Adam of Albion

by Kim McMahon

  He felt a thump against his back.

  “Is there any particular reason you’re just letting me sit in here like the filling in a cabbage roll?” demanded a voice rich with indignation.

  Adam sighed. One thing about having Orpheus around—you never got much chance to feel sorry for yourself. He was too busy making sure you felt sorry for him. Adam unslung the sack and liberated him.

  “So where do we stand?” Orph said grumpily.

  In spite of it all, Adam couldn’t resist a jab. “Stand?”

  Orpheus scowled. “Don’t be a smartass. It’s bad enough I had to relive that traumatic experience.”

  “Oh, excuse me,” Adam said, getting annoyed himself. “While you were suffering such emotional distress, I was living it up, getting stomped to the ground by an Assassin. Artemis, too—I doubt she’s having any fun.”

  “Speaking of which, my warning to you children not to get separated seems to have fallen on deaf ears.”

  “She did it for you—you and Eurydice,” Adam snapped back. “At least you could show a little gratitude. And don’t forget, she’s really smart and tough.”

  “Definitely stubborn,” Orpheus conceded.

  “And now we know what happened to Eurydice.”

  “Yeah—she got stolen by a gang of Assassins. She might as well be locked up inside Fort Knox.”

  “Quit being such a wet sock. The Sultan’s going to help us, remember?”

  “What I remember is, he said he’d try to get you and Artemis back together, in exchange for a favor—which most likely means it’s so dangerous he doesn’t want to waste one of his soldiers on it, so he’s sending somebody expendable,” Orpheus countered. “Well, it’s what I get for putting my fate in the hands of the Bobbsey twins. Like, just shoot me.” He snapped his eyes shut and toppled over backwards on the bed, which seemed to be his way of feeling terminally sorry for himself.

  Adam was furious by now, mostly because he was afraid Orpheus was right.

  “Fine, you just lie around and sulk,” he said. “I’m going to keep thinking, and you can bet Artemis will, too.” He stood and started pacing. One thing about getting mad, it gave you a rush of new energy.

  “Okay, you’re right—there’s no better way to lose than by fighting with your own team,” Orpheus muttered, hopping up again. “Look, I get crabby when I’m tense, and right now, saying I’m tense is like saying fish have fins.”

  Adam softened. “We’ll keep doing our best, that’s all I can tell you, Orph. Look at it this way—just the fact that we’re still alive is pretty amazing.”

  “No argument there. Let’s just hope you’re still saying that this time tomorrow.” He glanced around the room to take in their surroundings. “Nice digs, anyway—the kind of place that befits somebody of my stature.”

  Adam rolled his eyes. There was just no stopping him.

  At that moment, a chime rang out in the hallway, like a doorbell but with a pleasing natural echo. Orpheus rolled like a hot grounder under some pillows, while Adam hurried to the chamber’s entrance.

  A boy about Adam’s age was standing there, holding a covered silver tray that radiated the enticing aroma of food. He was dressed in fine silk pantaloons and an embroidered jacket, and his head was bowed.

  “Awesome—come on in,” Adam said.

  Then the boy looked up, and Adam realized who he was—Mustafa!

  “Whoa—am I glad to see you!” Adam yelled, grabbing his friend in a clumsy bear hug and almost upsetting the tray.

  But Mustafa didn’t answer and he didn’t look happy—in fact, his eyes were damp with shame and resentment. He shrugged Adam off and hurried on into the room, setting the tray on a low table.

  Adam was taken aback—had he done something to offend Mustafa?

  “What is it?” he asked anxiously.

  “You told the Sultan that I befriended you.”

  “I had to—he asked me straight out and I didn’t dare lie. But he promised he wouldn’t get mad, or punish you or anything.”

  “That’s just the problem,” Mustafa said, looking like he was about to cry. “He told his palace chief to see to it that that you and I could be together. The chief is a nasty man who hates the grooms, because we are free and on our way to becoming soldiers, while such as him don’t have the courage. And so—without the Sultan knowing—he made me your servant.” Mustafa plucked miserably at his fancy silk clothing. “Look at me! An hour ago, I was a proud handler of warhorses. Now I’m a housecat, dressed like a girl.”

