Adam of Albion

by Kim McMahon

  Orpheus had stayed unusually quiet through all this—probably, Adam realized with a pang, because he wasn’t at all optimistic about the outcome. But he did give off a crusty glare and heave a sigh of resignation as Adam placed him inside the hemp sack, which was oddly comforting. At least he was still the same old Orph.

  “Any advice?” Adam whispered.

  “Think fast, and try not to offend anyone. Otherwise, I’m as much in the dark as you. We’ll just have to take it as it comes.”

  By then, one of the serving women was waiting for them. She informed them that the Sultan wanted to see Adam alone—Mustafa was to go and help ready the horses, and Adam would join him soon.

  This didn’t make Adam any less nervous, but at least Mustafa would be going with him—wherever it was they were going. Adam followed the woman to the same chamber where he’d talked with Saladin yesterday. At the doorway, she stepped aside and gestured for him to go in. He obeyed—by now, as wide awake as it was possible to be, and wired with excitement and worry.

  Saladin was sitting crosslegged behind his low desk again, writing on a parchment with a quill pen that he dipped into an inkpot. Adam wondered if he ever slept.

  “Sit, Adam,” he said, without looking up. “This will take me another minute or two.” He continued to write, pausing briefly a couple of times, with the air of weighing his words. Then he added a few final bold strokes of his pen—the signature of a king, Adam realized—and set the parchment carefully aside for the ink to dry.

  “I hope you found our humble hospitality satisfactory?” the Sultan asked.

  “It was great, sir,” Adam said, choosing his words carefully. “And I really appreciate you letting Mustafa be with me. But, um, he likes being a groom a lot better than a house servant.”

  “So I hear. I gather that you’ve readjusted his position.” But he didn’t seem mad—he even smiled slightly. Then his face got serious again.

  “King Richard and I are enemies, by force of circumstance. I would prefer it otherwise. I find much to admire about him—his skill and bravery in battle are unsurpassed. I did not want this war, and by now, few others do, either—it has taken a great toll on both armies, and on the people.

  “Word has reached me that Richard is ill. I have a gift to send him that may help. Even enemies can treat each other with civility—and, of course, I also aim to improve his mood, smooth over yesterday’s unfortunate turmoil, and get him back to the truce table.

  “Richard naturally distrusts my own envoys, and he’d likely dismiss such an offering out of hand. But you speak his tongue and you’re of the same Northern people. You also have a pleasing sincerity about you, Adam. So I want you to take him the gift. I think he’d like you. At least, I hope so.”

  It took Adam a second or two to realize his mouth was gaping open. The great Saladin was entrusting him as a messenger to King Richard the Lionheart!

  Except—what if Richard didn’t like him? The Sultan didn’t seem at all convinced that it was a slam dunk.

  “Richard also wants peace,” Saladin continued. “It’s the few who don’t—who want to keep the war going for their own purposes—who are the real enemies of both of us, and of everyone else. Chief among them is a Templar lord named Gerard de Chavirage. We can be sure that he’ll get Richard’s ear, and try to persuade him that yesterday’s skirmish was treachery on our part.”

  Adam remembered that name—Gerard de Chavirage was the knight who’d been doing all the shouting, and who Orpheus had called a major troublemaker. Saladin’s next words confirmed that, and then some.

  “Chavirage is the kind of man true soldiers loathe—a braggart and a fool, who puts on bold shows that bring ruin to others. I’ll give you an example. Not long ago, he was with a small group of his knights—they numbered no more than a hundred—and he taunted them into attacking my army of thousands, calling them cowards when common sense made them hesitate. His challenge to their honor was more than they could bear, and they charged us. It was no contest, no victory for us—just an ugly slaughter. Enemies though they were, they were brave warriors, killed for nothing but the vanity of a fool.

  “The supreme, bitter evil is that Chavirage turned out to be the coward—he abandoned his men and fled to save himself. I pray that one day soon, I’ll be granted the blessing of putting him to my own sword.” The Sultan was calm in a way that was somehow a lot scarier than yelling.

