by Jean, Rima
Junaid had befriended the mage, Ishaq Ibrahim, despite the fact that Ishaq was a prisoner of Masyaf.
The heavy door creaked open, and Junaid stepped into the mage’s dimly lit sanctuary, deep in the belly of Masyaf Castle. Carrying a plate of steaming mutton, Junaid approached Ishaq, who sat with his head cradled in his hands, the grimoire open before him. Ishaq raised bloodshot eyes to look at Junaid, exhaling loudly and accepting a goblet of wine. “Junaid,” he said. “I expected one of Sinan’s enormous eunuchs coming to summon me to their master.”
Junaid set the plate down on the table and half sat beside it. “How goes it?”
Ishaq shook his head grimly. “I cannot do what he asks of me, Junaid,” he said softly. “The text of The Testament of Solomon blurs before my eyes, making little sense. How long have I been staring at its words, translating the Hebrew to Latin and deciphering its sigils? Day after day, weeks and months.” He traced the occult symbols, stars and swirls, with his forefinger. “The consequences of my work make me shudder to my core.”
“You have been unsuccessful conjuring another?” Junaid whispered anxiously.
“She is the only one so far,” Ishaq confirmed. “I am afraid I can only conjure benevolent ones like her. It takes a certain kind of mage to summon evil jinn, and I am not of that kind.”
Junaid clenched his fist. Ishaq had managed to conjure a jinniyah, a powerful one of the marid tribe. But Junaid was unwilling to give her to Sinan. Over my dead body. He knew the consequences of his actions. The Templars were hard at work, trying to conjure their own jinn. If they harnessed the power of The Testament of Solomon before the Assassins did, the Holy Land would belong to the Franks forever.
But it mattered little to Junaid. Only one thing mattered to him.
Leaving Ishaq in his dungeon, Junaid mounted his gelding and rode swiftly from Masyaf, the horse moving with the urgency of its rider. They careened down steep mountain trails, into dense forest, and around cultivated fields of wheat and olives. He was in Frankish lands now, as easy as that, and before them lay the small hamlet of Rafaniya. Junaid sent the pigeon to the home where he’d hidden her. Then he waited with bated breath until she came, wrapped in a long shawl, her eyes shining in the dark.
She flashed her heart-rending smile and cried, “Junaid!” She was in his arms in an instant, her shawl falling from her head, allowing the moonlight to shimmer from her ink-black hair.
“Miriam,” Junaid whispered desperately, his face buried in her neck. “Miriam, my love.”
They could never truly be together, he knew. He had to keep her hidden from the Assassins at all costs…
…
Junaid watched her anxiously, awaiting some sort of outrageous reaction. She met his eyes coolly, refusing to entertain him. “You are my father? And if I am a half blood, that means…”
Miriam.
The truth was staggering, and yet it felt right. She looked at Junaid. “You are my father. You protected my mother from Sinan. When she was murdered, you came for me.”
Zayn could see the pain etched in Junaid’s normally stoic face. “Ishaq thought she was of the powerful marid tribe of jinn. She was surrounded by humans, so she learned to control her powers at all costs.”
“She couldn’t even save herself in the end, could she?” Zayn said softly, staring at nothing.
Junaid looked at his hands. “Take comfort, as I do, in the fact that Miriam left this world in the best possible way for one of the jinn. She was born of scorching fire and returned to it.”
Then she felt no pain. Zayn exhaled, tears threatening to bloom in her eyes. “Why us?” she asked. “Why do the Templars and Assassins want us half bloods? Why not find full-blooded jinn, if they are the ones who can become slaves?”
“They are easier to control but harder to find. One must conjure the jinn, and that requires a skilled mage, like Ishaq. Half bloods live among us, like regular people. One can hear of a child with special abilities, who is faster or stronger or smarter, and seek him—or her—out, as I did with you. As Gerard de Molay did with Earic.”
“You told Saladin that Earic is a half blood?” The pieces fell into place. Zayn knew what she had to do. She lifted the tent flap and called, “Lord Saladin! My lord!”