  Adam stared at him, numb with shock at this new disaster he’d accidentally caused. But what could he do? Apologizing sure wasn’t going to get Mustafa out of those ridiculous pantaloons.

  Then from the bed came an, “Ahem,” like someone clearing their throat. The boys turned to see a pillow shivering like there was a small animal trapped underneath. Adam hurriedly rescued Orph and set him upright.

  “If I might point something out,” he said. “Mustafa, that means you have to obey everything Adam tells you, right?”

  Mustafa nodded, sullenly lowering his gaze again. Orpheus glanced at Adam with raised eyebrows—like, Get it?

  Adam did. He grinned, patting Mustafa’s shoulder. “Okay, here’s my first and last command—totally forget that I’m your master, right this second!”

  Mustafa’s head bounced back up, with his own face splitting into a huge smile.

  “You mean it, master?”

  “Of course I mean it. And lose that ‘master’ stuff—I’m just Adam. Why don’t you run get your own clothes and we’ll eat? And hurry up, I’m starving.”

  “As long as you’re out and about, Mustafa,” Orph added hopefully, “I don’t suppose there’s any wine around?”

  “Indeed, O marvelous Orpheus—I’ll bring the Sultan’s finest.” He bolted happily out the door. Orpheus sighed with anticipation—and he obviously didn’t mind having the “marvelous” tagged onto his name.

  Mustafa was back in a few minutes, dressed in his old clothes and carrying a crystal decanter of deep red wine with an enticing, spicy smell. Orpheus sucked in nosefuls of it and rambled on about things like “bouquet” and “legs,” while the boys tore into the food. It was really good—fresh bread, tart goat cheese, olives, dates, and figs, and chunks of roasted lamb on skewers. Adam could have gone for a cheeseburger and fries—he spent some time describing those to Mustafa, who cautiously agreed that he’d like to try them—but he sure wasn’t complaining.

  They talked on into the evening, all three sprawled on the giant cushion bed—trying to imagine what task Saladin would ask them to do tomorrow, where Artemis was, and any possibilities for maneuvering closer to her and Eurydice. But the food and the excitement of the day finally took their toll and the boys went to sleep before it got too late. The Sultan had said early in the morning, and they needed all the rest they could get for the momentous, frightening day ahead.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The terrain got rougher and wilder with every mile, turning to steep craggy cliffs that the Assassin’s horse traversed on trails that seemed as narrow as threads, where a single misstep would plunge them down a sheer drop-off into the unfathomable darkness below. At least the bigger Arabian was much more comfortable than the pony, and Artemis was pressed against a warm human back instead of a cold hillside.

  At last they came to a cliff that rose straight up and towered high above all the others. The top, outlined against the moonlight, seemed unnaturally level, and notched like the battlements of a fortress.

  Then Artemis realized that a fortress was exactly what it was, carved out of the natural rock—she could see human figures standing guard up there. The rider spurred the horse up the final steep stretch, and a great wooden door in the cliff face began to open.

  Inside it was a large stone courtyard, ringed with torches that cast a smoky yellowish glow. They were met by the rest of the black-robed, red-sashed Assassins, who the rider spoke with in low tones. Artemis couldn’t und
erstand a word of the Arabic—but once again, she got the sense that the voices weren’t really manlike, and the figures moved with fluid grace that was almost like dancing. Assassins would be lithe and nimble, of course—but still, it somehow didn’t quite fit.

  Then they all broke into laughter, looking at her. It wasn’t unkind laughter—if anything, they seemed pleased, like when her abductor had smiled at the sight of her hair.

  And the musical tone of the laughter definitely wasn’t manlike. Artemis was hardly daring to believe it, but by now she was quite sure.

  These were women!

  She was stunned—and also a little piqued. Even if their amusement was friendly, she still didn’t like getting laughed at. It was like being the butt of a joke for a schoolgirl clique, with everyone else in on it.