  Adam managed to find his voice, which wasn’t easy.

  “Do you think Mr. Chavirage—” no, dammit, that wasn’t right— “I mean, Sir Chavirage, that he’ll interfere with this?”

  “It’s entirely possible, Adam, I’m sorry to say. Envoys usually go unharmed, and you’ll be accompanied by two of my personal guards—I can’t send more men because that would be seen as a provocation. But the situation is volatile anyway, and Chavirage has a great deal at stake. He aims to overthrow me and become King of Jerusalem—which he can only hope to do if he sabotages the truce, and Richard and his army stay to fight on.”

  “Isn’t that the same thing the Grand Vizier wanted to do?”

  Saladin smiled thinly. “And a number of others besides, yes. The irony is, I have no wish to rule, or even to be wealthy—I’d far rather retire to some quiet place and live out my years in humble peace. But—Allah forgive me for sounding proud—only I have the power to hold off chaos and ruin, at least until this accursed war is over, and civilized life can be re-established.

  “So, Adam, if you do cross paths with Chavirage, be sharp and wary.”

  The words didn’t exactly reassure Adam. He wasn’t banking heavily on his wits just now—if they’d been working better, he wouldn’t have left his phone in his backpack, and he, Artemis, and Orpheus wouldn’t be in this mess. But he had to look brave in front of the Sultan, so he nodded.

  Saladin’s face took on a musing expression. “I’d like to meet Richard myself, but circumstances don’t allow it. We’ve never even seen each other except from afar on the battlefield, and yet I feel like I know him well. Perhaps he thinks the same about me.”

  “But—you have seen each other. Yesterday at the meeting, he was sitting off to the right, disguised as a Templar—a big bear of a man with a red-gold beard.”

  The Sultan’s eyes narrowed as he seemed to be trying to picture the array of knights—then he shook his head, laughing.

  “Ah, yes—that was Richard, of course! The skirmish broke out before I had time to realize it.”

  Then he leaned forward, his eyes drilling Adam again. “I can’t help but wonder how you knew that.” Adam mentally scrambled for an answer. But then Saladin’s gaze let up, and he turned aside to reach for the parchment. “Never mind for now—I’m sure it’s part of your complicated story.”

  Adam let out a very quiet sigh of relief, trying not to squeak.

  Saladin rolled the parchment into a scroll, poured a little warm sealing wax onto the center of the seam, and pressed his large, ornate ring down on it, leaving his kingly imprint.

  “Give this to Richard with my highest compliments, and best wishes for his health,” he said. “Trust no one else with it, except for one—a knight named Cristof. He’ll be there—he’s Richard’s closest advisor. Cristof is a good friend to have—and a bad enemy.” He handed the scroll forward. Adam jumped to his feet to take it.

  “Mustafa and the guards are waiting outside the gate where you and I came in,” Saladin said. “Go—and may Allah be with you.”

  But he hadn’t said another word about helping Adam find Artemis.

  Adam stood there, holding the scroll like it was a million dollar bill, and working up his courage to ask about it.

  But the Sultan gave him another mind-reading glance and one of his faint smiles.

  “Saladin has heard your request, and he does not forget such things,” he said. He turned his attention back to his desk, reaching for his quill pen and another blank parchment.

  Adam hurried out of the palace to the the tree-li
ned lanes that led to the gate.

  “What do you think, Orph?” he hissed back over his shoulder.

  “How fast can you run in those sandals?” came the snarky reply.

  Thanks a lot, Adam thought. But he broke into a trot, figuring he’d better test them out.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Artemis was so exhausted that she slept, although the wooden couch was hard, with only a thin pad for a cushion and a wool blanket for a cover. It made perfect sense that warrior women like the Sisters would keep themselves toughened up, and in principle, she was all for that, but her body was used to more delicate conditions, like mattresses. When she awoke, she couldn’t guess what time it was. The darkness in the chamber, lit only by the smoldering coal fire, seemed just the same. She lay there tossing, trying to find a comfortable position, but her bones seemed to press right through her skinny body against the wood.

