by Jean, Rima
“Shut up,” Zayn snarled, but her heart skipped a beat. Earic. She had to find Earic before someone else killed him. Someone…or something. Holy heaven.
Moving much faster than was prudent before her audience of Frankish nobles, she flew from the tent and onto her horse. She was beyond caring what they all thought of her. Her mare tore through the thicket as Zayn spurred her toward the baying of hounds in the distance. There was no question in Zayn’s mind that the dogs were pursuing the lion—the lion Bashar had found and perhaps even trained to kill.
She was not the only hunter galloping in that direction; Templars and Hospitallers on horseback crashed through the brush, slid down dusty slopes, and stumbled over scree. A deep rumble, undeniably a lion’s roar, sounded nearby. There were shouts, then cries, then screams. The high-pitched squeal of frightened horses, their hoofs beating against the earth. The scene upon which Zayn emerged was terrible indeed—arrows and lances flying, horses felled and their hunters injured, a very large lion and three cheetahs intent on reaching one Templar in particular. Earic Goodwin.
Earic had either dismounted or fallen from his horse, since he stood with his sword before him, swinging it at the encroaching felines. The focus with which the cats made for Earic had apparently disoriented the other hunters, for there wasn’t one among them who threw lances or shot arrows that found their mark. Many, in fact, struggled with horses that were spooked and trying to flee. Zayn leaped from her mare, lest it decide to run as well. As she tore an arrow from her quiver, Earic managed to cut down a cheetah. Blood spurted, and a second cheetah fell as a lance, thrown by one of the hunters, pierced its side. Two down, two to go.
It all happened in an instant. One of the wounded cheetahs fell against Earic, distracting him just long enough for the lion to pounce. Zayn aimed for the lion but struck the third cheetah, which had gotten in the way. She saw the massive, golden-maned beast take Earic down, the sword blade glinting as it fell from his hand. She heard herself scream as she shot another arrow, and then another, in quick succession, all the while running toward him. Her gaze never left the sleek, muscled mound or Earic’s now swordless hands. She watched as those hands wrapped around the lion’s neck, and as the lion’s head suddenly fell limply to the side. It had been several moments since she’d emptied her quiver, and she knew with stunned certainty that her arrows had not been the cause of the animal’s death. Earic had killed the lion with his own hands.
The world around her came back to life, and time moved at a normal pace once again. She was aware of the people, the knights and squires and attendants, all scrambling to pull the lion off of Earic. Orders were shouted, men shoved, women cried. Zayn simply stood where she was, her bow hanging from her limp hand. When Earic was lifted to his feet, she saw that his face was bloodied, one eye closed. Each of his arms was around a Templar, and they half carried, half dragged him to a litter.
A hand clamped down on her shoulder, and Zayn gasped. “She did it,” a man she hardly recognized shouted. “This little Syrian lady, with her simple bow and arrow, saved him, by my life!”
She shook her head numbly, watching as they turned to her one after the other, Templars and Hospitallers and barons, reverence plain in their eyes. Somewhere behind them all, she saw Lady Agnes scowl.
Chapter Seventeen
The “hunter’s talisman,” they called her. The king, they jested, would no longer hunt without her at his side. How Lady Sara had saved first Marguerite of Ibelin, and then Sir Earic Goodwin, from wild beasts with her arrows was a story often told and embellished at the High Court of Jerusalem these days. The story regarding the arrow she’d planted in Hakim’s buttocks was told as often, if not more often, and certainly with more embellishment.
Sara Zachariah was an exceptional huntress—and a dangerous, vengeful lover.
The story was amusing, to say the least, but Zayn had more pressing issues to think about. Namely, Earic. He was as strong as she was, if not stronger. He’d been trying to tell her as much since they were children. But she’d been too dazzled by his presence to understand. It explained so much, including why the Assassins wanted him dead.
Fair Boy was the Templars’ deadly weapon.
Marguerite’s laughter startled Zayn from her thoughts. “Blessed Mary, I cannot believe you shot him there, of all places.”
