by Kim McMahon
She could barely see the chasm’s other side—that was about twenty feet away, a sheer stone wall just like this side. It was too far to jump, and there didn’t seem to be any other possible way to get across. And why should she even try? She still hadn’t seen a hint of anything glinting, and she could keep on not finding it just as easily on this side as over there. She started walking along the edge, wary of weak spots that might crumble out from under her—and she realized that the chasm was arcing in a large circle, with the other side an island that it enclosed, like a medieval castle inside a moat.
She stopped to rethink. Rivers, whether above or below ground, did not naturally cut channels that were regular circles or straight lines. They didn’t form walls like those, either—which, although rough, were vertical and evenly spaced apart. No, the channel had been intentionally carved out of the rock. It must have been a tremendous job, with years of backbreaking work down in this dank pit. But why, and why in a circle? If it was for a water supply, it would run straight from one point to another, wouldn’t it?
The only other explanation that came was that it was a moat—a barrier deliberately built to safeguard something inside—and the something must be very important. People didn’t go to this kind of enormous labor just because they were bored.
It was looking like the glint might be over there, after all—but how to get to it? She had the distinct, sick feeling that the skeletons were candidates who hadn’t figured that out. But there had to be a way—unless this was all just a lie and sham, Theodora and the other Sisters had passed this test, which meant they’d found it.
For the umpteenth time, Artemis reminded herself of Adam’s advice: gather information, think it through, and don’t give up. She started walking again, with her gaze scouring everything in range. After ten minutes, she confirmed that the moat was circular, and guessed the diameter at somewhere between a quarter and a half mile. But there was no sign of anything that might help.
She kept going for another fifteen minutes and was just about convinced that she was on a fool’s errand, when she spotted a slight variation in the far wall. It was a shallow niche in the stone, the size of a soup bowl, with an inch-thick horizontal bar across its face. About three feet below it there was another one, and she could just make out a third one below that.
Excitement gripped her as she realized what they were: handholds. Rungs of a ladder, maybe six inches wide, carved into the wall—a way to climb up out of the rushing river far below.
A very difficult, precarious way—if the handholds even went down that far.
Balance the choices, she thought again, but there wasn’t much to balance. As far as she could tell, they boiled down to two. Stay here with the skeletons—or jump and risk the swim and the uncertainty of the ladder.
And if it was a trick—if the glint was here on this side after all—get trapped there on the little stone island, with no way to get back.
The Goddess smiles on the brave, Theodora had said. But there certainly hadn’t been any sign of the Goddess so far. Would risking this be brave, or just stupid? That distinction, she was coming to realize, could be a very thin one.
The torch was burning lower, and her own energy was starting to flag. She wasn’t really tired yet, but that was like being outside in freezing weather and suddenly realizing with surprise that you weren’t even cold—it meant you were about to be.
If she was going to do it, it had to be soon.
Well, dammit, everything was pointing toward the island. The skeletons on this side obviously hadn’t fared very well, and it was far better to go down fighting than to waste away pitifully.
Okay, brave is good, but be smart, too, she could almost hear Adam say. Don’t just jump—think it through step by step. She stood there staring at the chasm’s other side, across that infinite twenty-foot distance, trying to turn her fear into clearheaded determination.
She’d have to hit the river well upstream, so the current would carry her to the ladder. In the darkness down below, she’d need help finding it, but she couldn’t very well take the torch with her, and trying to throw it accurately to the other side was too chancy. It wasn’t going to last much longer, anyway—best to leave it here on the bank to mark the spot directly across from the ladder. That would leave her without light, but getting hold of those rungs was all important—if she missed, she was done for. She couldn’t wear her robe, either, it would drag her down. But when—if—she climbed out wet and shivering, she’d want it badly. A solution came that made her feel a little better: wrap up the robe and sandals with a chunk of flint inside to give the bundle weight, and throw it across. Accuracy wouldn’t matter with that, and if she could find a striking surface over there, she might even be able to start another fire.
