by Kim McMahon
“Meantime, I do occasionally stumble across something interesting, like this.” He stepped to a smaller metal box and opened it for Adam to see. Inside were what looked like several chunks of ordinary bread, thickly covered with mold. “A—friend, a woman who’s well versed in healing arts—suggested this possibility to me, and I’ve been working on it ever since, trying to refine it. An extract of the mold seems to have a similar effect to the sulfur, and also to reduce fever. Whoever would have thought that something you’d throw to the goats might be useful as a medicine?”
Adam had a dim recollection that bread mold had something to do with the discovery of penicillin. It was wild to think that Cristof was nosing around that, several hundred years before it happened.
“Now, Adam,” Cristof said, closing the chests. “Saladin added a private note to me in his letter—that he promised to help you find a young lady you came here with. We both think she probably met up with the Assassins you saw yesterday—who are really the Sisters of Isis.”
Those must be the women King Richard had mentioned, Adam realized, who’d saved Cristof’s life.
“They have a fortress a day’s ride away,” the knight went on. “I’ll draw you a map of how to get there. The Sultan wants you to ride Zuleika, and take Mustafa with you—he knows the general lay of the land.”
Adam almost jumped off the ground with joy, and Orpheus joined in with a staccato of sharp little taps against his spine, like a woodpecker. But Cristof held up his forefinger in a gesture that said, Don’t get too excited just yet.
“The Sultan also advised me of a complication, and I need to talk to you about it,” he said. “The Grand Vizier managed to obtain an object he believed is magical—he had someone killed for it, apparently.”
Adam tensed, caught in a familiar dilemma—he felt certain he could trust Christof, but how much to tell, where to start?
Then that high-pitched wailing sound rose again, coming from the isolated tent outside the main camp. It was louder now, a long howl that rose to a peak, then faded to a moan. This time, he was just about certain that it wasn’t any cat. He turned his frightened gaze to Cristof, who grimaced.
“It’s the Vizier,” Cristof said quietly. “The Templars are questioning him—persuasively. I don’t like cruelty, even towards someone who’s been cruel himself, and God knows the Vizier has plenty of that to answer for. But it’s not my battle.”
So that was what had happened to the Grand Vizier.
“Saladin said he’d disappeared, but he didn’t seem to know where,” Adam said, with a tremor in his voice—this was more nightmare material.
“Oh, I expect he has quite a clear idea about it. But like all of us who’ve survived for long in this land, he rarely speaks much of what’s in his mind. At any rate, I’m trying to fit together the pieces of a puzzle—and it’s further complicated by the arrival of a man who calls himself Nicodemus of Edessa.”
“I just met him, on the way here.”
Cristof’s gaze sharpened. “Really? Tell me about it.”
“He tripped me with his staff and pretended it was an accident. He mostly just talked, like he was trying to confuse me. But he asked a couple of questions about the King, and I think he was trying to weasel something out of me—he even offered me money. But I didn’t take it and I didn’t tell him anything.”
Cristof nodded approvingly. “Your true money is your life itself, Adam. Spend it wisely, and beware of bartering it for the kind that’s only silver and gold.
“As for Nicodemus, I’ve only heard his reputation, and no one seems to know anything about him that can be verified. He claims to have been a soldier, but it’s vague as to when and where, and with all the men I’ve known who’ve been on all the campaigns of these times, I’ve yet to meet one who remembers him.
“He presents himself now as a humble servant of God, but it really seems more that God serves his purposes. I’ve personally always felt that God—who is, after all, Creator of the universe, all-knowing and all-powerful—should be capable of managing His own affairs. But apparently, He needs Nicodemus to explain His will—which, oddly enough, tends to coincide with Nicodemus’s own. Odder still, many other men also claim to speak for God, but with very different messages—and they’re often quite prepared to kill anyone who disagrees.
“It’s hard for me to believe that God is that confused, or that He deliberately sows discord because He doesn’t have anything better to do. I suspect the answer lies more with the kinds of charlatans who traffick in the essence of serpents, claiming it’s a restorative that will cure all ills.”
