by Kim McMahon
As that cheerful realization worked its way into his brain, they drew close to the city. Zuleika was very strong and fast, as he’d guessed, although that was pretty much a no-brainer—Saladin would not exactly be riding a stable nag. Her lope seemed effortless—she was probably used to keeping it up for hours at a time—but it ate up the miles almost at the speed of a gallop, and before long the city was looming ahead.
The high stone walls were topped by battlements heavily guarded by Saladin’s troops, who shouted salutes as their leader rode past, while he raised his hand in acknowledgment. He kept on going along the eastern side until they came to a tall double-arched gate near the Dome of the Rock.
“Wait here,” he said.
Adam slid off the horse, watching nervously as Zuleika trotted on to the waiting guards. Saladin leaned low in the saddle to listen as one of them spoke close to his ear. The talk went on for a minute or so, and then he nodded curtly and dismounted, with the guard leading the mare away. He turned to Adam and signaled him to catch up.
They passed through the gate inside the city walls, and suddenly they were surrounded by groves of trees. Adam had already gotten so used to the desert, he’d practically forgotten that such things existed—the cool and shade were wonderful. Saladin walked like Zuleika loped, leading them through the narrow lanes with a ground-eating stride that Adam practically had to run to keep up with. After a couple of minutes they came to the entrance of a large building, where more guards bowed deeply to their leader. From there, it was up a narrow staircase with stone steps worn down by centuries of use, then through one more arched doorway.
And then they were in a huge, high-ceilinged hallway with beautiful mosaics on the walls and intricately patterned marble floors. Tall narrow windows ran along its length, allowing softened light and breeze to pass through.
This must be the Sultan’s palace, Adam realized—they’d come in through a back entrance.
They stepped into a side room that seemed to be a combination library and office. The walls were lined with leather-bound books and scrolls, and there was a long low desk with sheaves of blank parchment, inkpots and quill pens. A veiled woman came hurrying in behind them, carrying a tray with a golden pitcher and two goblets. Saladin thanked her and filled the goblets himself.
“Quench your thirst, but be careful,” he said, handing one to Adam. “Those not used to our desert heat sometimes drink too fast and get sick. You’ll be my guest tonight, Adam—a chamber will be prepared for you, and I’ll have food sent to you soon.
“For right now, my guards have informed me of a pressing matter I must tend to. But we have a moment—sit and rest.” He settled crosslegged on one of the big, thick silk cushions on the floor and gestured Adam to another. Adam sat down, sipping cautiously from the goblet. It was just water, but cold and fresh, a whole different order of business than the tepid stuff he and Artemis had swigged from the skin gourd. He was parched, and he thought he’d never tasted anything so delicious in his life.
“I have a rueful confession to make—I was caught completely off guard when the Assassins struck,” Saladin said. “I’m not often surprised like that. If I were, I wouldn’t have lived nearly this long. Now my surprise has turned to puzzlement. Why did they do it? The obvious answer seems, to kill the Vizier. He surely has many enemies who wish him dead—he’s much hated and feared.
“But the Assassins could have accomplished that mission far more easily, without the risks they took. The snake was an asp—its bite is deadly if untreated, true. But we have physicians skilled in such matters, and besides, an arrow would have been more certain. His fall roughed him up a bit, but it was no real danger—some bruises, perhaps a broken bone or two. Above all, the best proof that killing him wasn’t their real aim is simply that they didn’t. No one survives the Assassins.”
Then he leaned forward intently, with those laser eyes boring in again.
“I suspect that the disturbance was only a means to an end—that their real purpose was to obtain a mysterious object that went flying through the air. I further suspect, Adam, that the reason you have suddenly appeared here has something to do with it.”
Adam’s brain kicked into overdrive. How did Saladin know about that? Could he read minds?
Saladin smiled, as if that was exactly what he was doing.
“All of those who hold power in this land have spies, but mine are the best,” he said. Then his eyebrows rose, reminding Adam that he expected information.