Too bad she couldn’t just wrap herself up in there, too.
She also had to make sure which way the current was flowing—she couldn’t tell by the sound. That took a moment of brain-racking, but then an idea came. She wedged the torch between two rocks, snapped off a burning chunk, and kicked it out over the edge. The flame disappeared almost as soon as it hit the water, but she could tell her that it was moving swiftly left to right.
This was it, then.
She found a flint that was the right weight to throw, wrapped it up in the robe with the sandals, and hurled the bundle across like a discus, exhaling with relief as it thudded and skittered on the far side. Then she rested for a minute, gathering her strength and slowing her breathing to normal.
Artemis went upstream a hundred feet and stepped to the dropoff, curling her toes over the edge as if she was just making a sporting dip into a swimming pool—but fighting off sudden images of rocks jutting up out of the river, or even iron spikes set into the wall to impale falling bodies, like in some medieval castles.
Shut up! she fiercely told her whimpering imagination. She filled her lungs and exhaled all the way, once, twice, three times—and with the fourth lungful, she leaped.
It was a long, long drop, and hitting the river was like getting clubbed with a baseball bat made of freezing rain. The current caught her instantly and it was even stronger than she’d thought, sweeping her along with alarming speed. She fought her way to the surface and sidestroked to the far wall. Her left hand found its stone surface and she tried to cling to it and slow down, but there was nothing to hold onto. Shaking water from her blurry eyes, she managed to spot the torch on the bank. It seemed to be sailing through the air in her direction—fast.
She slapped her other hand against the wall and groped frantically with both, sweeping them around from the river surface to as high as she could reach. Nothing, nothing, nothing, oh, God, she must have already missed the rungs—
Then the fingers of her right hand slipped into a space—and her knuckles felt a stone bar across it. She managed to hook her forefinger around it barely long enough to get a firmer grip with her left.
She hung there gasping for several seconds, stretched horizontal by the current that beat at her and tried to yank her loose. With an unnhhh of effort, she wrenched her upper body out of the water and found the next highest rung. Another hard pull and she went up again, with her foot on the bottom rung, clinging like a sodden Spiderman to the sheer vertical face. Now she was getting weak, sapped by the cold swim, with her shoulders aching and her scraped palms smarting as they gripped the rough handholds. But she had to keep her momentum going, and she drove herself on—rung by rung, hand over hand, up the thirty feet that had seemed so long on the way down, but now seemed like Mount Everest.
At last, she pulled herself over the edge. She crawled on hands and knees until she found the robe, unknotted it with trembling hands, and pulled it on. She lay there shivering, teeth chattering, waiting for her body warmth to seep back.
And watched the dying torch on the other bank, seeming to symbolize the life she’d left behind.
TWENTY-NINE
King Richard’s mood had mellowed to the point where he started to
doze off, still lying there in the tub. He dismissed Adam with a languid wave of his hand and a mumble that Cristof wanted to talk to him—he’d be able to recognize Cristof’s private tent by its white Hospitaller cross.
Adam stepped warily outside, squinting into the glaring sunlight. He didn’t see the tent anywhere nearby, and he wasn’t about to ask directions—if the Templars spotted him, they might grab him and deliver him to the vengeful Gerard de Chavirage. He started hurrying along in widening circles, hunched over and flitting from the shadows of one tent to the next.
“So why are you sneaking around like a rat, Sir Adam?” Orpheus sneered from behind him. “The Templars won’t bother you now, they know the King and Cristof are protecting you.”
“Easy for you to say,” Adam shot back. “That Chavirage is a mean S.O.B., and he’s crazy enough to do just about anything.” Besides, Richard and Cristof were nowhere in sight just now. He could still feel the sting of that slap to his face, and he shivered at how close he’d come to getting his feet burnt to a crisp. He was going to have nightmares about that, he could count on it.