Zayn couldn’t help but smile. “It will keep him from causing mischief for a little while—long enough for Earic to leave Jerusalem.”
“You are astounding,” Marguerite said, with no little awe in her voice. She was moving about now with the help of a crutch, and her spirits soared with this new freedom.
Hesitating, Zayn blushed and looked away. She alone seemed to know the truth—that she had not killed the lion at all. She sensed it was wise to keep it to herself.
“He has asked to see you,” Marguerite said, smiling. “The Templars do not normally allow women into their headquarters, but they have made an exception for you, since you saved his life.”
Zayn started. “Earic has asked to see me?”
“Yes, silly. I wish I could accompany you. You must give him my regards.”
That afternoon Zayn went to the Templars’ infirmary, located on Temple Mount. It was nothing compared to the Hospital of the Knights of St. John, but it served its purpose. Each patient had a small bed with coverlet and sheets, and the doctors made their rounds fairly regularly. Earic sat up in his bed, his head wrapped in bandages that covered his injured eye. He smiled when he saw her, and she fairly melted. What is wrong with me?
“Your eye,” she said.
“It still functions,” he reassured her. “It is mainly the flesh around it that has been damaged. But it will all heal well, God willing.” He flexed his arms and legs, a smile spread wide across his face. “You see? Everything still works properly.”
“Yes, I see,” she replied, unable to continue looking at him. Heat crept from her throat and over her face.
“I wanted to thank you.” Earic cleared his throat, his expression suddenly solemn. “For what you did.”
Zayn met his eyes then, looking hard into them. She could not say what she wanted to say, not with so many eyes and ears around them. “You know that I did nothing,” she said carefully.
He shook his head. “That is not true. You risked your life for me. Indeed, you are risking it at this very moment. For me, for Marguerite. Why?”
She inspected her hands, the heat in her cheeks refusing to subside. “I…I had a revelation. I suddenly understood what was important to me.”
Something in his eyes made it impossible for her to meet them. “The Assassins will come for you,” he said softly.
She nodded. “I know. But they will come for you as well, Earic. Bashar’s injury is enough to buy you time to leave, but they will come back for you.”
His expression was one of a man who was utterly indifferent to the danger he was in. “What will we do then?”
We? “I’m not sure. We will run away and hide, I suppose.” She smiled. “I am not so afraid of them. I know you aren’t, either.”
He rubbed his chin with a bandaged hand. “No, I don’t suppose we are. If anything, they are afraid of us.” He paused. “Do you no longer want to accomplish what you came here for?”
He means Guy de Molay. “I do. He is a hazard to all, a murderer and a rapist. The Kingdom of Jerusalem would be better off without him.”
Earic frowned. “This is personal, then? Not just an assignment?”
She looked left and right furtively, making sure no one overheard their words. “It is personal,” she whispered. “He murdered my mother, before you came back to Jerusalem.”
“Jésus,” Earic muttered, dragging a hand down the unwrapped side of his face. “I didn’t want to believe he was capable of such things. I was blind.”
“No one is responsible for him,” Zayn said, straightening. “What he did is between Guy and me.”
“And God,” Earic added. When Zayn said n
othing, he said, “Thank you for honoring my request and visiting me.”
“Yes. Of course.” She stood abruptly, and her stool scraped back. “Marguerite sends her blessing.”
“Marguerite,” Earic said with a smile. “We both owe you our lives.”
“No,” Zayn insisted. “Just continue to be as you are.”
Earic held his hand out to her. She looked at it, surprised. It was darkly tanned, lacerated in various places, callused, and veined. Fine blond hair furred his knuckles, and his fingernails were short, stained black around the cuticles. A beautiful hand. A very strong hand, too. It betrayed none of its strength as she slipped her own hand into it, letting it envelope her in rough warmth. “Go with God, Lady Sara,” he said, his eyes brimming with meaning.
She blinked. He tucked the scrap of parchment into her palm with his thumb, and she carefully took it away with her hand. “God be with you,” she replied absently, her mind on the note he had passed her.