  All right, she thought, let’s get the cards on the table. With a quick, defiant movement, she pulled the burqa’s hood back off her hair and shook it loose into a wild, disheveled mass.

  They all stared, with a few gasps of surprise.

  “I can’t understand what you’re saying, and I’m sure you can’t understand me,” she told them. “But you can see that I’m a woman, same as you—my hair’s different, that’s all. And you should know it’s rude to treat me like I’m some sort of weird toy.”

  Then her abductor stepped toward her, loosening her own veil and pulling off her hood.

  It was Artemis’s turn to inhale sharply in surprise.

  She was blond, too—a darker wheat color than Artemis, but definitely not the black or henna-lightened sheen of the local women’s hair. Not only that, her skin, while suntanned, was fair, and her eyes were blue. She looked much more northern European than mideastern.

  In fact, Artemis suddenly saw, the surprise of the others wasn’t just because of her own blond hair. It was because, while this woman was in her thirties—the two of them looked a great deal alike.

  “It seems we speak the same native tongue—and I think we must come from the same land,” she said—in English! Her accent was thick, and not quite like any that Artemis had ever heard—it was actually very much how she would have expected a character in Canterbury Tales to sound. But it was clear and crisp, and easy to understand. Her face suggested keen intelligence and a strong will.

  Artemis could have wept with relief—someone she could talk to, and a countrywoman to boot! But she caught herself immediately, realizing that this didn’t mean she’d landed softly. They might be women and one of them might be British, but they were still Assassins, with all that deadly skill and ruthlessness—and no doubt they were entirely capable of exchanging her for gold, just like men would. Smart money was to tone down her huffiness and try to make friends.

  “I’m from Cornwall, ma’am,” she said, bending her knee in a little curtsey. “My name is Artemis.”

  “You may call me Theodora.”

  Artemis bowed again—then watched, entranced, as the others peeled off their headdresses. They all seemed beautiful, not with usual prettiness—some were harsh-featured, and several of the faces bore scars, probably from battle. But they all had Theodora’s proud, deep look that transformed them beyond appearance.

  “We saw you following us, of course,” Theodora said. “We could have left you to die of exposure—or worse, to be found by someone else. But we were curious, so I went back to get you. Do you know who we are?”

  “I—thought you were Assassins.”

  The corners of Theodora’s mouth twitched, and she quickly translated the words to the others. Another ripple of laughter passed through them.

  “You’re not far off the mark, which is why we laugh,” she said. “We find it hard to imagine why a young foreign girl—or anyone in their right mind, for that matter—would pursue a band of Assassins.”

  With all the piercing gazes on her, Artemis made a quick decision, hoping desperately that it was the right one—or at least not a fatally wrong one.

  “I know what happened in the skirmish,” she said, trying to sound cool but unable to keep a tremor of excitement out of her voice. “It was you, Theodora, wasn’t it, who cut the pommel free? With the head inside it? And you took—her—with you.”

  Theodora’s amusement vanished, and she stared at Artemis like someone would stare at a marble statue that had just said Good morning to them.

  Artemis had always felt sorry for girls who were timid and mousy, and she’d even rather looked down on them. But now she was wishing very hard that instead of saying what she’d just said, she’d broken down in hysterical tears and blubbered for her mother.

  Theodora spun around to the other women and spoke quickly. Their eyes widened and focused on Artemis, now with a very different look. It wasn’t exactly angry—but she could tell she wasn’t going to be treated like a weird toy any longer.

  “Come,” Theodora commanded, and tugged her toward an arched stone doorway at the far end of the courtyard. Artemis hurried along fearfully, her mind inflamed by visions of moldy, scorpion-infested dungeons.

  But instead, they entered a chamber with a couple of low wooden couches and a smoldering fire of coals that gave off delicious warmth. There was no hint of soft luxury—there didn’t seem to be any of that around this fortress—but after her hours in the desert, it seemed like the Ritz. And there was food! Strong hot tea with honey, bread, butter, fruit—and an egg dish, like a Yorkshire pudding, that looked and smelled scrumptious.