Wow! Adam thought. Almost a thousand years ago, they already had political double-speak, phony preachers, even snake oil salesmen—maybe things weren’t all that different between then and modern times, after all.
“The one factor that does come clear is that he’s up to his neck in intrigue wherever he goes,” Cristof went on, “and it’s the kind of intrigue that causes bloodshed. I’m sure that he and Gerard de Chavirage are in league—and both have their own reasons for wanting to prolong this war.”
“He gave me a lecture about how it’s actually good for everybody, and it’s okay if some people get killed because the really important people are getting rich,” Adam agreed. Then, anxiously, he added, “He said there’s an Emperor named Prester John with a huge army that’s coming here.”
“Prester John, is it?” Cristof said acerbically. “How perfect—Richard will roar with laughter when I tell him. That rumor’s been flying around for years, Adam. But Prester John is rather like Nicodemus—nobody really knows anything about him, or where his kingdom lies, or even if he exists.
“Supposedly, his invincible army already marched to the Holy Land once, to join forces with the Crusaders and ensure a Christian conquest—but they were turned back by the Red Sea. It seems never to have occurred to them that if they were coming from the east, they didn’t need to cross the sea, and if from the south or west, they only had to follow the coastline and walk over dry land at the Sinai.”
The point wasn’t hard to get. No army would be that dumb, let alone an invincible army from a great Emperor.
“Cristof, I think—I’m pretty sure—that Nicodemus went into that tent where the Vizier is,” Adam said. And judging from the howling, Nicodemus—shepherd of souls and friend to all—wasn’t doing anything to stop the frightful proceedings.
Cristof was looking grimly thoughtful now, rubbing his knuckles against his jaw with a sound like a half-round file grinding burrs off an iron pipe.
“That doesn’t surprise me,” he said. “I’ve suspected that Nicodemus had a deeper reason for coming here than just to stir the pot—there’s no shortage of other places where he can do that, in much greater safety. But now I think I see another link in what’s going on.
“Suppose Nicodemus somehow learned about the magical object the Vizier had stolen, and he came here intending to steal it for himself. Then the Sisters got to it first—although, strangely, they gave it right back to the Templars. And something has gone wrong—at a guess, they can’t get the magic to work. They think the Vizier knows the secret, and they’re trying to drag it out of him. But judging from how long his interrogation has gone on, he doesn’t know it—he’d have told them by now.”
The truth was that that Orpheus—OToo—was stonewalling the Templars, Adam remembered—and he was also in shock from losing Eurydice.
“What do you think they’ll do?” Adam asked.
“That’s what I’m worried about. Nicodemus will look for every possible answer, and he won’t take long to target the Sisters of Isis. He’ll realize that they must have had a good reason for what they did—and he’ll suspect that they know the secret of the magical workings. So next, he’ll go after them—attack their fortress, which Gerard de Chavirage will be happy to do. The Vizier knows where it is, and they’ll get that secret out of him.”
Cristof was moving now, striding to a stack of linen bandages
and grabbing one. He spread it out and bent over it with a quill pen, scratching out a map.
“Your journey to find your friend has taken on new urgency, Adam,” he said. “You must warn the Sisters and give them time to prepare.”
“Aren’t you coming?” Adam said anxiously.
Cristof shook his head. “Better if I stay back and stall Gerard and his men.” His face creased in one of his craggy grins. “I’ll remind him that he and I are due for a private talk.”
“But they’ll gang up on you!”
Cristof glanced at Adam, obviously touched by his concern, and gave his shoulder an affectionate clasp.
“Don’t worry. They won’t attack me en masse, here in the camp with witnesses to see—their honor would be shamed. No, Gerard will find a way to put me off, but he’ll have to do it without publicly sacrificing his pride. He’s not a quick thinker—one of the few qualities I find useful in him—so it will take him a while.”
