same thing, more than once Jehane had wept when her father died, and when her third child—her daughter—was stillborn, but Alvar couldn’t remember any other times, not since a twilit hill by Silvenes Even now she controlled herself, laid the letter aside and said, in a thin voice, “Perhaps I ought to finish this after the celebration?” As if to reinforce that, a girl’s impatient voice was heard calling from the courtyard: “Will you come on! We’re all waiting!” “Let’s go,” Alvar said, allowing himself to take charge “Dina’s likely to assault me if I make her wait any longer.” They went out to the courtyard His friends were there—quite a few of them Eliane bet Danel, Jehane’s mother, had come to honor him and he saluted her first of all His daughters skittered about like a pair of long-legged colts putting everyone in their proper places before they bolted for the kitchen, giggling “You are all,” said Marisa, as soon as they were out of earshot, “on your oaths not to mention that the cakes are burnt.” There was laughter Alvar looked for ibn Khairan He had taken a chair in one corner of the garden where he could stretch out his leg Dina and Razel came back, more decorously, bearing their enterprise on silver trays No one said a word about the cakes Alvar, who thought his daughters embodied all the graces of both moons, thought they were delicious and said so Marisa made sure his wine glass was always full He was toasted several times, made a few wry jests in the speech they demanded: about being ready to settle by the fire now but not being able to afford to so until his burdens had been properly married off The girls made faces at him Ammar, from his corner, declared that he and Eliane were in no way ready to surrender their places by the fire Alvar would have to wait his turn The afternoon passed When his friends rose to go, Alvar was touched and a little surprised by the warmth with which they embraced him It still came as a source of wonder to him that he was a man with nearly grown daughters and a loving wife and that so many people seemed to regard him with affection In his own mind, much of the time, he was still the same person, barely come to manhood, who had ridden from Carcasia, stirrups comically high, with Rodrigo Belmonte one morning long ago He seemed to have had a great deal to drink, much more than usual Marisa’s doing She’d evidently decided it would be good for him today He remembered kissing Eliane goodbye, holding her gently as she reached up and patted his cheek That, too, had been a source of wonder, years ago, when he had realized that she approved of him He looked around The girls were gone, and Jehane and Ammar’s twins Somewhere upstairs, causing mischief almost certainly They would probably hear a scream in due course It was quiet in the courtyard now, and a little cold Marisa had brought out a shawl for herself and one for Jehane who had taken her mother home and returned Jehane was lighting candles Alvar made as if to rise and help, but she motioned him back to his chair He sat back dutifully, but then, as a strong impulse overtook him, stood up and made his way, carrying his glass and the flask, to the seat beside Ammar Ibn Khairan was nursing the last of his wine; Alvar filled his glass “Fare gently in the god, old friend,” Ammar said to him, smiling gravely “My love and good wishes, today and all days.” Alvar nodded his head “Will you something for me?” he asked “I know this is a celebration It has been But the girls are upstairs with your boys, we needn’t worry about disappointing them.” “A good thing,” Ammar said, with a straight face Alvar snorted Everyone teased him on the subject of his daughters “But truthfully, the day will be wrong for me if we pretend nothing has happened, or changed I can’t pretend Ammar, you’ve improvised for kings and khalifs, will you honor my birth day by doing so for me? Or is it too much to ask?” Ammar’s expression had changed He set down his wine “The honor will be mine,” he said quietly “Have you a theme?” “You know the theme.” The two women had come nearer, and now they sat down next to each other, wrapped in their shawls, on a stone bench There was a silence They watched ibn Khairan, and waited From upstairs the sound of their childrens’ laughter carried down to the garden through an open window Ammar said: Ask Fezana what has become of Fibaz, And where is Ardeño, or where Lonza? Where is Ragosa, the seat of great learning, How many wise men remain there? Where is Cartada, city of towers, In the red valley of its power? Or Seria where the silk was spun? Where are Tudesca, Elvira, Aljais, And where, in this twilight, is Silvenes? The streams, the perfect gardens, The many-arched courtyards of the Al-Fontina? The wells and the fountains weep for sorrow, As