  “You’re quite a puzzle, Artemis,” Theodora said. “I don’t yet know what to do with you. But our honor demands that we treat all guests—and prisoners—with humanity.” She gestured toward the table set with food.

  Her pointed inclusion of the term “prisoners” was not reassuring, but Artemis quickly decided that she could worry with much better focus if she wasn’t distracted by gnawing hunger.

  “Thanks ever so much,” she said, and loaded up a shallow pottery bowl—pausing to look longingly at the egg dish, but leaving it alone.

  “You don’t care for the omelet?” Theodora said, noticing.

  “It looks lovely. But I’m a vegan.”

  “A what?”

  Artemis realized that the term probably wasn’t in use in the twelfth century.

  “It means you don’t eat things that were alive, except, you know, growing out of the ground,” she said.

  “Oh. How commendable. By choice, we don’t eat meat ourselves.”

  Right, Artemis thought grimly—female Assassins who wouldn’t bat an eye at killing a human, but not an animal.

  “But we’re often in situations where there’s nothing else, and it’s either that or we risk losing our strength—even starving,” Theodora went on. “Then we’ll eat anything, including locusts. Just now, you need all the strength you can get, and bread and fruit will only go so far.”

  “Well—it’s true that some vegetarians consider eggs to be all right,” Artemis conceded. She felt guilty about abandoning her principles, but Theodora did have a point, and her stomach was shouting agreement. She dipped into the dish with a wooden spoon and tried a taste. It was heavenly. She scooped a heap of it into the bowl.

  Theodora smiled. “I think the hens would forgive you, Artemis—they hatch plenty of chicks as it is, and the extra eggs would only go to waste.”

  Then her smile faded away, replaced by a cool, stern look and arched eyebrows that no one could pull off quite like a British woman.

  “Now sit—we’ll talk while you eat,” she said.

  “Yes, of course,” Artemis said, dropping onto a couch. “But would you mind telling me where I am?” Maybe Theodora was right about the food giving her strength—in spite of her fears, her excitement and boldness were coming back.

  Theodora seemed to consider, then decide the information couldn’t do any harm.

  “We are the Sisters of Isis. This is our fortress—the Mother of Life.”

  Artemis almost sprayed a mouthful of egg back out over her bowl.

  “Really? I’ve been intere
sted in Goddess worship for, like, ever. I’m a devotee, or at least, I want to be. But I’ve never met anyone who really seems to know what it’s all about. And now, I’m actually here with you Sisters—”

  But Theodora’s face turned away, with her gaze seeming to go inward.

  “The Goddess,” she whispered, as if to herself. “Can it be—again?”

  She stood up abruptly, and paced the room with her arms tightly folded. Artemis was afraid that this time, she’d said something that had really torn it. But Theodora didn’t seem angry—more troubled, like she was wrestling with thoughts she didn’t know how to handle. When she turned back, she remained standing.

  “Let’s get on with this,” she said. “Tell me how you came here, and how you know what happened earlier today.”

  Artemis’s first instinct was to lie—which, unlike Adam, she was an expert at. If she told the truth, Theodora would think she was stark raving mad—or worse, she’d think the truth was a lie.

  And yet, what other choice did she really have? She might be able to spin some tale and get away with it, at least for a little while. But her only real hope of recovering Eurydice—and even of saving herself—was to enlist Theodora’s help.

  Besides, she wanted with all her heart to trust this woman, and to learn about the Sisters of Isis. The possibility was beyond her wildest dreams, and they’d been pretty wild.

  So, as usual, Artemis decided to plunge headfirst into these dangerous waters.

  “I will, but I’m afraid to—you’ll see why, very soon,” she said. “I can only ask you to believe me. If you don’t, there’s nothing I can do about it.”

  Theodora nodded in agreement, which wasn’t exactly the response Artemis had hoped for.

  Artemis took a deep breath, then told her the whole story. Everything.

  “So you see, Theodora,” she finished, “if Orpheus doesn’t get Eurydice back very soon, he’s going to die.”