by Jean, Rima
He quirked a half smile at her. “Zayn, I am hunted, too. Staying with you won’t change that.”
She shook her head. How could she explain it to him? How could she tell him that Guy had raped her, that she was damaged? He would likely reject her in any case, and she couldn’t bear that. “I’m so sorry. But perhaps we should go our separate ways.”
He surveyed her with an expression she couldn’t place. His hand fell limp at his side. “You go to Saladin. I go back to the Templars. Then in just days, we fight on opposing sides in battle. Is that what you want?”
No. She bit her lip. He sighed and settled on the ground beside the fire, using his cloak as a pillow. He rolled on his side away from her and said, “Good night, Zayn.”
She lay across from him, watching him. She would not sleep much tonight. Perhaps if she stared long and hard enough at his back, he would hear the words she was unable to say aloud.
I’m damaged. I’m afraid to trust men. I don’t know how to cope with my feelings for you.
I’m afraid to love you.
Chapter Nineteen
They crested the hill just before dawn, stopping to look down on the glow of firelight, the tents and waving banners silhouetted against the dark blue sky. Zayn dismounted hurriedly, her nerves on edge. She wanted Earic gone before they were seen by Saladin’s men.
“Go,” she said, turning to look up at him. He was pale, his expression austere, as though his features had been chiseled from stone.
“This is good-bye, then,” he said. “For good.”
Her chest tightened. She hadn’t slept a wink as she’d grappled with her choices. She and Earic would always live dangerous lives, but she would not be able to endure it if something happened to Earic because she chose to ally herself with him. Hadn’t enough people suffered because of her?
And…Fair Boy made her feel things she did not know how to handle. Those feelings scared her far more than the Templars and Assassins combined.
She looked up at him pleadingly, wishing he could understand her decision. “Please leave Outremer as soon as you can. Go somewhere the Assassins won’t find you.” She swallowed and added, “Stay alive, Saxon. The world needs men like you.”
His hard expression didn’t change as he tugged on the reins, and his mount backed away from her. “The world can go to hell,” he answered, then shifted his gaze outward. “Good luck to you. I hope you find peace.”
He was gone before she could think of anything else to say, and she looked after him, a heaviness in her soul. She quelled the desire to shout to him, to run after him. Clenching her fists at her sides, she willed herself to turn toward Saladin’s camp. She headed down the hill and toward the encampment, her power filling her in a rush and her senses on full alert. An Arabic cry went up, and within moments she was surrounded, no fewer than ten lance, arrow, and sword points pressing against her body. Fierce, dark, bearded faces bared white teeth at her.
Zayn raised her hands, her gaze flickering between their faces. “Salaam. I come in peace. I wish to speak with Saladin.”
A large man who looked to be some sort of elite Mamluk bodyguard in a tall yellow cap stepped forward. The big Mamluk, thick and pale-skinned compared to these slender Saracens who surrounded him, commanded something, and Zayn was promptly stripped of her knives and led farther into the camp. A tent flap was lifted, and the Mamluk leaned down to speak into the darkness. Then he turned to her and gestured for her to enter.
The lord of the Saracens, their commander and sultan, was slight, dark, and wiry. Despite his small stature, however, he seemed to loom large before Zayn; Saladin’s gaze, his posture, his body language, all spoke of a man twice his size. He wore a yellow cap and a fine purple coat that was lined with mail. His beard was short and marred in places by scars, and his dark eyes were penetrating—but entirely void of malice. Not a handsome face, but one that, without question, commanded attention and respect.
Saladin scanned Zayn’s full length, missing nothing. Then he said, “Assassin.”
Zayn’s mouth fell open. “No. Well, not anymore. I’ve deserted them.”
He smiled at her disarmingly. “Won’t you sit? You can explain everything to me over tea.”
So she did. She removed her boots and sat cross-legged on the Persian rug across from the sultan, a delicate tea cup in her hand, and told him everything. She withheld only a single detail: The Testament of Solomon. Saladin was a devout Muslim, and she was afraid that he would send her away if he suspected she was one of the jinn. Something about the man evoked trust—a paternal glint in his eye, a cool self-possession. She had nothing to lose.