  With wakefulness came a reality check, and it was as unforgiving as the couch. Being in a dangerous situation was bad enough, but it was even worse when you hardly knew what this reality was.

  She whispered the verse on the scroll that Theodora had left with her, making sure she knew it by heart, and hoping to find a glimmer of help in it.

  In darkness find flint

  With fire find glint

  The strikes must be fierce

  The false hearts to pierce

  But what on earth could it mean? It almost sounded silly, like a nonsense riddle. Was that what it was—and all this ominous talk of a dangerous test, just a game that Theodora was playing with her? The kind of thing that a group of bored women living in this remote place would cook up to amuse themselves, making sport of a naïve and defenseless girl?

  She didn’t really know anything about the Sisters of Isis—she’d never even read of them by that name. There’d been ancient priestesses of Isis and her counterparts, like Cybele and Astarte. But Artemis had spent years combing through every source she could find, both in libraries and online, and she hadn’t come across a group of Goddess worshipping Assassins in the Holy Land. Then again, they were very secretive, and it was also possible that the chroniclers of the time—all men—hadn’t wanted to mention such a powerful group of women. She’d started to learn a major lesson about recorded history, especially in older times—it was usually the version that the people in power wanted told.

  But the Sisters definitely existed, and even if they were a little crazy, they’d pulled off the daring theft of Eurydice, right under the noses of armed Crusader knights.

  So what about this supposed initiation test, which only a few survived? Part of her mind might want to think it was only a game—but her tingling nerves suspected that it was as real as the Sisters, and it was coming soon.

  In fact, she realized with a gasp as she sat up—Theodora was standing at the head of the couch. Artemis hadn’t seen so much as a shadow move or heard a whisper of sound.

  “Have you decided?” Theodora asked, without any preliminary.

  “Yes. That is, yes, I’ve decided—” Artemis hesitated for a few more tremulous seconds— “and yes, I want to do it.”

  Theodora sighed—a sound that clearly meant, I was afraid of that.

  “Drink all of this—it will give you strength.” She placed a warm, heavy enameled cup in Artemis’s hands. It was full of delicious liquid that was something like hot chocolate, but with a more bitter and intense taste. As she gulped it down, she could almost feel it perking up her body and sharpening her mind.

  “You’ve memorized the verse?” Theodora demanded.

  Artemis nodded, her eyes wide over the rim of the cup.

  This was really about to happen.

  “Then come with me.” Theodora took a smoky torch from a sconce on the wall, and led the way.

  Artemis followed her through the fortress’s dim hallways to a narrow spiral staircase that led down—and farther down, down, down, until it seemed like they were in the belly of the earth. At the end was a stone chamber with a heavy door cut into the wall, held by a thick iron bolt.

  “This is your final chance to turn back, Artemis,” Theodora said. “If you step through the door, it will close behind you—forever. The only way out is another door that will seem very far away.

  “In between them, you’ll be alone—alone like you have never been.”

  Theodora slid back the bolt and pulled the door slowly open. It groaned on its massive hinges. Obviously, it didn’t get used often.

  Then she turned to Artemis to gaze at her intently—a gaze that was filled with concern.

  “I ask you once more—are you sure this is what you want?” Theodora said.

  Artemis was suddenly dizzy, from nerves, the long climb down the stairs—and, she admitted, from sheer fear. A vision flashed through her mind, of sitting in her cozy room at home with Adam—so serious and careful, she could hardly avoid making fun of him—and Orpheus—vain, clowning, brilliant and lovable—and imagining how thrilling an adventure like this would be. With all her heart, she suddenly ached to be there—and if she turned back now, it was still possible that she’d find them and they’d get home safe.

