The Mystic Rose (31 page)

Cait stood on the clifftop long after the boat was out of sight. When she at last turned from the wide expanse of water, she saw the sky was dark with angry clouds and rain was beginning to spatter the ground at her feet. She could hear the howl of the wind rising out of the east, and knew there was a storm coming. Still, she refused to leave the place she had last seen dear Alethea.

It was not until the lightning raked the clouds with jagged talons, and thunder trembled the ground beneath her feet, that she finally turned away—only to find that the sky had grown dark and she could no longer see the path. The wind whirled around her, dashing rain in her eyes and tearing at her clothes and hair. She threw a hand before her face and staggered forward, the force of the wind almost knocking her to the ground.

Struggling to her feet once more, she took a hesitant step and then halted, for she did not know which way to go. Frightened now, lest she be swept over the clifftop and hurled to her death on the rocks below, she stood shaking with indecision, and searching the howling blackness for some sign of the path ahead.

Lightning flashed and she saw, illumined by the naked glare, the figure of a man robed in white. The figure's back was to her and he was striding purposefully away. This she glimpsed in the brief light before darkness reclaimed the hilltop.

“Wait!” she cried, lurching forward. The resounding clash of thunder drowned her words, but she made for the place where she had seen the white figure. “Wait! God help me,” she cried, “please wait for me!”

The next lightning flash revealed that the man had paused a few dozen paces further on. What was more, he bore a distinct likeness to her father.
Could it be?
she wondered.

She moved toward him in the darkness, her heart quickening in anticipation. As she drew close, however, the white-robed figure moved on. “Papa!” she cried, hurrying after.

Desperate now to catch him, she gathered her wet skirts and stumbled ahead. “Papa, it is Cait! Please, Papa, wait for me.”

Another jagged flash lit up the sky and she saw in the briefly shimmering light that the figure had stopped again. She ran to him. As he made to turn and move on, she lunged and, reaching out, caught hold of the trailing edge of his sleeve.

The man halted and as the sky was torn by another flash, she saw his face at last. He was a young man—much younger than her father, she could see that now—but his youthful aspect was belied somewhat by his old-fashioned dress and the way he carried himself: carefully, as if he did not fully trust his weight to the ground. Still, his dark eyes
were keen, and his gaze almost distressingly direct; his hair was dark and thick, and trimmed in the tonsure of a monk.

“Oh,” she gasped, “it is you.”

“Greetings, Caitríona. Peace and grace be with you always,” the man said. At these words, the intensity of the storm seemed to lessen. The wind calmed and she could hear him plainly. “Come now, there is nothing to fear.”

“Brother Andrew—oh, please, hurry. It is Thea.” She pointed back toward the precipitous edge of the cliff. “She went down there and they took her away. We must find her.”

“Have no fear for Alethea,” the monk told her. “They could not take her anywhere she did not wish to go.”

“But we must save her,” insisted Cait. “She needs me.”

“Where Alethea has gone you cannot follow,” he said gently. “She is at peace now.”

Cait stared at him, tears starting to her eyes. “But I do not understand.”

“Listen to me, Caitríona. You have departed from the True Path. Evil crouches at your heels and only awaits a chance to drag you down. Beware, dear sister.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but the White Priest raised his hand. “Time grows short. The end of the race is near; the prize awaits. Like your father and grandfather before you, my daughter, you must hold tight to the Holy Light. Cling to it, Caitríona. Put your faith and trust in it alone, and let it be your guide.”

At this, Brother Andrew made to step away. Cait reached out to take hold of him, but her hands closed on empty air and she was alone once more with rain and wind raging around her.

“Please,” she cried, “do not leave me. Brother Andrew, help me. Help me!”

There came no answer—only the voiceless shriek of the gale and the pelting sting of the rain…

This was how she awoke: with the wild wind screaming over the broken crags, pounding the thick stone walls with tremendous, fist-like blows that boomed with the sound of thunder, rattling the heavy iron-barred shutters, and driving the rain through tiny cracks around the windows.

She could not tell when the storm arose, but knew that she had been hearing it in her sleep for some time. The candles had blown out, leaving her room in darkness deep as the tomb. She heard a sound beside her, and her dream came back to her in a rush. “Brother Andrew,” she said aloud, reaching out, and praying the White Priest had not abandoned her.