Still, in his mind he was floating ten feet above the ground. Made a knight—by King Richard the Lionheart! He could hardly believe it, and of course nobody else ever would either, so he could forget about bragging even if he wanted to, which he kind of did. But it had really happened, and nothing could take that away.
And he remembered something else eerie. Back in England, when he and Artemis had talked to the eccentric older lady called Rainy Jane, she’d called him “young voyager from the land of mountains and ice.” He’d been surprised that she knew that much about him. But Richard had zeroed in on exactly the same thing—and he’d given Adam the knightly emblem of an ice-covered mountaintop.
Well, it didn’t really mean anything—it must just be coincidence. He ducked behind a tent, spent a few seconds scouting the area to make sure it was clear of marauding Templars, and took off for the next one.
But he’d only gone a couple of steps, just starting to gain speed, when something caught his left ankle like a set-snare. His own momentum jerked him right off his feet, and he hit the ground flat on his belly with a whump that brought a flicker of stars in front of his eyes. Electrified by surprise and fear, he tried to keep rolling, intending to scramble up and disappear without even looking back. But the grip on his ankle stayed firm.
“Oh, I am sorry—I didn’t see you,” a voice said behind him—and this time, it wasn’t Orpheus. “I dropped my prayer book, and I was trying to pull it closer. My back is bad, from an old war wound, you see—very hard for me to bend down or lift anything. Would you be so kind as to get it for me?”
Adam twisted sideways. The thing holding his ankle was a long wooden staff with a hook at the end—an old-fashioned shepherd’s crook, he realized. Beside it, a small leather-bound book was lying on the ground.
Although he was pretty sure it hadn’t been there as he’d started away from the tent.
“You’ll stay and chat a minute, won’t you?” the man said. “I’m a friend, I assure you. A friend to all—a poor and humble shepherd of souls.” The hook slipped away from Adam’s ankle. He nodded agreement, mainly because he was sure it could trip him again before he could take a step. He picked up the book and got shakily to his feet, handing it to its owner.
This man didn’t seem to be a Crusader—he was wearing a plain ivory colored robe, although it looked like fine fabric and carefully sewn, unlike the rough tunics of the soldiers. He was handsome, with blue eyes and wavy dark blond hair that seemed remarkably well cared for in the harsh desert conditions, and he seemed suntanned rather than weathered. He could have been thirty or fifty—his face didn’t have the hard edges of the other people in this land. In fact, he looked somehow generic, stamped from a mold, like soap actors or the models in magazine ads.
“Where are you off to in such a rush, my lad?” he asked.
“I’m—looking for Cristof. He’s waiting for me,” Adam stammered, hoping that would help to protect him. There was a tiny pause, and Adam thought he saw a flash of coldness in those blue eyes before their smooth friendliness returned.
“Ah, yes, Cristof—I’ve heard the name, he’s well spoken of. I’m Nicodemus, by the way—Nicodemus of Edessa, as I’m known, although my travels have taken me far and wide. I’ve only just arrived here from the mysterious land of the Emperor Prester John, a long and dangerous journey to the east.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t heard of it.”
“You will, I assure you,” Nicodemus said, a little curtly, as if he was annoyed that Adam wasn’t as impressed as he should be. “The Emperor has raised a great army that will change the tide of events in the Holy Land—and with all modesty, I can say that I played a rather crucial part in that.” Then his face turned inquiring. “Now, I couldn’t help noticing that you brought a gift for the King. How did his majesty receive it?”
Adam hesitated. Nicodemus didn’t seem outright scary, like the Templars. But if anything, he was working too hard at coming across as a good guy, and Adam’s alarm bells were clanging. He didn’t seem to be truly humble, or for that matter, poor. Adam was also pretty sure that Nicodemus had tripped him on purpose and he was fishing for information, but deviously circling around whatever he was really after. Even Orpheus was staying as quiet as a gopher with a coyote snuffling around—no more snide whispers or head butts.
