“I have thought about you,” she whispered, closing her eyes. “In all these years, only about you.”
The Sacred Valley
The Sultan’s retinue formed a dark line beyond the Palace Gate, fifteen hundred horsemen clad in Osman’s colors, five hundred armed foot soldiers, and twenty pack groups carrying tents, food and supplies. Jacob had been given a glossy black stallion, its bridle fitted with silver pieces and bright tassels, its polished hooves prancing lightly on the sand, as if it were about to buck for freedom and gallop alone into the white glare of the desert.
“Whoa,” Jacob murmured, trying to keep the stubborn animal in his appointed place under the Sultan’s golden canopy, a fabric shade sewn with patterns of colored thread and bursts of metallic beads, so long that it had to be supported by eight riders on each side.
The Sultan kept an easy trot ahead, seated on a snow white horse and dressed in heavy robes of cream and gold, his face partially hidden under a sheer wrap that draped from his turban to his shoulders. He hadn’t acknowledged Jacob, or anyone in the retinue, his attention focused squarely on the dry horizon, the crystal blue sky.
Jacob narrowed his gaze. What did you do when she told you that I accepted your offer? Did you feel gratified thinking that your plan worked, that I used her? Did you dismiss her like she was nothing? Or did you do something worse?
Not knowing distracted him, made him restless when he couldn’t afford to be. He found himself looking for her, for some sign of a consort’s litter, but the line provided no view in either direction. There was just the endless line of soldiers, the choking haze of horses, dust and leather, the excited faces of the crowds as they cheered from doorways, tossed flowers in the path of their delicate ruler.
Where are you, sweetheart? What has he done with you?
Harsh sunlight glinted through rippling folds in the canopy, the bright fabric snapping in the wind as they marched into the open desert. The Sultan adjusted his wrap whenever it fluttered, seeming anxious to secure it so that it shielded his face. He sat rigid in the saddle, his small shoulders held tight, his gloved fingers fisted on the reins.
“You see the result of the poison,” the Grand Vizier said, his chubby face red from the heat, his large body swaying in the saddle of a lazy gray mare. “His Majesty still suffers, especially in bright light.”
“Suffers?” Jacob asked, watching the man keep pace beside him, tears of sweat leaking from under his turban.
“He cannot stand it.”
“It causes pain?”
“He’s never been the same. The poisoning was years ago now, something placed in the food, a traitor we never found. His Majesty suffered for seven days. The doctors and the holy men thought he would die. His breathing was very fast, his skin darkened to the color of rubies. He could eat nothing. It was only through the will of God that he survived.”
“You saw him?”
“I was permitted to visit once a day, to know his wishes while he was in the throes of his great suffering. It was most miraculous, to see him alive after the seventh, and worst, night. All could see that he was heavily afflicted, his face so much thinner, but shining with God’s favor, a vision of beauty in its fragility.”
“Beauty?”
“A man reborn, his eyes brighter, his skin glowing with life.”
Jacob held the Vizier’s gaze. “What kind of a poison does that?”
The fat man frowned, his lips pursed to a pudgy bud.
“You handle all of His Majesty’s affairs?” Jacob asked.
“I have the honor of ensuring that his wishes are carried out.”
“Was it his wish that I be chained in a cell, or yours?”
The Vizier’s eyes narrowed to slits, his chest heaving under an iridescent vest and heavy strands of pearls. “You are a dangerous criminal. It was done with His Majesty’s safety in mind.”
“Because God only knows what a dangerous criminal would do inside the Palace, if allowed to roam free.”
“It is my duty to protect the Sultan and his property.”
Jacob leaned closer, allowing a half smile to cross his lips. “Does that mean the cell door would have remained locked the whole night through, or just till a quarter past midnight?”
The Grand Vizier scowled, casting his gaze quickly across the desert.
“You truly are inexplicable.”
Jacob nodded, supposing that was true.
“After all,” the fat man added, his tone edged with menace. “What kind of disinherited brigand, what kind of thief, would ignore an open door in the midnight hour, in a palace full of priceless treasures?”
Jacob watched him for a moment, aware that he’d just been threatened by a man who knew far more about Robert Letoures than he should have.
“A careful one,” he replied.
Nadira lifted her gaze, catching sight of the sacred cliff statues of Abu Quardan as they appeared from the rose colored twilight, gods and goddesses of the ancient world standing over sixty meters tall, their arms crossed over their chests as immortal pillars of the sky. They were the guardians of the Red Desert, a place of temples, shrines and lost religions, the last sanctuary for true paganism in Ruman.
The pilgrims who flocked to these holy sites were the sole preservers of the old faith, their women dressed in beautiful tribal clothing, permitted to openly laugh and dance in worship, and talk freely among men. They were her people, people of the endless desert, whose lives were so harsh that they grasped at every opportunity for laughter, found meaning in every change of the breeze, and believed that the sun and moon were lovers forever separated by astral tides of fate.
She set her gaze ahead and forced a neutral expression, resisting the urge to look back and find the thief in her retinue, the short distance between them seeming as vast as any field of stars. She had done all she could to forget, painted her lips with clay, paled them, hidden them, but the memory of his warmth refused to disappear. No one kissed a slave the way he had kissed her, with the protective caress of his hand on her cheek, his body held strong, patient…waiting.