“You’re right, sir,” Adam mumbled, his face reddening and his gaze dropping. “I mean, the part about why I’m here—I don’t know anything about the Assassins.”
“You needn’t be nervous—just speak the truth. This is very important to me. You see, this strange event has taken another strange turn. The Grand Vizier has vanished. He started back here to Jerusalem to have his injuries tended to, but he never arrived. Hard to believe that it’s mere coincidence.”
Adam shook his head. “I don’t know anything about that, either.” But by now he was getting so caught up in trying to figure it all out that he was almost forgetting to be afraid.
Why, he suddenly wondered, did the Assassins only take Eurydice, and throw Orpheus back? Everybody else seemed to want Orph himself, for his supposed magical powers. Eurydice evidently did have her own kind of amazing power, but could anyone besides Orpheus use it? Did she even talk, or anything like that?
“We know that the Vizier possessed that mysterious object until the skirmish broke out,” Saladin said. “Apparently, the Templars have it now, and I think we may safely assume that they are the ones who—detained—him, in order to question him about it. I think we may also assume that we won’t be seeing him again—” the Sultan raised his hands palms up and glanced skyward— “but that is the will of Allah. In truth, the Assassins did me a great favor by sparking this. I must remember to send them a token of my thanks.
“Now, Adam, tell me if you can—what is this object that has brought you from afar, that men are willing to kill for? I’ve heard rumors of a head that speaks—that can perform marvels, and has more knowledge than all the wisest men of the ages. Could this be it?”
Adam felt Orpheus stirring against his back. Oh, no! he thought. Orph was such a sucker for flattery anyway—with it coming from the great Saladin, he’d be out of the sack and blabbering away in no time. So far, the Sultan hadn’t given any sign that he knew about this Orpheus, and Adam wanted to keep it that way—it would definitely cause a lot more confusion, which nobody needed right now.
“Yes, sir,” Adam said, and added hastily, “but you don’t have to worry about it, I mean him, ever going against you or your kingdom—he’s not like that at all. When people like the Vizier or the Templars get hold of him, he just plays dumb—either stonewalls them completely or puts on an act to fool them. He loves doing that, he’s a real show-off.”
Adam was hoping that would deflate Orpheus enough to shut him up, and maybe it did—he felt a sharp, annoyed butt against his spine.
Saladin’s eyebrows knitted together, and he shook his head wonderingly.
“What you say is hard to believe, but I can tell that you believe it. I hope to hear your story about your land of America, and how you came here. As for the miraculous head—it fascinates me, of course. But trying to wrest it from the Templars would inflame hostilities again—precisely what I wish to avoid. I don’t covet it, anyway. I care only to free my country from the invaders, and my power lies in my mind, my sword, and my faith, not in magic. As long as they can’t use it against me, they may keep it. Perhaps their eagerness to unlock its secrets will distract them from battle.”
He rose to his feet with the same swift, decisive grace as with everything else. Adam jumped up, too—suddenly realizing that he’d better take this chance to beg the Sultan for help, because he might never get another one.
“Sir,” he began, trying not to stammer. “Is there any way I can try to find my friend? If we don’t get b
ack together soon, we’re really going to be in a tough spot.”
Saladin looked at him appraisingly—and then gave a slight nod, as if an idea had just occurred to him.
“Very well, Adam. I have a task that must be done tomorrow—and now I see that you’re well-suited for it. Perhaps the hand of Allah sent you to me. Fulfill it well, and I’ll do what I can to help you. Now rest—I’ll call for you early in the morning.”
He clapped his hands. The woman who’d served the water came back in, and Adam followed her through the palace hallways to the room that was his for tonight.
NINETEEN
Artemis couldn’t tell how late it was, but darkness had long since fallen—and yet the rolling desert hills were bright with silvery light from the moon and millions of stars. She’d never seen a night sky so brilliant, and it would have been a breathtaking sight to savor—
If only she wasn’t exhausted and starving and freezing cold. She wouldn’t have believed that the scorching afternoon heat could have done such a radical about-face, but she was huddled up against a sandy hillside with the burqa wrapped tight around her.