Adam wasn’t so sure about that honor thing—they’d ambushed Cristof once before, hadn’t they? Plus, there was Nicodemus, who didn’t seem to have any honor to shame. But there was no point in arguing about it. Nobody knew that better than Cristof.
He went over the map with Adam, pointing out landmarks to look for and the distances between them. The fortress was in a remote mountain called the Mother of Life—it was hard to spot because it looked like the other mountains around it unless you got very close, which was usually a bad idea. The Sisters didn’t welcome uninvited company.
“The front of it is a sheer cliff face,” Cristof said. “Ride up to its base in plain sight, and call out to them that you’ve come from me—tell them I send a message for Theodora. But if you have trouble—if you find you’re being followed, and you’re hard pressed—there’s a hidden entrance here.” He touched a point on the map and told Adam how to get into it. “This is a jealously guarded secret, and the Sisters won’t be happy about it, so be prepared to explain yourself fast and well.”
Adam had a thousand questions, and his emotions had raced from elated back to terrified in record time. But Cristof’s face had taken on a different look, like he’d completely forgotten that he was about to go challenge a Templar to a duel, with the guy’s pissed off buddies hanging around just itching to pounce. He seemed curious, and a little hesitant—like he was about to lift the lid off another chest, and whatever was inside might be a huge thrill or a huge disappointment.
“Adam—the Sultan did mention one more thing in his letter,” Cristof said. “That sack on your back—he said you never seem to take it off, and he fears it must weigh very heavily. If you’d like to set it down and rest a moment before you go, you can be sure that no one but me will ever know.”
Once again, Adam’s first instinct was to freeze up—but immediately, he was relieved and even grateful. The sack was heavy, he realized, not from actual weight, but because of what he had to hide—which was exactly what Saladin and Cristof meant.
There was nothing like sharing a secret with someone you trusted to lighten that kind of burden.
Adam put the sack on a table, lifted out Orpheus, and set him beside it.
Orph wasn’t putting on any dumb rock act this time. “Top of the morning to you,” he said to Cristof. “Always a pleasure to meet another man of sophistication. Not much of that around, where I’ve been lately.” He shot Adam a disdainful glare.
Cristof stared incredulously. “So you really do exist,” he said quietly. “I’ve heard legends about you for many years, but I never knew whether to believe them.”
“Truth is stranger than fiction,” Orpheus pointed out, somewhat pompously. “And the real truth, the legends can’t even touch. Like the time I was crossing the Alps with Hannibal, and his favorite bull elephant—how can I put this delicately?—took a shine to a lady wild boar. Well, the bull refused to move another step, and the whole army was stopped dead with a raging blizzard moving in, until I—”
“Orph, zip your lips,” Adam hissed. “Let Cristof talk.”
“To see this is marvel enough,” Cristof said, still gazing at Orpheus intently. “But explain to me—the Templars have you now, do they not? How can you also be here—are there two of you?”
“Bold-faced identity theft,” Orpheus declared, now with righteous indignation. “I never imagined I’d be a victim, but that’s what everybody thinks until it’s too late.”
Adam rolled his eyes. “There are two of him, sort of, but they’re really the same,” he cut in. “The one the Templars have belongs here, in this time. But this Orpheus and me—we come from the future. Except he really comes from the ancient past.”
Cristof shook his head. “Mystery upon mystery,” he murmured. “What you say about the ancient past—I’ve been having strange dreams these last few nights, very vivid, as if I had the fever. I seemed to be a man who lived in those times, in a great island kingdom that was on the brink of disaster.”
That sounded like MaelTarna! Adam thought.
But Cristof exhaled, like he was bringing himself out of a trance, and became the firm, decisive soldier again.
“How I wish we had more time together, my friends—but you must start your journey,” he said. “I have a feeling—as strange as my dreams, and as clear—that we’ll meet again one day, in a way that none of us expects.”