“Actually, I don’t think I should talk about it, sir,” Adam said. “I’m just a delivery boy.”
“Indeed, indeed, very commendable. Let me stress that my interest in this isn’t on my own account—far from it. No, I serve a greater good.” Nicodemus exhaled, a sigh that suggested deep spiritual suffering. “The Crusades have taken a terrible toll of life and ruin—no one feels that more keenly than I. But you do understand that it’s all for the best, don’t you?”
“Well—not really,” Adam admitted.
“Hm. Your grasp of it will deepen as you get older.” Then Nicodemus’s voice took on an oratorical tone. “The glory of God comes above all else, of course. But beyond that, the countries of Europe were mired in poverty and stagnation—and the Crusades have opened wide the doors of prosperity! Commerce, trade, and industry are thriving—ships arriving with provisions, weapons, and armor for the soldiers, produced by common folk whose squalid lives now serve a higher purpose. The more their labor enriches their masters, the more luxuries those masters can buy, which ensures still more employment to produce those goods.”
Adam had a feeling he’d heard the same kinds of ideas before, but it took him a second to think of where. Politicians and pundits talking on TV—that was it.
“You mean, like, creating jobs and growing the world economy?” he said.
Nicodemus glanced at him in surprise. “What a curious way to put it. But yes, that does describe it nicely. ‘Creating jobs and growing the world economy’—I’ll have to remember that.”
Adam noticed that Nicodemus hadn’t said anything about the common folk getting richer, or buying luxuries, or even getting paid at all for their ever-increasing labor.
“If you don’t mind, sir, I really do have to find Cristof,” he said.
The hint of coldness showed in Nicodemus’s eyes again, but his bland reply was quick.
“Forgive me for detaining you—I was so entranced with our talk, I forgot. But keep in mind what I said about serving a greater good, won’t you? Sometimes we have to set aside our petty loyalties to that end. Oh, and—”
Nicodemus opened his hand, with a gold coin in it that seemed to have simply appeared there.
“I suspect that a delivery boy earns little more than his keep,” he said, offering the coin to Adam with a sly wink. “I can always use another set of eyes and ears, and I think yours would suit me well.”
Adam shook his head, trying his best to look polite. “Thank you, but I can’t accept that.”
“Very well—for now. But do reconsider. Think about the pleasur
es it will buy you.” The coin disappeared. “Let’s chat again soon.”
Nicodemus strolled away, limping slightly and planting his shepherd’s staff with each step. Adam went back into sneak mode, scurrying along on the lookout for Cristof, but he kept an eye on Nicodemus, who was heading to the outskirts of the camp—toward an unmarked tent that was set up all alone and a good distance apart from the others. Adam started toward a closer tent that must be Cristof’s—plain but neat looking,with a large white cross.
Then, as he hurried toward it, he heard a faint, high-pitched sound coming from the direction where Nicodemus had gone. It was kind of a wail, probably just cats squalling over some garbage.
Still, there was something about it that was as creepy as Nicodemus himself.
THIRTY
The inside of Cristof’s tent was a different world from anything else in the camp. It was very clean and comparatively cool, with a system of flaps opened here and there to make the most of the breeze, and it smelled wonderful, a blend of herbs, spices, and other mysterious stuff in the dozens of vials and casks neatly arranged on rough tables.
Cristof was bent over the chest of herbs that Saladin had sent him, examining the contents like a kid with a big box of Christmas presents.
“Is that stuff going to do you any good?” Adam asked.
“Very definitely. Here’s a nice batch of fresh aloe—” Cristof held up a spiky plant that looked something like an artichoke— “which is excellent for soothing skin ailments. Belladonna to induce sleep, foxglove to stimulate the heart, even a canister of sulfur, for poultices on wounds. If I can apply it quickly enough, it reduces the spread of rotting flesh. I can’t fathom why, about that or much of anything else—only that some things seem to help, some of the time. But I keep experimenting, and recording the results—perhaps someday I’ll start to make sense of them.