Her fingers touched another outstretched hand; she gave a little cry and jerked her hand away. “Ketmia?” came the timorous, quivering voice.

“Mahdi—is it you?”

The frightened maidservant slipped into bed beside her. Cait put her arm around the young woman's shivering shoulders and gathered her in. As she would have comforted Alethea, she consoled Mahdi, stroking her hair and telling her there was nothing to fear. Pila'i slept on, serenely unaware of the wind and lashing rain. So, Cait and Mahdi held vigil together, huddled in bed until it was light enough to get up.

The storm gave no sign of abating with the dawn. But as soon as it was light enough to find her way around, Cait rose and allowed her maids to dress her. Then, escorted from the women's quarters by Jubayar, she hurried to find Prince Hasan so the search for Alethea could begin anew.

S
EARCHING FOR THE
prince, she found Lord Rognvald instead. He was standing in the vestibule entrance with two fidgety porters, the door wide open, staring out into a bleak, wind-torn void of fog and sleet and swirling snow. He turned as she came to stand beside him, and greeted her with stiff, almost frozen formality, then observed, “You are early risen, my lady—for one so late to bed.”

Cait returned his chilly greeting, and said, “I could not sleep for the storm.” She looked out through the open door at the roiling gray mass and felt the cold bite of the wind on her skin. A memory stirred—of a dream, or the lingering impression of a dream: something about being lost in a raging gale. It passed through her with a shiver and then was gone. “It must break soon, I should think,” she said hopefully.

“Pray that it does,” Rognvald told her, “for until it spends itself somewhat, we cannot resume the search.”

Growing impatient at last, the porters intervened to close the doors and shut out the icy gale. Cait and Rognvald made their way to the reception hall where a fire had been lit and was now blazing with bright fury on the hearth. Two servants were adding firewood to the already towering stack under Prince Hasan's commanding gaze. At his visitors' approach, the prince beckoned them to come and warm themselves.

“It is the one regrettable verity of life atop a mountain,” he said. “If the weather is bad in the valleys it is always worse here—especially in winter.”

“It is often like this?” wondered Cait, extending her hands toward the fire.

“Worse, Ketmia. Winter arrives with a fury, and leaves only with the greatest reluctance. We call it
al-Zoba'a
: the Ferocious One. But the palace walls are stout, my forests keep us well supplied with firewood, and the harvest of the valleys is always bountiful, so we do not often have cause to trouble Heaven with our complaints.”

“Lord Rognvald thinks the storm will prevent us from resuming the search,” Cait said, hoping for a better word.

“Then he is most prudent,” agreed Hasan cheerfully. “It is unwise to tempt fate on a day like this.” At Cait's distraught expression, he said, “Yet all is not lost, Ketmia.” He took her hand in both of his and pressed it comfortingly. “For if the storm prevents us from searching, it also prevents Ali Waqqar from escaping to the south.”

“Do you think that is where they are going?”

“To be sure,” replied Hasan. “Winter is mild in the south, and he will be able to sell to the slave traders.” Cait had never considered this possibility before, and it brought her up short; the prince immediately offered consolation. “Have no fear, Ketmia, that will not happen. I will not allow it.”

Spreading his arms wide, he took both Cait and Rognvald in his stride and said, “But come, my friends, this is a disagreeable business to discuss on an empty stomach. Let us breakfast together, and I will tell you how I plan to catch this rogue who has abducted the fair Alethea. For I pondered this matter long last night and this morning Allah, Author of Eternal Justice, has blessed me with a scheme of such simplicity and cunning it could only come by way of divine inspiration.”

He led them through a door to a chamber behind the hearth. Dim light shone through tiny diamond-shaped windows of colored glass, casting the room in shades of deep blue. One wall opened onto the hearth, so that both the reception hall and the smaller chamber could share the warmth of the fire. A number of cushions had been placed around a low table near the hearth, and the table laid for a simple meal.

“Please, sit, take your ease, my friends,” said the prince, dropping languidly onto a cushion. Serving maids appeared and began pouring cups of almond milk; they unwrapped stacks of flatbread spiced with anise still warm from the oven. There was dried fruit and nuts in little baskets, and a warm drink made with dried apples infused in hot water and sweetened with honey—which they served in small cups made of glass.

Cait took a bite of her bread, and set it aside. “If you please, Prince Hasan, tell me your plan,” she said, unable to suppress her excitement any longer. “I must hear it at once.”

