Blue Heaven, Black Night

by Heather Graham

  Jalahar bowed slightly, indicating that she should move in. Elise hesitated only a moment, then returned to her room from the balcony.

  She hated her chamber, but not that she had been given unpleasant rooms to occupy. To the contrary, she was imprisoned in luxury. Her room was vast; the east side was taken up by endless cushions of down, silk-covered and tented in sheerest gauze. The floors were warmed by plush rugs, the windows were covered with floating draperies in blue and green pastels. She had a delicately carved dressing table, brushes and combs of hammered silver, and a carved bath so deep she could almost swim in it. She had been supplied with a number of precious books, painfully, expertly copied by scholars, French translations of works by the famous Greek and Roman poets. Nothing that she could need or want was denied her—except her freedom.

  And that was why she hated the chamber so. It was, no matter how luxurious, a prison.

  “Sit!” Jalahar commanded her, indicating the stool before her dressing chamber. Nervously she did so, pleading with her eyes as they met his in the finely crafted, hammered-metal mirror. He met her eyes briefly, but he didn’t speak as he picked up her brush and haphazardly plucked the pins from the bulk of her hair. It fell about her in a radiant splendor, and Jalahar picked up the tendrils with fascination, watching the gold and copper shimmer in the candlelight as he moved the brush in soothing strokes.

  “Jalahar!”

  She didn’t want to beg him for information, but the threat of a sob was in her voice.

  “He holds his own, so I have heard.”

  “He lives!”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “But what?” Elise spun about in the chair, raising her eyes to his with torment and anxiety.

  “They say he fights a fever. That is the case so often, you know.... It is not the wound that kills the man, but the fever.”

  Elise lowered her eyes, aware that they were filling with tears.

  “He is a strong man,” Jalahar told her. “He has the English King’s best physicians at his side.”

  “They shall probably kill him if the fever doesn’t!” Elise cried.

  Jalahar was quiet for a moment, then murmured, “I will ask that Saladin send a physician from the East, an Egyptian man, one well acquainted with the desert fever.”

  Later she would find it absurd that the man who had abducted her from her husband was willing to do his best to see to her husband’s life and health; at that moment, all that she could think about was Bryan, and it did not matter in the least that she discussed him with Jalahar—and that both men were natural enemies.

  “An Egyptian?” she demanded.

  “He is the best I know,” Jalahar said softly.

  “But will Richard accept him? Will he allow him to see Bryan?”

  “Even your king respects the honesty of Saladin. Your king is stubborn, with misguided intentions, but he is not a fool. I will see that this man is sent to him.”

  Tears were blurring her eyes. She stared at her hands. “Will you . . . keep me informed?”

  “Yes . . . if you will invite me in, of course.”

  “Invite you . . .”

  He smiled at her through the mirror. “This is your domain, Elise.”

  She stared at his dark, dark eyes, so expressive against the burned bronze of his strangely refined features. His fingers, long and slender, rested against the gold of her hair. She shivered slightly, wishing he were fat and filthy and ugly. He was not. Even clad in his loose-fitting desert robes, he gave the impression of wired strength and agility. He was soft-spoken and gentle, a strange man indeed.

  “This is not my domain. It is a pleasantly appointed . . . prison. You are my warder. Prisoners do not invite their warders anywhere.”

  “You must think of yourself as a guest. A good host does not enter upon a guest without an invitation.”

  “You entered freely enough tonight.”

  “Ah . . . but the circumstances were extenuating, wouldn’t you say? I found I needed to be of service as an escort.”

  Elise stared at the dresser and spoke in a whisper. “You know that I would invite you anywhere . . . to learn about Bryan.”

  “Then when I have news, I will come back to you.”

  * * *

  It was to be another week before she saw him again. She tried to read, tried to find some method to maintain her patience, praying to stay sane. As often as not, though, she paced the chamber.