And let’s not forget lost, she added miserably. She’d been lost before, things like getting separated from her mother in Harrods as a little girl, but that seemed like comic book stuff now. Everything about this land was totally foreign, not to mention that this was the twelfth century, going on a thousand years before she’d even been born, however that computed.
She hadn’t planned to follow the Assassins, or really even thought about it. She’d seen Adam leap to catch the pommel but get shoved out of the way—seen the Assassin’s hands caress the orb for a few seconds before throwing it back into the crowd of squabbling knights—and she’d realized what must have happened. That was when Eurydice had been stolen.
From there, Artemis had simply reacted. As the Assassins raced off toward the distant hills, she’d jumped astride a small muley pack horse that no one was minding and followed as fast as she could, hoping she wouldn’t be pursued because she’d look like one of them who was lagging behind. But, while the little horse loped gamely along, he wasn’t built for running—and not for riding, either. There was no real saddle, just a crude pack cloth, and no stirrups. All she could do was dig in her knees and grit her teeth, clinging fiercely to the reins.
At first she’d been running on sheer excitement and adrenaline, focused on just following that dust cloud. Whatever was going through her mind wasn’t exactly thinking, but some foolishness about how sooner or later the Assassins would stop to rest, she’d catch up with them, and she’d explain how important it was for them to give Eurydice back to her. They’d be perfectly reasonable about it, agree with her, and gladly hand over the priceless treasure they’d just risked their lives to win.
Right.
Eventually, she’d started coming to her senses and realizing how insane that notion was, from start to finish. Still, she kept on stubbornly. After all, she was the one who’d pushed this idea—she couldn’t just give up as soon as things got tough. It was their last chance to help Orpheus. Adam had done his best, and now it was her turn.
And it was also her only chance to actually find the mysterious, scintillating Eurydice, discover what she really was. Artemis had been tracking down information about Goddess worship all her life. Those cults had tended to be secretive and information about them was sketchy. But there had definitely been a strong worship of Isis, the Egyptian personification of the Great Goddess who was the fountain of all creation. The ankh shape—Eurydice’s shape—was the primary symbol of Isis. According to Orpheus, Eurydice was created long before Egypt arose from the desert sands, and she was the original shape that the Isis symbol was modeled after—not the other way around. That was beyond fascinating, beyond any archaeologist’s wildest dreams—and it had to be pursued.
So she’d kept bouncing along on the little horse, getting into more desolate country—rougher, hillier, and split by gullies. Each time she rode up out of one, she’d get another glimpse of the Assassins’ dust cloud, a mirage-like goal that would beckon her on to the next one.
She’d only been vaguely aware that the blue of the sky was getting paler, when all of a sudden, it was night. By then she was lost in a maze of ravines and craggy hills, without the faintest idea of how to go back the way she’d come. The pony wasn’t going any farther tonight, anyway—he’d slowed to a walk, worn out and needing to be fed and watered. All she could do was slack off the reins, hoping he’d find a way to fend for himself. He’d taken her to this little vale where a spring trickled out of the rocks and there was some scrubby vegetation for him to forage on. At least she wouldn’t die of thirst, but there weren’t any munchies for her. She’d used the pack cloth to rub him down as well as she could—not exactly top-notch grooming, but it wasn’t right to leave a horse sweaty and wet, especially going into a chilly night like this.
After that, there was nothing left to do but burrow into the hillside, still warm from the heat of the day, and try to soak up all she could of that until it gradually cooled to the same temperature as everything else. She’d occupied her mind with trying to make a plan for what to do when dawn came, but there was really only one that she could see—to climb the highest hilltops and hope she could get a glimpse of Jerusalem and find her way back there through the maze of ravines. Then there was still the problem of finding Adam and Orpheus before they were forced to leave without her—or she was discovered by local people who had other plans for her. That thought made her shiver harder. She didn’t know much about the realities of harems, but enough to be sure that feminism didn’t figure in.