When she finished, he stood and paced the length of the rug, stroking his chin with one hand. “You have formed an alliance of the heart with two Franks.” He looked down at her. “Can you fight for me despite those alliances?”
Zayn closed her eyes. You must not think with your heart, Zayn, Earic had said to her. She had to learn. “Yes,” she said, opening her eyes to look at Saladin.
He narrowed his eyes. “I am not convinced. Nonetheless, I am glad for what help you can offer me, and I am certain you will not betray me. So you may stay.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Zayn exhaled.
Inclining his head, he said, “As you know, the Assassins have made several attempts on my life. They will no doubt make many more. As such, I would like for you to stay here, in my tent, while I sleep. Since you are a skilled Assassin yourself, you can protect me better than any one of my men.”
She nodded dutifully. “Yes, my lord.”
That morning, Saladin introduced Zayn to Asad, the captain of his horse-archers. If the men were put off by a woman fighting in their midst, they showed no signs of it to Zayn or to their commander. Asad wore a patterned headscarf with the trail of cloth tucked up in the back. Bright yellow sleeves billowed out from a shirt of mail that covered his torso. A fine leather quiver was strapped to his back, a belt of linked metal plates worn by the elite was wrapped about his waist, and an embroidered tunic peeked out from under his mail. He greeted Zayn politely, his hand on the hilt of his sword.
When Saladin had left them, Asad said, “Let’s see what you can do, then.” His lip curled over fine teeth, and his eyes were bright with challenge. Zayn felt her power zip through her in anticipation.
“Yes, let’s,” she replied with a smile.
…
Zayn reined her horse to a stop beside Saladin. She wore the pointed turban helmet of the Saracens with a mail aventail attached in the back, a quilted vest lined with mail, and tall riding boots. She held her bow, a Turkish bow of the highest draw strength, an arrow nocked, ready to shoot. The reins were strapped to the ring finger of her right hand, and her sword hung from her wrist by its hilt-loop.
She had been with Saladin’s army for just a couple of weeks, and already she’d proven herself capable of leading men into battle. That she was a woman had begun to make little difference—they would follow her anywhere.
Now, as they confronted the armies of Jerusalem for the first time since their broken peace, she commanded the first line of horse archers. The long column of Franks marched within the valley beneath them, their helmets like points of light within the swirling dust. The desert sun was high in the sky, pounding down mercilessly on those wilted, heavily armored Franks.
Zayn watched them carefully from her vantage point on that rocky ridge, her heart suddenly in her throat. The Templars were in charge of the vanguard and the rearguard of the army, which was led by King Baldwin’s regent-to-be, Guy de Lusignan. The king himself was ailing, nearly blind from his leprosy, and had remained in Jerusalem. Her gaze followed the Templars’ heavy white and black kite shields as they blinked in the sunlight.
I shouldn’t be looking for him. I shouldn’t be thinking of him at all. Hopefully, he’d heeded her words and left Outremer.
She glanced at Saladin, where he sat beside her on his warhorse, and he nodded. At her signal, the lightly armored arc
hers descended upon the Franks. They came over the hills in a flurry, stinging like bees and screaming shrilly. Some of the archers were lightly equipped, wearing turbans or headcloths, and others mail or leather cuirasses beneath their coats. They carried small round shields and wore swords at their sides. Their arrows whistled and glinted in the air, then fell in a shower over the Frankish army, rattling into bags, horses, foot soldiers, and mail. The Frankish foot soldiers, archers, and crossbowmen responded with their own lances and arrows, but the knights stayed in formation.
The sporadic raids continued throughout the morning, and several times Saladin’s mounted archers attempted to force the knights to fight. They rode down the hills from all directions, their arrows raining down on the Franks. They would come close enough to pierce armor, to lance down several foot soldiers and archers, and then quickly retreat, disappearing into the trees. But the knights, particularly the Templars, were disciplined; they refused to break ranks and engage the enemy unless absolutely necessary.