She returned to the palace and found a moment of privacy to look at the ink scrawled on the piece of paper:
Just before Matins. Gate of Sorrow.
As soon as she’d read it, she watched the note wither and char in the flame of a wax candle. She bit her lip, as she was wont to do in moments of thought. Clearly, there was something he still needed to tell her. Did it have to do with what they were? Or Guy de Molay? She could hardly wait to find out.
Zayn chose not to tell Marguerite about the note. She thought it was prudent not to, since there were still things Marguerite did not know about her that Earic knew—her “gifts.” Marguerite thought Zayn was an exceptionally gifted archer and perhaps even a skilled killer, but she was not aware of her powers. Zayn wanted to keep it that way.
“My lady,” she said to Marguerite when they were alone in the solar, “I must leave tonight.”
Marguerite flinched. “What? Why tonight?”
“They will come for me,” Zayn said softly.
“The Assassins,” she whispered, as though uttering the word would make them appear out of thin air.
“Yes. The sooner I leave, the better.”
Marguerite was pale, a line etched between her brows. “Where will you go?”
“I’m not sure.” Zayn tried to look confident. “There are few places in Outremer where I can hide from them.”
“You will leave Outremer?”
“Perhaps.”
Marguerite rubbed her arms, as if to ward off a chill. “I fear for your life, Zayn.”
Zayn knelt before the lady of Ibelin, a warm smile on her lips. “Lady Marguerite, I have made my choices carefully, and I regret none of them, least of all my decision to trust you. I am not afraid of the Assassins. They trained me to know their tricks, and I will use those tricks against them.”
“You have decided not to kill Guy de Molay, then?” Her eyes were wide and surrounded by shadow in her white face.
Zayn frowned. “I’m not sure. I’m no angel, after all. I believe he deserves to pay for what he did.”
Marguerite nodded. “Go with God, then, my friend.” She gathered Zayn’s hands within her own and clasped them tightly. “You will survive this, I don’t doubt it. You are unlike any other person I have ever known…except for maybe one. Wherever you go, remember that I am here, heir to the lordship of Ibelin, and a powerful friend to have in the Kingdom of Jerusalem. I will never hesitate to come to your aid or to take you into my home, for you are like a sister to me.”
Zayn’s throat locked. I cannot cry now. With effort, she replied, “Thank you, my lady. My Frankish sister.”
The two young women embraced, and before the tears could come, Zayn pulled away and left the solar, refusing to look back. She returned to the ladies’ chamber and planned her escape. No one else could know she was leaving, of course—least of all John Zachariah. She was surprised he had not ordered her home; perhaps he had fled Jerusalem in an attempt to protect himself and his family. Bashar was incapacitated for the time being, closed up in an infirmary, although she did not doubt he’d sent word to Masyaf.
If she left now, if Earic left now, they might have enough time to disappear.
…
In the dead of the night, Zayn descended from the women’s tower to the servants’ quarters with nothing but her dark cloak, silent as a ghost. She saw one of the stable boys sleeping on his straw pallet, a set of clothes folded neatly beside him. She tiptoed over to him and took the clothes, watching carefully as one of the cooks snorted in his sleep and rolled to his side. I am nothing but a rat, scurrying to shelter. She smiled at the thought.
Concealed in the shadows, she slipped into the boy’s clothes and draped the cloak over them. With an ease that surprised even herself, she stole past the palace guards and into the streets of the city. She sidled down the steep, stone-paved streets, through the vaulted markets deserted in the night to the Gate of Sorrow. The gate was said to be the one Christ passed through to his crucifixion. Earic saw her approach; he appeared to have been waiting for her.
She crouched against the stones. I am as small as a cat.
Earic’s eye was still covered with bandages beneath the mail, but he otherwise looked to be in good health. He would not have seen her had she not moved. He came down to her, his breath coming quickly but softly. “Do you still want Guy de Molay?” he asked without any sort of preface.
She stared. “Is that why you had me come here?”