  Two women served her, both Arabs, both handsomely dressed and decked out in jewels. Elise found their costume curious for servants, until she discovered through the elder’s smattering of French that they were both wives of Jalahar. She was astounded that he would send his wives to care for another woman whom he had taken in battle, but neither appeared to be offended by the action.

  “By the laws of Allah, a man takes four wives.” Satima, small and a little stout, told her.

  “And Jalahar has . . . ?”

  “Three. When the time is right . . . he will make you a wife.”

  “But I have a husband!”

  “Not to the laws of Islam.”

  The Arab women were disapproving of her lack of enthusiasm; as a captive, she should have been flattered to have the great Jalahar determined to make her a wife when she should have been no better than a concubine.

  Elise fell into days of deep depression. Jalahar brought her no information; she worried endlessly about Bryan. It was true that fevers brought down the strongest men, and it seemed so long already.... How long could even his toned and sinewed strength hold out against a fever that ravaged relentlessly?

  And if he lived . . .

  Well, she had left him to Gwyneth’s care.

  She would roll into her vast bed of cushions and silks and cry. Gwyneth would at last have Bryan; she would be the fourth wife of a desert lord, imprisoned forever in chambers of silk.

  There were long, long days and nights for her to think and ponder. She remembered Firth Manor and the day Percy had died; he had died trying to warn her . . . about Gwyneth. And now, she had actually given the woman her blessing to take her husband . . .

  If he lived.

  He had to live. It was better to think of him with Gwyneth than it was to imagine those indigo eyes closed forever, his heart no longer pulsing with life and vitality.

  For two days she didn’t eat; Satima finally cajoled her into doing so, reminding her that she would harm her child. Even then it was difficult to care; she had not felt the life within her yet, and it seemed so distant.

  One morning, as she stood staring blindly up at the gauze netting over her bed, she heard the door creak open. She thought little of it: Satima or Marin bringing her a tray of breakfast fruit and fresh bread. “Just set the tray down,” she murmured distantly.

  “Ah . . . no, I will sit with you while you eat! You must eat, you know.”

  It was a different voice. Elise turned around to see another woman, very petite, fragile, and lovely. Her eyes were dark and enormous, her features were sweetly heart-shaped. She stared at Elise with a smile that made her uneasy.

  “Who are you?” Elise asked her.

  “Sonina. Come, yes? I have selected the sweetest dates for you . . . bread fresh from the oven. Please? You must eat,” Sonina cajoled.

  Elise didn’t feel at all well. She rolled from the tangle of the cushions and stood, offering Sonina a distracted smile as she walked out to the balcony. What was happening? Why hadn’t Jalahar come to tell her about Bryan? He couldn’t be—

  “You die!”

  She spun about as the words were screamed, stunned to see the fragile beauty flying at her like an arrow, her hand raised high in the air, her fingers gripped hard around a jewel-encrusted dagger.

  Elise screamed instinctively, ducking and bolting about in time to save herself from a blow. She whirled about again, ready to fight. When Sonina came at her again, she struck the girl’s arm hard, forcing the dagger to slide across the floor. When Sonina began to pound
on her with fury, she doubled up and caught the Arab woman’s wrist, amazed by her own strength.

  “Stop it!” she screamed to the panting Sonina, who still tried to claw at her face.

  “You should have eaten the dates!” Sonina hissed back.

  A ripple of fear slid along Elise’s spine. “They were poisoned, weren’t they?”

  “Yes! Yes! And I will kill you yet!”

  “Why?”

  “Jalahar! I will not allow you to replace me.”

  “I have no desire in the world to replace you—and Jalahar already has two other wives!”

  “Them!” Sonina twisted her lips into a snarl of scorn. “They are but two old crows! I am the one he comes to! The others care for his children—and his whores.”

  Elise reddened despite herself. “I’m not his whore, Sonina, nor do I wish to be his wife. I have a husband. If you wish to get rid of me, help me! Help me leave—”

  The door burst open. Satima swept in, accompanied by a husky guard. Satima pushed past Elise and grasped Sonina by the hair, railing furiously at her in Arabic. Sonina shouted back, but the guard grasped her about the waist and hauled her, kicking, from the room.