When Saladin returned to his tent, Zayn said, “I must go. Leave Earic Goodwin to me—by the morrow, he will no longer be a problem to you.”
Saladin nodded gravely. “I am sorry to lose you, Zayn. But I am glad not to be forced to end your friend’s life. You shall have a horse and whatever supplies you need.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Zayn turned to Junaid and placed a hand on his sleeve. “And thank you. For everything. Please have a care. Should Sinan discover you…” She couldn’t continue. My father.
He looked away, and Zayn sensed he was as moved as she was. “Individually, you and Earic are powerful weapons. Together, well.” He furrowed his brow. “Together you are an army. You must take much better care than I.”
Breathless with anticipation, Zayn prepared to leave. Saladin gave her a stallion, and she mounted him, tugging on his reins as he nickered, stomped, and shook his mane restlessly. A demon like me, this horse. She lifted her hand in a final farewell and spurred the horse into a gallop.
She descended into the valley between the two armies and stopped at a small creek. Her stallion lapped gently at the water as Zayn slipped into her dark mantle. She closed her eyes and breathed rhythmically. I am invisible. Her body tingled with a wash of power. She opened her eyes and moved toward the encampment of the Franks.
Slowly, slowly. The soldiers who stood guard did not sense her presence, felt only a cooling breeze. She slid in the shadows, behind the tents, her eyes fixed on the Templar cross near the edge of the camp. A lone squire sat cleaning his mail and singing a troubadour’s song softly: “God, when they cry, ‘Onward,’ give your help to that pilgrim for whom my heart trembles, for the Saracens are wicked men.”
The Templars lay snoring on their pallets—all but one. He lay stretched on his back, an arm over his head as he examined the stars above. The bandages were gone, and as Zayn sidled closer to him, she could see a reddish ridge of tissue trailing down from his forehead, through his eyebrow, and across his cheek. His eyelid sagged a little, but the eye beneath it was as bright blue as ever.
She felt for a pebble with her fingers, then tossed it at him. It pelted his shoulder, and he turned his head to look in her direction. He did not see her, but he must have sensed her presence. He sat up, his eyes darting over the shadows until they stopped on her. She moved back farther into the darkness and he stood, following her.
She crept back to the stream and waited for him to emerge from the brush. She saw his eyes first, luminous in the moonlight. He stopped several feet away from her and frowned. “What are you doing here?”
She looked at the water, unable to meet his eyes. “You once suggested we escape all of this—together. I think we should.”
Though she wasn’t looking at him, she sensed him tilt his head at her. “What if I’ve changed my mind?”
She swallowed. “Saladin will do whatever it takes to kill you.”
“So?” He came closer to her now. “Look at me.”
Lifting her eyes to his, she felt a flutter of nervousness in her stomach.
“What difference does it make, if I am killed?” he asked softly, the blue of his eyes like searing beams of light.
“I wouldn’t be able to bear it,” Zayn replied.
He scratched his chin, considering. Then he smiled. “It’s a good enough answer, I suppose. For now.”
She began to smile back when a branch snapped behind him. She focused on a figure in the darkness over Earic’s shoulder, her blood rushing in her ears.
“Isn’t it wonderful, the two of you have found each other?” said Guy de Molay, materializing from the woods.
His dark eyes burned in a face that was only half-familiar. The other half was livid, mangled flesh. He smiled—only part of
his mouth rose, while the other half simply bared teeth and red gums. Guy finally looked like the monster that he was.
He glanced at Earic. “I should have known,” he spat. “You are no warrior. You are not even a man. You repulse me, consorting with the enemy. And to think I called you my brother.” He looked at Zayn, his disfigured grimace fixed on his face. “And not just any enemy, but a Saracen whore—one I thoroughly enjoyed ruining, no less.”
Before Zayn could react, Guy was on his back in a cloud of dirt, and Earic was standing over him. His foot pressed down on Guy’s chest as he snarled, “Say what you will about me. But—”
“Earic.” Zayn tugged at him furiously. “Let me fight my own battles.”