a lover does when dawn comes To take him away from his desire They mourn for the passing of lions, For the ending of Al-Rassan the Beloved, Which is gone The measured, beautiful voice fell silent Alvar looked up at the sky The first stars were out The white moon would be rising soon above Sorenica Would it shine on that peninsula west of them? Time lay upon him like a weight Rodrigo’s two sons were grown men They were constable and chancellor of Esperaña Serving King Ramiro the Great And Rodrigo lay in Esteren, under a statue, under stone Alvar filled his glass again, and set it down untouched, a libation, on the bench beside him He stood up, extending a hand to Ammar, whose leg had never been the same since that other twilight by Silvenes “Come,” he said “It is dark and cold I think we all need light, and the children.” He saw Jehane set her own glass down, as he had done, on the table near her Marisa led them in She spoke a quiet word with the servants They dined that evening, together, in a bright room with two fires amid the laughter of their sons and daughters It was very late when Ammar and Jehane and their children took their leave and walked the short distance to their own home Alvar listened to Marisa and the nurse settling two overly stimulated young women He went up to say good night to his daughters and then he and his wife went along the corridor to their own room and closed the door and drew the curtains against the night Outside, white moonlight shone down upon the courtyard where the day’s celebration had taken place It fell upon the water and the small, quick fish in the water It silvered the olive and fig trees, the tall cypress by the ivy-covered wall and the late-season shrubs And it cast its pale light upon the three glasses of wine that had each been left deliberately behind, brim-full, on a stone table, a stone bench, on the rim of the fountain there Acknowledgments Those of us with the temerity to walk a line—or create one—between history and the imagined are profoundly in the debt of the historians, whose delving among the fragmentary records of our past becomes a more creatively challenging labor the further back they go For the groundwork and the inspiration of my invented Al-Rassan, I am indebted to the scholarship of many people Among them I wish to particularly note Richard Fletcher, David Wasserstein, T.F Glick, Nancy G Siraisi and Manfred Ullmann (on medicine), S.D Goitein, Bernard Reilly, Pierre Riché and the sweeping, impassioned writings of Rheinhart Dozy In the verses and songs herein, those familiar with the period that serves as my source will find motifs derived from some of the most eloquent voices of the peninsula It is appropriate that I pay tribute here to the art of al-Mu’tamid, ar-Rundi, ibn ’Ammar and ibn Bassam, among others My first introduction to the complexities and the power of the Iberian Peninsula came by way of two people who have embodied, for much of my life, the idea of a civilized existence: Gladys and David Bruser It is a great pleasure to be able to acknowledge them here I continue to be the beneficiary of the talent and experience of a number of people Dr Rex Kay, always of assistance, was more so than ever in helping to research the medical elements of this book, and in carefully reviewing the manuscript in progress Sue Reynolds offered another lucid, necessary map In France I was abetted by the friendship and stimulation of Stan Rodbell and Cynthia Foster, and of Mary and Bruno Grawitz In Toronto, my old friend Andy Patton continues to offer me the benefits of an uncompromising intelligence and an equally unflagging support And finally, both at home and abroad, I am sustained by three people I love: my mother, my son, and my wife About the Author GUY GAVRIEL KAY is the author of nine internationally celebrated novels: The Summer Tree, The Wandering Fire, and The Darkest Road (which make up The Fionavar Tapestry), Tigana, A Song for Arbonne, The Lions of Al-Rassan, Sailing to Sarantium and Lord of Emperors (which comprise The Sarantine Mosaic), and most recently, The Last Light of the Sun He is also the author of the acclaimed collection of poetry Beyond This Dark House His work has been translated into twentytwo languages He has twice won the Aurora prize, is a three-time World Fantasy Award nominee, and is the recipient of the International Goliardos Prize for his contributions to the literature of the fantastic He lives in Toronto www.brightweavings.com Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors Critical Acclaim for Guy Gavriel Kay and The Lions of Al-Rassan “Though Guy Gavriel Kay has made his name in the fantasy field, The Lions of Al-Rassan is no more fantastic than, say, The Name of the Rose or Gone With the Wind A paean to art and