  “She will not disturb you again,” Satima said.

  “Don’t eat the dates,” Elise said dryly.

  Satima glanced at the tray of food, needing no further explanation. “Sonina is in a pique. Jalahar returns tonight, and his message requested that you see him after he has bathed and dined.”

  Elise lowered her eyes.

  “Yes, I will see him,” she said.

  * * *

  Jalahar came to her chamber late. She had been pacing the room for hours, and when the door opened, she ran to him.

  “Please tell me, have you heard anything?”

  Jalahar did not keep her waiting. He watched her as he spoke, and she wondered what he found so intriguing about her face.

  “The Egyptian treats Stede. He still fights the fever, but the fever lessens, so we hear. He has come to consciousness once or twice, and the Egyptian says that he will live.”

  Elise was shaking so badly with relief that she sank to the carpet, as her legs were too weak to hold her. She pressed her palms to her cheeks, as if to hold onto consciousness herself.

  Jalahar reached down to her, lifting her up again. “I have brought you good tidings. But now, you are my hostess. You will entertain me.”

  Panic must have filled her eyes, for he laughed. “I take nothing that you do not give, remember?” He clapped his hands and the door opened. Two servants brought in a low, curious table, and began to set carved pieces upon it. Elise glanced to Jalahar.

  “Chess,” he told her, walking to the table and picking up one of the pieces to enjoy its beautiful workmanship with the sensitivity of his hands. “Most unusual workmanship. It was a gift to my father from the then King of Jerusalem. A Christian king. Do you play?”

  Elise nodded and sat on a cushion. “You will move first,” Jalahar told her, and she did so.

  Pawns were taken; knights and bishops fell. “You play well,” Jalahar told her.

  “I will win,” she told him.

  He smiled. “That is unlikely. For I will play you until I do win.”

  The game continued. Then he said, “I hear that you had an interesting morning.”

  Elise shrugged coolly. “Your wife tried to poison me. Then she attempted to stab me.”

  “She will be punished.”

  “Why? She doesn’t want me here any more than I wish to be here.”

  “A wife does not go against her husband’s will.”

  “Then you would not want me for a wife, Jalahar; I believe in my own will.”

  His hand paused upon a game piece and he gazed at her, a twinkle glittering in the depths of his eyes, his lip curving just slightly to a smile.

  “I do not remember suggesting that you should be my wife,” he said politely.

  She didn’t know why she flushed. “It is Sonina’s fear,” she told him.

  He shrugged. “You will not worry about Sonina.”

  “I do not wish you to punish her,” Elise said. She moved a piece and looked at him again. “I believe you will find that you have no move left. The game is mine.”

  Jalahar stood and bowed slightly to her. “This game I concede. We will play again a week from now.”

  * * *

  Elise learned to survive through the long days by concentrating on two thoughts. Eleanor, Queen Eleanor, who had given her so much in care and affection, had been a prisoner for sixteen years. She had been treated harshly at times, denied the simplest of pleasures. She had emerged as strong and proud as ever.

  She had learned how to wait . . .

  The thought of sixteen years almost sent Elise spiraling into despair again; her second thought kept her from doing so.

  She had to remain healthy, bright, alert. All that she might ever have of the man she had come to love with every depth of her being was their child. For the babe, she would endure.

  Jalahar came every week. She learned that Sonina had been sent back to her father. Elise was indignant, but Jalahar was firm.

  “My household is a peaceful one. A woman who would stab or poison another is not one I wish to have in my bed. I fight my battles on the field, against men.”

  Elise faltered at her game, moving her queen haphazardly as she retorted to him.

  “Then you do not want me here, Jalahar, for I would readily kill you for my freedom if I had the chance.”

  “Would you?”