  And yet, the path to her most cherished dream lay just ahead. The choice seemed impossible, tearing her apart. She felt like she was about to collapse in a complete meltdown.

  But that decided her—no way was she going to let Theodora see her like that. She inhaled a sharp breath and took three quick firm steps forward—through the doorway.

  “Remember two things—you have everything you need to survive the trial, and the Goddess smiles on the brave,” Theodora called after her.

  The door swung grindingly shut.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Adam hurried nervously past the fierce-looking sentries on the great walls of Jerusalem—although they not only didn’t challenge him, they nodded greetings or raised hands in salute, now that he was on a mission for the Sultan.

  Mustafa was waiting outside the gate, along with the two guards to escort them, Hassan and Sayeed. The cargo they were taking with them—the gift for King Richard—was on a wooden cart hitched to a pack pony. Adam couldn’t see what it was because it was covered with piles of straw that were thoroughly soaked with water.

  That seemed a little strange. What kind of gift did you have to keep wetted down—like, if it got too hot, it was going to explode?

  Was this a bomb? Was that the real reason Saladin was sending a naïve boy, who’d go up in smoke and never be missed? Adam gave his head a little shake, as if to dislodge a gnat from his brain. He trusted the Sultan’s word. He had to in order to carry this off.

  He focused on the task at hand. There were four fine Arabian warhorses along with the cart, mounts for the men and boys—and he realized with joy that one of them was Saladin’s chestnut mare, Zuleika! She’d been beautifully groomed, her coat gleaming in the early morning sunlight—it was like seeing a friend you could count on. He hurried to her and hugged her neck, while she snorted affectionately and shoved her muzzle against him.

  But he was outright astounded when Hassan, who seemed to be in charge, called over to him.

  “Take the reins, Adam—the Sultan wishes you to ride Zuleika today. It’s a very rare honor. He says you handle her well.”

  Mustafa chortled with glee, and even Orpheus gave his spine an approving little butt.

  The four of them swung themselves up into the saddles, the guards in front of the cart and the boys flanking it.

  Then they started the dusty ride, through the quickly rising heat of the day, to the Crusader camp.

  They moved along at a fast walk, with the pace set by the pack pony pulling its burden. The distance of a few miles should take them about an hour. Once they’d settled into a steady pace, he felt another thump between his shoulder blades.

  “I don’t mind watching your back, but it would help if I could see what’s going on in the rest of the world,” Orpheus hissed.

  “Okay, but keep it quiet.” Adam slung the hemp
sack around under his arm so Orpheus could peer out through the mesh.

  The sandy plain was deserted except for occasional distant figures of local people going about their business, and the ride was uneventful. But as they neared the tent encampment, Adam’s anxiety was in high gear again. He remembered reading that Richard the Lionheart was famous for his hot temper—and when he got mad, he tended to haul out his sword or battleaxe and clobber whoever had made him that way. Plus there was the power-mad Templar, Gerard de Chavirage, who was determined to wreck the truce, and who just might point Richard’s anger toward someone else.

  Like, say, a boy who was bringing the King a gift from the enemy.

  There were soldiers moving around the camp, same as yesterday, although it didn’t seem crowded—it actually had kind of a sleepy appearance. During the ride, Mustafa had told him that this was only part of the Crusader army, a contingent that had traveled with Richard. A lot more of them were stationed at cities like Acre and Ascalon along the coast, but close enough to arrive quickly if a serious battle broke out.

  And now Adam started to get a sense of what those battles really meant.

  The first hint was smell—putrid, like the rotting meat of gut piles left behind by hunters, and growing stronger with every step they took. It was coming from a large long tent that looked rough and plain, set apart from the main encampment.

  When they were close enough to see into it, Adam realized that this was a hospital. The rotting meat was human flesh—and the men were still alive. They lay in rows on crude cots, covered with sweat, some twisting and moaning in pain and others looking already dead. A few monks moved among the rows, tending to them.