Adam of Albion (11 page)

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.

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.

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 understand a word of the
Arabic—but once again, she got the sense that the voices weren’t really
man
like,
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 interested 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.”

Theodora
was silent for a long minute.

“I’d
laugh at your story—anyone would,” she finally said. “And yet, I don’t see any
other way to explain the things you know—and they fit precisely with what
I
know.

“Still,
you’re wrong in thinking that the head and the jewel you call Eurydice must be
reunited,” Theodora went on. “I’m sorry for him. But she is precious beyond
comprehension—he is only a container, a shield that protected her until she
came to us. She has no need of him any longer.”

“That’s
what I thought at first, but then I heard his side of it,” Artemis said.
“They’re each part of a whole, literally made for each other, and it’s such an
incredible love story.
Come
on, Theodora—haven’t you ever loved anyone
like that?”

The
older woman flinched—only a slight tremor, but Artemis was sure she saw it.

“What
has happened is ordained by the Goddess,” Theodora said, avoiding the question.
“The sacred ankh has been given into our guardianship. She is freed from her
bondage—we will keep her safe forever.”

“But
will you? By
my
time, she’s disappeared completely. Orpheus has been
stolen again and again—why not her, too?”

This
time, Theodora’s eyes flashed angrily. “How dare you suggest that the Sisters
of Isis will fail!”

“I’m
not saying you failed—only that a great many things can happen in almost a
thousand years,” Artemis looked up at Theodora, her eyes brightening. “Look,
here’s an idea—why don’t we ask
her
about all this?”

“
Ask
her? The very essence of the Goddess?  Do you think she’d deign to answer
the questions of mere mortals, just to satisfy our curiosity?”