Then, in spite her fears, she must have fallen asleep. The reason she knew that was because she suddenly woke up.
With someone crouched beside her, holding a knife to her throat. The figure was clad in a hooded black robe like her own—but with a sash around the waist that showed faintly red in the moonlight.
An Assassin.
He hissed something in a throaty voice. Artemis realized with near panic that she couldn’t understand a syllable of it—oh, no! She’d done exactly what Orpheus had warned against, gotten too far away from him for her translation device to work. She was quite good at talking her way out of trouble—the only tiny chance she had left—but now even that was out the window.
Things can always get worse, her mother was fond of saying, and usually they will. She hated it when Mum was right.
She didn’t like showing weakness, either, but discretion was definitely the better part of valor just now. She let out a small whimper and stayed very, very still.
The Assassin tilted his head, seeming surprised—no doubt he hadn’t expected such a girlish sound—and the knife point relaxed its pressure against her throat. She tried another whimper. Maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t like the stereotypical Assassins who devoted their lives to murdering people for money, but really kind and caring, and she could somehow manage to communicate her plight, and he’d feel sorry for her and help her and everything would turn out fine after all.
That did not happen.
Instead, he put his hand to her forehead and pushed the burqa’s hood back off her hair, then took a lock of it between his thumb and forefinger, and pulled it loose—all three feet or so. He let out his breath in another soft hiss as he gazed at it, although this time it was a sound of amazement rather than words.
Idiot! Artemis fumed at herself. Why on earth was she so vain and silly that she insisted on keeping her hair long? If she just shaved her head like some of the other girls she knew, she’d be fine. But now it was all over—being the blondest of blonds had done her in.
The Assassin was gazing at her intently, and although a veil hid his lower face, she thought he was smiling. And yet—it wasn’t a sinister, gloating look. It seemed more like a grownup who’d caught a child doing something mischievous, but who couldn’t help being amused by it.
Still, he was an Assassin—and who else would know better where
a young fair-haired girl would fetch the best price as a harem slave?
He sheathed his dagger, obviously deciding that she was no threat, and pulled her to her feet. His horse, a dark colored Arabian, was waiting nearby—her own pony was gone, she realized, either wandered off while she slept or spooked by the arrival of the man on the bigger mount. He walked fast, not yanking her roughly, but keeping a firm grip on her wrist.
Except—while his hand was strong, she noticed that it seemed slender and rather smooth.
But that thought barely had time to flash in and out of her mind. He boosted her up on the back of the saddle, mounted smoothly, and took off at a trot through the dark treacherous terrain, with both horse and rider obviously knowing exactly where they were going.
Artemis concentrated on breathing slowly and steadily, trying to control herself and not give into total panic. They were getting farther from Adam, Orpheus, and her home in England, with every step and every passing second. And yet, there was a strange, distant comfort about this. All power and decisions had been taken from her. There was nothing more she had to do, nothing more she could do, except hold onto her abductor in this half-dream, half-nightmare ride into an unimaginable future.
And that same little voice in her mind was whispering to look at it like this—every one of those steps and passing seconds was also taking her closer to Eurydice.
TWENTY
Adam’s spacious bedchamber didn’t really have a bed—instead, there was a huge cushion like the ones for sitting on, but several times thicker and the size of a pickup truck, strewn with soft pillows and embroidered covers.
He dropped down on it, rubbing the heels of his hands against his eyes, trying to organize his thoughts. He had to hang onto the only thread of hope he had—Saladin had agreed to help him find Artemis.
But that was instantly followed by the much more daunting condition that was attached—if Adam managed to accomplish something for the Sultan tomorrow. He couldn’t begin to guess what it might be, and he hadn’t dared to ask. But he was sure it wasn’t going to be just a stroll down to the corner store to buy milk.