“That’s right, lover boy,” Guy said between coughs. “Let the demon bitch fight me herself.”
His nostrils flared, but he removed his boot from Guy’s chest nonetheless. Guy stood slowly, cackling beneath his breath. “What a pair the two of you make. I will enjoy watching you die.”
“You know I can kill you with one finger,” Zayn said, her body aching with power, her muscles tensing.
“Maybe,” Guy said, flashing her his monstrous smile. “But you underestimate me, if you think I’d let you try to kill me again.”
He’d barely finished his words when Earic slammed into her, sending them both to the ground. She heard laughter and saw the knife that protruded from his shoulder blade. His face crumpled in pain as she rolled him to his side, her hands coated in his blood.
Guy and several other knights stood above them, cackling. She drew her knives and flung them—one, two, three—before they even stopped laughing. Three Franks fell, but not Guy, not yet. He was hiding. More Franks appeared, drawing swords. She whirled to her feet, spinning more blades at their eyes. Screams of agony filled the air. She kept moving, refusing to let thoughts of Earic interfere with her power. His life depended on it.
She terrified them with her speed and strength, but there were too many of them. Just as she would take two men down, three more filled their places, encroaching on her.
I can’t stop them by myself. Oh God, help me.
The Franks froze in place, as though an invisible force held them. Their faces glowed orange, enhancing their horror. Zayn stopped and turned. Behind her, Earic knelt on the ground, sweat rolling from his brow, blood dripping from his back. One arm was limp by his side, but the other was held out before him, his palm facing up. And within his palm blazed a sphere of flames, blindingly bright.
She gaped as he stood, still holding his ball of searing liquid fire, and smoothly flung it in a torrent of fury at the knights. The flames consumed them, the trees around them. She sought Guy, and she spotted him in the center of the inferno where he sank to his knees in defeat, his form scintillating in the heat. She wouldn’t move—couldn’t move—even after he’d stopped struggling, his body losing shape to the fire. Was it possible that Guy de Molay was finally dead?
As the knights ran and screeched and fell, Earic snatched her hand, snapping her out of her daze, and yanked her into the creek. “Zayn, come on!” His palm was still scorching hot, and she yelped. They splashed across the stream to Zayn’s waiting stallion, and she heaved him onto the horse. She climbed on, and they were off.
Earic clutched her from behind as they rode, slumped against her shoulder. He wailed softly in pain, his sweat soaking her mantle. She held the reins with one hand, and her other went to his, wrapping her fingers around his palm and squeezing.
He grunted. “Zayn…” And fell unconscious.
Chapter Twenty-One
The firelight illuminated Earic’s pale countenance, the sweat that beaded his forehead. He lay on his side as Zayn tended to his wound. She’d removed his shirt and torn it into long strips to use as dressing and was carefully pressing the cloth against his back, staunching the flow of blood.
“I imagine you know much about knife wounds,” Earic managed to say, trying to smile despite the pain he must have been in.
“I learned some things,” Zayn said gently.
“Tell me. Distract me from my pain.” A droplet of sweat trickled from his temple.
She couldn’t help but run her fingers over the taut muscles of his back. “I carry certain herbs for the occasion. A tincture of myrrh and some lemon balm, for example. I make a solution and soak the bandages before applying them to the wound.”
He grunted. “That accounts for the burning I feel.”
“Just rest, Messire Saxon.” Zayn smiled. “Saracen medicine is very advanced. Unlike you Saxons and Franks, we do not make a virtue of unnecessary suffering.”
He chuckled, wincing at the pain it caused. “Well, I personally make no virtue of suffering. Give me a Saracen doctor over a Frankish one any day.”
She was quiet for a moment, then asked, “Why did you stay with the Templars? You should have left.”
He tilted his head, offering her a view of his profile. “I could not leave when what I wanted most was still here.”
Her heart stumbled. “What do you mean?”