Zayn rode back up to her commander, swiping a drop of sweat from her large, dark eyes and adjusting her helm. “They refuse to stop and engage us in a pitched battle, no matter how we shower them with our arrows or how many of their infantrymen I pick off, one by one.”
“I see that,” Saladin replied. “We will have to be more persuasive, then.”
This time, Saladin sent several of his cavalry behind the archers, wielding spears and wearing helmets that shone in the sun. They approached in numbers and managed to spear their way through the infantry, their horses barging into those of the knights.
The real fighting began, then. Zayn fired her arrows from a distance, willing herself not to think of Earic. Swords clashed, horses fell, men screamed. Blood sprayed and seeped into the dry earth. She began to panic as men continued to die, her heart pounding in her ears, until she spotted him. There was no question it was Earic—the Templar was lethal, cutting down five attacking cavalrymen with one fell swoop of his sword. Two arrows protruded from his shoulder, embedded in his gambeson, as his sword sliced through the air, blurred with speed.
If men hadn’t been dying, she would have thought him beautiful, whirling like a dervish of light. His movements were fluid, fast, and entirely unburdened by his armor.
Suddenly, the fighting ended, as quickly as it had started. What remained of the cavalry retreated, leaving the column of marching Franks alone again, for the moment. The cloud of dust began to settle, and the bodies were cleared.
The long day of skirmishing came to an end, the sky a streak of orange as the sun finally began to set. The army of Jerusalem made camp for the night, watchful of the enemy that sat just beyond the hills, their numbers hidden by a ridge of evergreens, watching them in return.
After tending to her men, Zayn entered Saladin’s tent. He sat with his officers, his fingers steepled in thought. His eyes flicked to Zayn. “Your Templar is proving a menace, Zayn.”
She sucked in her breath sharply. “As I am a menace to them, no doubt.”
Saladin stood and faced her, something soft in his eyes as he said, “I do not want to kill him, but…” No! How could she have been so stupid? Of course, Earic had ignored her advice and stayed with the Templars. He was as stubborn as she was. And now he was a problem to Saladin, just as he was a problem to the Assassins. Her voice trembled. “My lord, I beg of you. Earic Goodwin is a good man.”
The sultan looked directly into her eyes. “Zayn, this is war. I do not take the lives of innocents if I can help it, but Earic Goodwin is a warrior and a half blood. He is extremely dangerous. I must try to eliminate him if he continues to kill my men.”
The air was sucked from her lungs, as though she’d been punched.
“Let us sleep,” he said softly. “Tomorrow the fighting begins anew.”
Of course, she didn’t sleep. She lay on her pallet in Saladin’s tent, listening to the sultan’s gentle snores. The shadows of the guards outside swayed and stretched against the canvas, and she listened to their footsteps and soft voices.
Since joining Saladin’s army, sleep had come relatively easy. Her days were spent marching, skirmishing, and translating for Saladin, and her nights were often busy as well. By the time she was able to sleep, she was so exhausted she simply collapsed into unconsciousness. But tonight was different.
Tonight, Saladin had made a threat on Earic Goodwin’s life.
She flung her arm across her eyes. She could have prevented this, if she had run away with him as he’d suggested. Neither one of them would be here, and Earic would not be Saladin’s target. Dammit, Fair Boy! Why hadn’t he left Outremer? Why was he still here?
Something caught Zayn’s eye: a shadow, stretched along the base of the tent, moving ever so slightly. Too big to be a cat or stray dog. The guards stood a mere five feet away but failed to notice it. Her thoughts dissipated; her body tautened. She felt for her dagger, which she always wore, even to sleep. She never looked away, never blinked, and yet the shadow was gone, melted into the ground.
Her heart pounded. Assassin. Was he here for Saladin? Or for her? For both of them? She was on her feet, her dagger drawn. The guards still stood about idly; she even heard one of them yawn. She knew better than to leave the sultan unattended, even to stick her head out of the tent and yell.