  With the swift move of a pawn, he took her queen, and left her in checkmate. Elise barely noted the game, but she gasped when Jalahar suddenly sent the table and the pieces crashing across the floor. He stood, jerking her from the cushion on which she sat until she pressed against his chest, staring into his eyes.

  “I will give you my dagger,” he told her, pulling a lethal blade from his belt and pressing it into her hand. “Take it!” He ripped open his robe, exposing the flesh and muscle of his chest.

  Elise, stunned by his action, began to back away from him, the pearl-handled dagger clutched tightly in her palm. He kept advancing on her, daring her with his dark eyes flashing.

  “Stop, Jalahar!” she cried. “I will stab you!”

  “Will you?”

  He reached out and grabbed her hand, bringing the blade of the dagger against his flesh. He exerted a pressure that forced her hand down, drawing blood in a thin, crimson line.

  “Stop!” Elise screamed again, wrenching her hand from him. Hysterical tears rose to her eyes, and she stumbled away from him once more, this time tripping upon the silk cushions and pillows of her bed. She fell upon them, and her eyes widened in panic as he smiled, and lowered himself beside her, resting on an elbow as he watched her.

  Elise rolled from him and drew herself against the wall, facing him, meeting his eyes.

  “You haven’t the instinct for murder,” he told her softly. He rolled with a sudden, lithe movement and kneeled before her couch. His knuckles grazed her cheek. “Would it be so very hard to love me?” he asked her. His lips touched hers; she wanted to twist from them but could not, as she was pinned to the wall. But the touch was not cruel, or forceful. His mouth was warm and tasted of mint, gently persuasive upon hers. The kiss was light, scarcely more than a whisper against her lips. And then he was staring at her once more.

  Elise trembled, torn and ravaged by the sweep of her emotions. She parted her lips to speak, then remembered that she still gripped his dagger in her hands.

  She brought it between her own breasts.

  “Perhaps I cannot take your life,” she told him, “but I can take my own.”

  A flash of anger darkened his eyes. He slapped the dagger from her grasp with a blow so stunning she cried out as she watched it spin across the floor.

  “Am I so abhorrent to you that you would really kill yourself and your child?” he demanded in a cold fury.

  Tears filled her eyes. “
No,” she whispered to him. “You are not abhorrent to me. But I . . . I love my husband. Can’t you understand that?”

  He reached out for her and she flinched, not because she feared that he would harm her; she feared his gentleness. “I am not going to harm you, golden girl,” he told her softly. “Just hold you. Don’t fight me.”

  He pulled her down to the pillows beside him and held her. She felt the soothing caress of his long fingers across her cheek, through her hair. Elise closed her eyes, and her shivering gradually subsided. His words were true; all he did was hold her.

  And as she lay, she smiled bitterly through tears of aching remorse. Once, she would have killed to escape . . . from Bryan. She would have gladly seen him strung and swinging by a rope. Once . . . but she had been a different woman then, or perhaps it was because she had only been a girl until she had come to know him, and to understand the depths of ecstasy and despair that loving could bring. Jalahar . . . was so very different from Bryan. Slim, dark, a Moslem, a desert prince. Born to different ways, a different God.

  But she had learned from Bryan that there were many ways to look at a man, and that Jalahar possessed qualities that she could not help but respect. And Bryan had told her once . . . that first night . . . so long ago, another world now, that no meeting of the flesh was worth dying for. She had no desire to die; Jalahar had not forced her to that test.

  And, no, she did not abhor him. She would fight him; she would have to fight him if he ever forced her. But she was frightened. Very frightened. Bryan had given her so much of love; he had opened the uncharted path to her senses and her heart, and she was very afraid that loneliness and her fear would leave her vulnerable to the very tenderness Jalahar displayed.

  He spoke then, moving his hand with idle fascination over her hair, as if he had read her mind. “Would it be so very hard to love me . . . as you love Stede?”

  “I cannot say,” she told him, “because I do love him.”

  Jalahar was silent for several minutes. He leaned back, resting his head upon an elbow as he stared into the misted gauze above them.

  “What if he were to die?”