“Yes,” he replied, “and because I wanted to ask where you intend to go.”
“I don’t know yet,” she replied.
“You should know by now. It is the only place you can be safe from the Assassins.”
Zayn frowned. “There is no place safe from the Assassins.”
“There is one safer than most,” Earic insisted. “Saladin.”
Her mouth opened, and for a moment she was speechless. When her voice returned, she mumbled, “You would send me to the enemy?”
“He is enemy to the Assassins, as they have made two attempts on his life already,” Earic said. “You are no longer an Assassin. He would offer you protection in exchange for information, I imagine.”
She processed this, remembering the Assassin dagger she’d left on Saladin’s pillow as a warning. “But Saladin is your enemy as well.”
“Zayn, you must stop thinking like that,” Earic whispered fiercely, his cheeks ruddy. “You and I, we have common enemies. I am thinking only of your safety now. Go to Saladin. But first…” He stood, pulling her up with him. His face was close to hers, his uncovered eye a sharp, glittering blue. “After Matins, Guy often goes to a small room with a window that looks out over the Double Gate, where he sleeps alone until dawn. The brothers grant him this because he is Gerard de Molay’s son. His room is the only window on that facade of ashlar stones.”
The wind passed between them, not as cold on this night than the nights before. Zayn nodded mutely as Earic backed away, just a step. “I must go,” he said.
“Wait,” Zayn said urgently. Still so many things to ask, to say. “You must leave as well. The Assassins will continue to hunt you unless you disappear.”
“Worry not about me,” he said dismissively. “I can take care of myself.”
“No.” Her voice shook. “You are only one man, even if you can kill lions with your bare hands.”
Surprised, he said softly, “Then you know now. About you. About me.”
A voice, the creak of an iron gate, and the rattle of chains. Church bells chimed in unison, startling her. Earic shook his head. “You will have a horse,” he said as he turned and began walking away. “It will be here when you are done.”
She stood frozen against the wall, listening to the bells. It was the middle of the night, and the brothers were gathering in chapel to pray. She had to convince him to leave Jerusalem. But how? She had no time…
“Not now,” she said, shaking herself from her thoughts. Now, she had a window of ashlar stones to visit.
It was eas
ier this time, scaling the walls. Perhaps she was more confident; perhaps it was because the Templars were in chapel and had left Temple Mount nearly deserted. Her body moved in harmony with her powers as she crawled, leaped, and clambered. The window was as Earic had described it, and she slipped through it and into the room. It was small and bare save for a bed, a good bed with a solid frame and a soft mattress covered in dyed cotton sheets. The floor was strewn with rushes and a large wooden cross hung on the wall above the bed.
Zayn wrapped her cloak around her body and knelt in the darkest corner of the room. By moonlight, she was invisible. She waited, completely unafraid. This was her moment, the moment she’d been striving for since her mother’s death. Its urgency had dissipated, but it was still something she needed to do. For Mama. For all the women he’d violated and killed. For those who would suffer his touch in the future. She waited in repose until she heard footsteps, the click of the latch, and saw candlelight spill from beneath the door.
Guy stepped in and closed the door behind him. He set the candle on the low stool beside the bed, then yawned and stretched. He would have seen her if he’d looked, but he didn’t turn in her direction. She rose from the floor, cloaked and hooded, and said, “And now I will have my revenge, Guy de Molay.”
He spun around and half cursed, half cried out. He gaped at her in terror, a dagger trembling in his hand. “What are you?”
She unlaced her cloak and let it fall to the floor. “What, do you not recognize me? Surely you remember. Look harder.” She stepped forward.
“Do not take another step,” he cried. “Intruder!”
“I am but an unarmed woman,” she said calmly, opening her palms to him. “Look. Do you not recognize me?”
He squinted, lowering his dagger just a little. “Yes, I do. Aren’t you Marguerite’s Syrian lady?”
Zayn raised her eyebrows. “Is that all? I have been much more than just that. You’ve seen me multiple times, in various forms. Do you not remember?”