Adam of Albion (13 page)

Adam
was buried deep in a dream that had him covered in cold sweat. He could see a
girl—not her face, but her small, slight figure and long pale hair. She was
dressed all in black, and she seemed to be in an abyss or cave that was even
blacker—to be trapped there with no escape, not able to go back but afraid to
go forward. It even seemed that he could hear her voice in his mind:
Adam,
help me, please—I’m so lost and alone! You’re the problem solver—what should I
do?

Stay
calm,
he told her.
Think it
through. Get every bit of information you can, study it until it starts to make
sense, then take one careful step at a time. Most of all, don’t give up.

He
could tell that she didn’t hear him—she was falling into a panic, flailing her
arms like she was beating against a wall or throwing things. He tried shouting,
tried to run toward her, but his voice wouldn’t work and he couldn’t move.

Then
he realized:
Take your own advice, idiot.
He stopped struggling and
concentrated with everything he had, focusing his words like a laser beam to
her mind.

Her
frantic movements slowed. She lifted her head like she was listening, started
to turn her face in his direction—

But
now another voice was babbling in his ear, and a hand was shaking him. Like a
deep sea diver, he left the dream on the bottom and swam up toward the surface
of consciousness. The dream was gone, leaving only a blurred memory. It was
time to get up and feed the cattle, he thought drowsily.

But
this wasn’t his familiar old bunk at the ranch—it was much softer and he was
wrapped in luxurious covers, which he’d managed to wind around himself so
thoroughly he was practically hogtied. Plus the voice wasn’t his father’s. As
he forced open his sleepy eyes, he saw that the person shaking him was a
dark-haired boy about his own age.

Then
he remembered where he was—and what was happening. That woke him up the rest of
way, fast. He thrashed free of the bedding, and Mustafa let him go.

“Hurry,
Adam—we mustn’t keep the Sultan waiting,” Mustafa said anxiously. Adam’s feet
were already moving when they hit the floor.

In
one way, getting up here
was
like at the ranch—the starry night sky was
just starting to lighten, although he was looking at it through the arched
stone windows of Saladin’s palace. It was also surprisingly chilly—not like a
real winter morning in Montana, but it definitely could have been October. No
wonder he’d burrowed under the covers so hard.

His
excitement was bursting at the seams—but he shared Mustafa’s anxiety, too. This
was a very important day—the most important of his young life. He had a mission
to carry out for the great Saladin, and everything depended on how well he did
it.

He
followed Mustafa through the quick morning routine—a cold water wash in a stone
basin that finished waking him up, a visit to a primitive but sparkling clean
latrine flushed by a trough of constantly running water, and breakfast of a
yogurt-type dish studded with dried fruit, along with bread and tea—not what he
was used to, but it tasted fine and he hoovered it up just like Mustafa. Then
they pulled on clean outfits of tunics and pants that were laid out waiting for
them. He remembered yesterday’s scorching afternoon—with the sun now topping
the horizon, the day was already warming up—and he had to admit that this kind
of clothing made a lot more sense here than the jeans and cowboy boots he was used
to. Still, he was glad none of his friends from home were around to see him.

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-lined 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.

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.