culture A sweeping, complex and haunting story [a] beautifully wrought, elegantly written adventure, The Lions of Al-Rassan is as fast-paced as it is thoughtful.” —San Francisco Chronicle “Has the adventure, passion, political skullduggery, complex representation of cultural and early technological practices, and psychological insight that readers have come to expect of Kay’s high fantasy [He] has created a world with a history of its own, out of which the conflicts that rage across the narrative ‘naturally’ emerge.” —New York Review of Science Fiction “Guy Gavriel Kay invests a work of fantasy with the philosophic depth and hard-edged maturity of the best historical novels, along with the immediacy of today’s headlines How he manages this is a matter of both masterly writing and considerable chutzpah.” —Locus “An engrossing tale Kay provides insightful glimpses into the goals and motives of his many characters.” —Publishers Weekly “Kay effectively plays the changes on the themes of love, duty, honor, and fate as the story moves slowly toward a resolution, with plenty of twists and surprises along the way Meanwhile, the complex characterization and richly detailed settings create an unusually full portrait of an exotic society A higher level of artistry than the work of almost any other current fantasy writer.” —Kirkus Reviews “Wistful and elegiac in tone, with a few clever sleight-of-hand plot twists thrown in for good measure The Lions of Al-Rassan weaves a subtle spell The publication of a Guy Gavriel Kay book has become something of an event in the international fantasy community He’s considered to be one of the (if not the) premiere fantasists of our time.” —Financial Post “One of the book’s many pleasant surprises is the strength, variety and verisimilitude of the female characters For the Kindath physician Jehane bet Ishak to the arrow-mocking Miranda Belmonte, there isn’t a misty-eyed doormat in the bunch They are every bit as real and vital as their larger-than-life menfolk The first fantasy masterpiece in a long time.” —Vancouver Sun “[A]n engrossing history-that-never-was that comes to a surprising but satisfying denouement.” —Maclean’s “[A]n un-put-downable history, a terrific weekend escape.” —Toronto Star “The Lions of Al-Rassan is an entertaining, sensitive and dramatic epic novel It should appeal to an audience far wider than just fantasy fans Except for the not unimportant fact that the world in which these characters live out their tangled lives during traumatic political and social change is specifically invented, it could be considered a fine historical novel That such a narrative can be profoundly moving, and speak to our common humanity in the starkest terms, is testament to the generosity of spirit that moves through The Lions of Al-Rassan.” —Malahat Review The Works of Guy Gavriel Kay THE FIONAVAR TAPESTRY The Summer Tree The Wandering Fire The Darkest Road Tigana A Song for Arbonne The Lions of Al-Rassan THE SARANTINE MOSAIC Sailing to Sarantium Lord of Emperors Beyond This Dark House The Last Light of the Sun Copyright This book is a work of fiction The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental THE LIONS OF AL-RASSAN Copyright © 1995 by Guy Gavriel Kay All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows: Kay, Guy Gavriel The lions of Al-Rassan / Guy Gavriel Kay—1st ed p cm I Title PR9199.3.K39 L56 1995 813.'54—dc20 95006478 ISBN 0-06-073349-7 (pbk.) EPub Edition © JULY 2012 ISBN: 9780062230300 05 06 07 08 09 JTC/RRD 10 About the Publisher Australia HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty Ltd Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia http://www.harpercollins.com.au Canada HarperCollins Canada Bloor Street East - 20th Floor Toronto, ON, M4W, 1A8, Canada http://www.harpercollins.ca New Zealand HarperCollins Publishers (New Zealand) Limited P.O Box Auckland, New Zealand http://www.harpercollins.co.nz United Kingdom HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 77-85 Fulham Palace Road London, W6 8JB, UK http://www.harpercollins.co.uk United States HarperCollins Publishers Inc 10 East 53rd Street New York, NY 10022 http://www.harpercollins.com ... Critical Acclaim for Guy Gavriel Kay and The Lions of Al- Rassan The Works of Guy Gavriel Kay Copyright About the Publisher Principal Characters In Al- Rassan (All these are Asharite, worshippers of. .. of the Bells and entered the palace of Al- Fontina in Silvenes to kill the last of the khalifs of Al- Rassan Passing into the Court of Lions he came to the three sets of double doors and paused before... raid in Al- Rassan by a band of Garcia de Rada’s cronies playing outlaw might take this affair out of the realm of a private feud and into something else I am an officer of the king of Valledo,