With a motion that shocked her, Earic twisted and took hold of her waist, then pulled her down to face him on the ground. She gasped. “Earic! You idiot, you’ll reopen your wound—”
He stifled her protests with a kiss, his hand on her hip. “You, Zayn,” he muttered against her mouth. “I could not leave without you.”
She reached up, ran her fingertips along the golden stubble on his chin. “I’m…complicated.”
“So am I.” His blue eyes danced with reflections of the fire.
Looking away, she tightened her lips. “I am not a virgin.”
“Because Guy forced himself on you.” His voice was husky with barely contained rage. “I would kill him three times over if I could, solely for that.”
Her stomach fluttered with joy at his words, but she still avoided his gaze. “I am a trained killer.”
“As am I, behind this monk’s disguise.”
She finally looked at him. “What is the extent of our powers?”
His face softened. “I’m not entirely certain. Greater than we know, I imagine.”
She propped herself up on an elbow. “How did you do that trick, with the fire?”
He couldn’t help but grin smugly. “That impressed you, did it? I can teach you.”
“What else can you do that I don’t know about?” Zayn narrowed her eyes at him.
“I can make beautiful women fall in love with me,” he replied with an impish grin.
“Maybe so,” she murmured, caught up for a moment in his gaze. “Although perhaps a former Assassin doesn’t exactly count as ‘beautiful’.” She snorted in amusement and shook her head, cutting him off before he could protest. “We need to ensure that your wound doesn’t fester before we go too far. Perhaps we should let one of Saladin’s physicians take a look.”
“And then what, Lady Zayn?” he asked, his eyes twinkling at her.
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “My goal has been to kill Guy de Molay for so long that I feel a bit lost now that he is dead.”
He scratched his chin. “We are not the only half bloods in the world. There are others like us. Maybe if we found them, we could learn the extent of our powers. I think I knew one as a child, in Nottinghamshire.”
“How could you know he was a half blood as well?”
Earic gazed over her shoulder thoughtfully. “I only ever met Robin of Locksley once or twice when we were children, but he kept telling me that he and I were much alike. He was the best archer I ever saw—even better than you, my lady.” He nudged her playfully. “We could easily find him.”
She frowned. “In Frangistan?”
Earic stifled his laughter. “England, Zayn.”
“You want me to go to England? With you?”
He smiled slightly, showing just a sliver of teeth. It was the Earic of her childhood, boyish and playful. Jaunty. “Are you so tied to Outremer you would not go?” He tilted his head, considering.
“Or is it the fact that you would be traveling alone, with me?”
“It is neither,” she snapped. But though he goaded her, she was amused and…happy. How strange. “I would go. I am not tied to anything, or anyone. Nor do I fear anything.” She looked him in the eyes. “Or anyone.”
“Then it is settled.” He scraped his bristly cheek with his fingernails. “We go back to Saladin until I am healed, then to Acre, where we will find passage back to England. I am certain Locksley knows more about his jinn roots than we do.”
Zayn nibbled her lip. “Do you think we will have trouble getting back into the Kingdom of Jerusalem?”
Earic raised an eyebrow and pulled her against him, murmuring, “Whoever dares to trouble us will find himself in dire straits. Isn’t that right, my lady?”
Zayn smiled and turned before he could kiss her, fitting her back into the curve of his body. “That’s right, Sir Earic. But we must sleep now to conserve our energy.”
He grunted. “I suppose so.” As he draped an arm protectively around her waist and nuzzled her hair, she felt the bond between them like a raw silk bowstring—unbreakable, irrevocable. Then she slipped into a blissful doze in Fair Boy’s arms.
The Crusader States
(circa 1180)
Acknowledgments
I’d like to thank Tracy Montoya and Alethea Spiridon Hopson for helping me craft the final version of this book and for being my fervent supporters from the very beginning. You ladies are amazing.
About the Author
Rima Jean received a degree in archaeology from the University of Pennsylvania. After a dismal law school experience, she floundered a bit before accepting her calling: storytelling. She resides in Houston with her wonderful husband and two beautiful daughters, where she writes, edits, and dabbles in digital art.
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