THIRTY-ONE
Artemis walked through darkness again—at least she was used to it by now—feeling her way carefully. No option for starting another fire had come along yet, and a stumble over the chasm edge would plunge her back into the river. She kept track of her steps, trying to gauge how far she’d gone. After a few minutes, she thought she must be close to the island’s center.
Glint, she kept telling herself. You have to find a glint.
And then, at last, she saw it—ahead in the near distance.
It appeared suddenly, as if perhaps she’d tripped some kind of sensor. At first, she could only see a thin glimmering vertical line of no particular color, just light. But as she got closer, the glow told her what it was: a sword about three feet long, made of some kind of crystal. At first it seemed to be hanging in mid-air, but then she saw that it was mounted on a stone wall—thrust point down through the heavy iron hasp of a door, like a bolt to hold it shut.
Theodora had said that there were only two doors, one to enter and one to exit. Going through it was the only hope of escape.
Artemis edged forward still more warily. This was the part everybody had seen in movies a thousand times—after you’d overcome the hazards getting here and you finally reached for the treasure, that was when you got skewered by a fleet of poison arrows, or a huge boulder came bounding along to squash you, or a wave of molten lava to turn you into fondue.
Don’t stop to think about it this time, she told herself. Don’t stop at all. Just do it.
She forced her hand forward, gripped the hilt, and yanked it up hard, free of the bolt—then backed away, teeth clenched, waiting for doom to strike.
Nothing happened.
After a moment, she realized that, absurdly, some part of her was actually a little miffed. She’d envisioned herself dying gloriously and heroically, with a healthy dose of self-pity because she was alone, forsaken, and no one would ever know. Instead, she was still stuck here in a huge dank cave, except now she had a sliver of crystal in her hand.
Oh, get off it, idiot, she thought impatiently, and turned her focus to the sword. It was beautifully fashioned, with a keen edge and fine tapered point, and sized just right for her.
Now, the final part of the verse, so baffling before, started coming into focus.
The strikes must be fierce, the false hearts to pierce.
Whatever the false hearts were, they must be on the other side of the door. Emboldened by her success, she reached for the hasp—then paused.
This was too easy. After the inky darkness, the fall down the rockslide, the plunge into the cold river and desperate climb back out—then to see the swo
rd conveniently lit up like a Christmas ornament, and she was supposed to just walk up and grab it, saunter on through the door, pierce some false hearts, and sail on to triumph?
Not bloody likely. No, it was calculated to make her feel so relieved and victorious that she’d relax her guard. She still had to go through the door, that seemed clear. But there wasn’t going to be anything relaxed about it.
She started by studying the door itself. It had an unusual shape that was rather unattractive, something like a lopsided American football with a few knobs here and there. Probably if you were cutting a door out of solid rock, you wouldn’t be choosy about the aesthetics—but then again, wouldn’t a simple rectangle like the first door be easier? Still, it didn’t tell her anything.
She prowled around a little longer, using the sword for light, but there was nothing except the same old rocks everywhere. Well, too easy or not, there didn’t seem to be anything else to do but give the door a try. She went through her mental preparations again, while hefting the sword to get the feel of it and flexing her muscles from her neck down to her toes. Then she reached for the hasp and pulled the heavy door toward her, groaning on its stiff hinges.
Inside was a circular chamber, with shards of the same kind of crystal embedded in the walls to give it a glow. It was empty except for a pool of what looked like ordinary water in the center. She stepped cautiously to the edge and gazed down. The surface was opaque, reflecting the soft light and absolutely still—a perfect mirror.
The sight that met her made her gasp in horror.
She looked terrible! Hair a stringy wet mess, not a single dab of makeup left on her face, scrapes and purpling bruises everywhere. The burqa hung shapeless and forlorn like a pot of asphalt dumped over her. She was a walking disaster, a one-woman superfund site—if anyone back home could see her like this, she’d be quarantined for life.
But then a little grin curved the corners of her mouth. She also looked really tough, like an un-glam Lara Croft—and she had a sword in her hands, which she’d earned.