And now she’d turned it over in her mind for too long, no longer frightened by it, sometimes lost in the yearning for another taste of it. Was he past the experience already, thinking of his coming reward as he rode under the Sultan’s golden canopy, or was there some small thought spared for the woman he’d held and so gently let go?
He has to know…too much at stake, if the machine fails. She pressed her lips together, knowing that she had to face him again, as Nadira, to say the words that had refused to come…I didn’t kill him. I took his place…And now there is only one way out, only one way to change everything…
“The scholars have prepared for us, Your Majesty,” the voice of the Grand Vizier rose above the dusty braying of horses behind her.
Scanning across the valley below, she could see that they had, the enormous gates of the temple complex open wide, its cauldrons sparkling with fire, hundreds of robed scholars lining the stone path between the libraries and the Star Tower.
“Tell the soldiers to construct their camps here,” Nadira said, affecting a sharper accent, a quicker tone to mimic Osman. “Only my personal security will enter the university gates.”
“Yes, Majesty.”
“And send a rider ahead to arrange my apartments. The journey has weakened me. I will retire immediately, not to be disturbed. Tell Isban that I expect to observe his first test in the morning.”
“Of course, Majesty. I’m sure he will be grateful to have a few hours to prepare. His last report was not encouraging.”
“We have the proper diamond now. The machine will work.”
“Of course, Majesty.”
She frowned, seeking the tranquil faces of the guardian statues once again before they slipped out of sight. The desert had fallen into shadow around them, its red canyons leached to purple as stars appeared on the horizon, pilgrim campfires casting a dancing light among the cliff shrines and cave shelters.
“It will work,” she whispered, feeling her own destiny hanging on the words. “It has to work.”
Jacob stood on one of the library terraces, gazing at the arrangement of old structures in the square below. Fires blazed between the colonnades, light flickering over statues and fountains, the sprawling complex of great halls and temples shadowed under the moon.
The soldiers were camped just outside the walls, which would make his task easier, even if it was done in broad daylight. The Sultan would die during the first test of the weapon, when both the man, and the machine, were in exactly the same place. It would be quick, allowing no time for the guards to react. Then an escape along the roof, to the southern wall.
You’re not really a criminal at all, are you?
He hesitated at the memory of her voice, that tentative stroke of her fingers on his lips.
In truth, I have thought about you this way.
Of course, she’d meant Letoures, the drunken idiot who would have taken everything she offered, accepted her as a gift. It set his teeth on edge, to think of that. The gift, for a man patient enough to wait for it, would be her passion, not just her consent.
Jacob swore under his breath, trying to bring himself back to the moment, free himself of the dangerous distraction she had become. Let her go. She was born to this world and she knows how to survive in it. Rid her of the man who presumes to be her master. Set her free and don’t look back.
He was certainly capable of that, but it also felt like he was—like he should be—capable of more. He glared into the dark horizon. Where are you, sweetheart? What happened to you?
“Mr. Letoures?”
He turned to see her standing behind him, her face half-hidden under the hood of a thick desert cloak. He found himself searching for any sign of injury, noting the garment’s hem had been torn at her ankles. She was, once again, without an escort of any kind, nervous and out of breath.
“Are you alright?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“And where is your hidden door this time?”
“It was a window, this time.”
He stared at her, unsure of whether to believe that or not.
Her expression grew pained. “I must talk with you. There are things I could not say, before…but we cannot speak here.”
Jacob flicked his gaze to the glowing corridors of the library behind her. Scholars sat bent over their desks, busy copying decayed scrolls to typesetting sheets, a grand process of modernization. No one seemed to notice that there was a terrace, much less that two people now stood on it. Still, he nodded, following as she led him down the steps to the square.
They crossed the stone courtyard, passing briefly in and out of the firelight before entering one of the small temples by the gate, its corners marked by heavy marble obelisks. Brass oil lamps hung from the walls inside, casting gold light over elaborately painted pillars and walls. At the center of the compact hall, the statue of a naked female god with wings rose almost to the ceiling, her sightless eyes tilted toward Heaven.
Nadira paused at the entrance, her gaze narrowed on the walkways outside, searching for shadows in the darkness. “Most of the retinue is feasting beyond the gates, enjoying the freedom of this place, but…”
He glanced between the pillars, finding no other doors or entryways, solid stone at every turn. The sound of the soldiers in the distance, their clapping and singing, would mask whatever was whispered here.
“The Sultan didn’t send you this time?” he asked.
“He didn’t send me last time.” She stepped down from the entrance and pulled back her hood, her thick hair loose and unadorned, her eyes glowing gold in the lamplight.
It took him a moment to adjust, the beauty of the woman eclipsing even his memory of her, which had been vivid enough. She turned away, unable to meet his eyes as she fought with whatever it was that she’d come to say. After years of being alone, he marveled at how time seemed to slow in the company of a woman, become something softer, more significant. Who are you, Nadira? A slave who meets in secret to plead the cause of her master? A woman of the court, without guards, without rules? What could be so bad that you cannot even put it into words?