“My lord,” she said as loudly as she dared. “My lord Saladin!” The sultan stirred beneath his coverlet, his eyes opened, and he looked directly at Zayn. She whispered, “Something is amiss. I don’t know what…”
Saladin sat up, no trace of a haze in his eyes, no lethargy—he was completely alert. Zayn imagined he had learned to sleep lightly, and he managed to rise as though he hadn’t been asleep at all. Such was the consequence of constantly fearing for your life at the hands of an Assassin, of fearing that should you succumb to slumber, you might never awaken again. He asked calmly, “What did you see?” His hand snaked to his sword.
Zayn opened her mouth to answer, but her eyes were drawn beyond the sultan to a face hovering in the darkness… She must have screamed as she leaped, her dagger raised. The face moved, and in an instant she saw its body, dressed entirely in black. They dived into each other, and the sultan narrowly escaped the crush of their bodies, the clash of their daggers.
“Zayn, I command you to stop!” Saladin cried, and she did, but only once she had pinned the darkly dressed intruder beneath her body.
As her fight-or-flight response faded, her vision crystallized. The intruder locked beneath her was a man, and that man was Junaid. He looked up at her, his face so familiar and yet entirely strange, and twitched a smile.
“I will never recover my male ego, so long as Zayn is around to humble me,” he said drily.
To Zayn’s utter bewilderment, Saladin began to laugh. “Ah, but Junaid, my friend, Zayn is no ordinary woman.”
Junaid. Her Assassin mentor. Her teacher. Rashid el-Din Sinan’s right-hand man. Saladin touched her shoulder, still smiling, and gestured for her to let Junaid up. “But my lord, he is an Assassin!” she cried furiously.
“Indeed, Zayn, indeed,” Saladin responded, sounding amused. “Rise, and we shall explain everything to you.”
She did as she was told, her dagger still clenched in her fist, her eyes still cleaved to Junaid. Junaid stood and dusted himself off, unfazed as ever. “’Twas clever of you, Lord Saladin, keeping Zayn in your tent.”
Saladin inclined his head in thanks. “Some were scandalized, I think, but my men trust my judgment.” He indicated a chair. “Please sit, my friend. I shall have some tea made. Would you care for some tea, Zayn?”
Tea? They must be joking. She was in a fury, and it must have shown on her face. “No, thank you, my lord,” she said through clenched teeth.
Neither the sultan nor Junaid seemed put out by her refusal, nor by the ghastly expression on her face. Saladin said, “So, Sinan sent you to kill me again, eh? So soon after the last attempt?”
“The last attempt was five years ago, my lord,
” Junaid replied. “And this time, I had another target.” He gestured at Zayn with his eyes. “Sinan knew she was here. He had to have her back or kill her.”
“Are you in the habit of discussing your assassinations with your victims before you attempt them?” Zayn asked Junaid, her hands on her hips. “That would explain why you’ve been so unsuccessful with Lord Saladin.”
Junaid’s eyes smiled even if his lips didn’t. “Surely you understand the situation, Zayn. I am a double agent.”
Saladin cleared his throat. “I will leave you two, as I imagine you have much to discuss.”
Both Assassins bowed as their sultan exited the tent, and then Zayn turned on Junaid. “Tell me, how long have you been a double agent?”
“Many years. I have been trying to bring the Assassins and Templars together for most of my life. I believe that, unified, they can protect the Holy Land once and for all.”
“Why didn’t you tell me—”
“I knew from the moment I met you,” Junaid said firmly, “that you could not become an Assassin. You are too much of an independent thinker. I knew you wanted revenge, and I suspected that would be enough to train you.”
“But why train me at all if you knew I would not remain an Assassin?” she cried in exasperation, pacing the tent. “It makes no sense.”
“Because you needed the skills to avoid Sinan,” Junaid replied. “The Assassins were bound to discover you sooner or later, sitting in Rafaniya right beneath their noses. What better way to fight fire than with fire?”
Zayn pointed her finger at her former teacher. “You didn’t tell me I am half-blood jinn. Why did you keep it from me?”
“You had to realize it yourself, child,” he answered. “Only when you were ready to embrace the truth about your origins would it become clear.”
“My father was a jinni?” she demanded.
“No.” Junaid smiled. “Perhaps you should sit, Zayn.”
Chapter Twenty