She shook her head, as if she’d heard him. Walking toward the statue, she circled its base, stroking one hand over the carved stone, a fleeting touch, graceful in that singular way of hers. “The Goddess Mit, guardian of the civilization that once thrived in this valley. They had no wars here, no uprisings, no bloodshed. They lived in peace for five hundred years, with no kings, no tyrants, no divine rulers. The people chose for themselves, their ministers, their grand council of elders…”
“A republic,” he said.
“A what?”
“A government chosen by the people.”
“Yes.”
Jacob nodded, knowing of several in the ancient world, none of which had survived to the modern age. He couldn’t help but wonder why she found them so interesting.
“Kings and gods…” she murmured. “People prefer them to have a face, even if it is the wrong one. Most people need someone staring down at them, reminding them that life must have order, or they scatter into chaos. But these people put the burden of destiny on themselves. They were conquered, destroyed by their neighbors, but…”
She looked defeated. She couldn’t say it, whatever it was.
He watched her for a moment. “Where did he find you?”
“Among the tribes, close to here.”
“Osman is fond of visiting the Red Desert?”
“No, of course not. It was not him. He was always shut away in his private apartments and rarely seen. I was found by one of his lesser viziers, who was traveling back to the palace and looking for a gift.”
“He took you?”
“I was purchased from my father.”
“Purchased.”
She looked up at him, her face revealing shades of the girl she had been. “It is not as harsh as it sounds. Life in the desert is very difficult. My parents believed that I would be safe. I would never sleep in the cold, or go hungry. It was more than they ever had for themselves.”
“And are you safe?”
She closed her eyes. “It has never been that simple.”
He couldn’t imagine that it had been. Her expression, her withdrawal, was more than enough to demonstrate that. What did he do to you?
“From the beginning, he was impossible to please,” she said, seeming to struggle with the words. “There were moments when he was happy, and he would call for a dance, or a game, and he laughed, the way a child might laugh, but if anything, anything, disturbed his calm, he was ruthless, unable to control his anger. He was tortured, cruel and…paranoid, and I grew to hate him. When he fell ill, I stood above his bed, hoping for it to end, hoping for him to die, even in that horrible way.”
The last word was a whisper, more emotion than breath. She looked away from him, ashamed in ways he knew he wouldn’t be, if he’d been in her place. He let the urge to reply pass, too familiar with human damage to make the mistake of patronizing or contradicting it with easy comfort. He closed the distance between them, reaching out to gently stroke the errant strands of hair from her cheek. “You’re safe now.”
She let out a soft whisper of gratitude, something in her own language, and turned her face toward his open hand, seeking the warmth of his palm. He watched in fascination as she nestled her cheek against it, her breath feather-light on his skin. “So many times, I thought I would be discovered. I thought of you, of how they couldn’t kill you. I thought of you and…this…”
She kissed his fingers.
Let her go. She knows how to survive. Let her go and don’t look back.
Her lips touched him again, offering peace, the deep quiet that came from exertion and release, from shared breath and shared intent. He couldn’t look away from it now, the soft light in her eyes, a trace of something tragic and fragile in her caress.
Leaning close, he kissed
her, needing to warm her, to fortify her, welcome her. He heard the sharp intake of breath, felt the instant rigidity, another man’s cruelty still holding sway.
“I’m not him,” he said, the words warm on her lips, whispered between touches. “I’m not him.”
She closed her eyes, knotting her fists in his entari, as if he were holding her above a fast moving current. He brought his hands up to her face, cradling her gently, tasting her panic, slowing the rhythm of the kiss until her breathing mellowed to match his own.
He felt the tension in her ease, and took pride in that, allowing himself to imagine her unafraid, her slip of a body fitting to his hands, her head rolling back on her shoulders as he caressed her, as put his mouth on her, brought her slowly to a state of need. He imagined how she would taste, the sounds she’d make when he finally thrust himself inside her, her skin flushed, her lips parted and wet, her golden eyes glowing underneath him.
He resisted the urge to tighten his hold, to rush her as his cock hardened with the wanting of her, desperate to feel her, hear her whisper his name into the heated air between them.
Nadira.
She broke the kiss. “I dreamed of you, so many times…when I was alone, when it was safe. I dreamed of being like your other lovers.”
“I have no other lovers,” he murmured. “Not for years.”
“That can’t be true.”
“It is true.”
“But, the reports—”
“Don’t mistake me for that man, Nadira,” he said. “I’m not him either. I would be careful with you.”
She stared up at him, her eyes glazing with tears. “I must tell you the truth, the truth about Osman.”
He pressed his lips together, confused.
“On the seventh night, he could not even drink water,” she said, looking away, staring into a past he could not see. “He was finally convinced that he would die and I…I told him that no one should see the dying pains of a great Sultan. He agreed and ordered everyone to leave his apartments, leave him alone, with me as his only servant. I held his hand as his eyes lit with all the wonders of the next world…” She shook her head. “And I became desperate. I knew what would happen with him gone, how women of the Harem are treated once the Sultan dies, taken to a place of isolation, where they may be imprisoned, tormented—”
The Champion Page 4