“Then you shall, my dove, for it is swiftly told.” Tearing a bit of bread from the flat loaf, he dipped it into the sweetened almond milk and chewed thoughtfully for a moment, before saying, “You see, it came to me that no one chases mice—it is an impossible business. What do we do instead?” He paused to allow his listeners to appreciate his subtlety. “We set a trap.”

“Yes,” agreed Cait, waiting for the prince to expound his philosophy.

“You are saying,” mused an unimpressed Rognvald, “that we set a trap for this bandit, Ali Waqqar. We would still have to find him first—would we not?”

Prince Hasan smiled as if at an unenlightened child. “But we do not go out searching for mice. In fact, they find us, do they not? All we have to do is dangle the bait in the right place and, praise Allah, the rogue of a bandit will come to
us
. It will, I believe, save a great deal of time and effort.”

“If Ali Waqqar is as cunning as you suggest, he may not care to risk the trap.”

“Ah,” said the prince, raising a finger in triumph, “if the bait is irresistible enough, even the most wily mouse will risk the trap.” He smiled expansively. “I will simply make the bait so enticing that Ali Waqqar will have no choice. Then, when we have him where we want him, he will have no choice but to surrender Alethea.”

“That will work,” Cait said hopefully. “Do you not think so, Rognvald?”

“Oh, indeed, my lady,” he answered stiffly. “Ask any rat-catcher.” He sipped the warming apple drink, and regarded the splendidly pleased prince for a moment before saying, “Tell us more about this trap of yours.”

“As you know, it is my belief that the bandits will try to sell Alethea in the slave markets of Al-Andalus—most likely in Balansiyya, or Mayurika. Forgive me, Ketmia, but a young woman of your race would bring a very great price in Tunis, Monastir, or Rabat. Naturally, the price would be even greater for a virgin. Prices in excess of thirty thousand dirhams are not unusual; and if the woman is truly beautiful, the price could easily climb to as much as fifty or sixty thousand dirhams.”

“I had no idea,” said Cait, a little awed by the exorbitant amount.

“Oh, yes,” Hasan assured her. “And that is your sister's greatest protection. For the bandits are well aware of the value of a fair-faced virgin. Thus, we can be certain that your sister has not been harmed in any way. As the poet says, ‘If evil is an oyster, hope is the pearl.' You see? Even a brute like Ali Waqqar will want to make the best price, so he will take good care of her, believe me.”

“I pray you are right, Prince Hasan,” said Rognvald. “Even so, I cannot see how this helps us to find Alethea.”

“Ah! Impatience often begets impetuosity, my lord. I am coming to it in good time. As you yourselves have seen, for brigands like Ali Waqqar these mountains provide countless hiding places; a man might search for a hundred years and never find his quarry. But settlements are few, and all of them are within easy reach of this fortress.

“Now then,” he leaned forward, grinning with wily exuberance, “Ali and his band of thieves must obtain supplies from one settlement or another. I propose to send word throughout the realm that Prince Hasan wants to buy a white slave. We will say that I have grown bored and lonely on my mountaintop and wish to divert myself with a female slave—a luxury for which I am happy to pay sixty thousand silver dirhams.”

Hasan gave a little laugh and lay back. “Then we simply
sit back and wait for Ali Waqqar to come to collect his fee. And when he appears…” he clapped his hands together smartly, “snap! We have him.”

“It is indeed an ingenious plan,” Cait granted. “However, there is one thing which I question.”

“Only one?” muttered Rognvald sourly.

Ignoring him, Cait asked, “How can we be certain Ali Waqqar is still in the region? He might be fleeing south even now. Would it not be wise to send men to search the southern trails? If what you say about the slave markets is true—and I do not doubt it—we might catch him along the way.”

“My thoughts exactly,” agreed Rognvald. He tore off a bit of bread and popped it into his mouth. “Assuming that it is Ali Waqqar, and assuming that he would be making for the coast, how do we know he is not hastening there even now?”

“My friends,” said Hasan, “you do not know Ali Waqqar as I know him. He has long been a bane to me and to my people. We have suffered his thieving and plundering far too long. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to crush him like a worm beneath my heel.

“Perhaps, if I had been more vigilant in the past we might never have come to this difficult pass. But I have vowed before Almighty Allah, the Savior of the Righteous, to bring a swift end to this brigand's predation, and restore your sister to her rightful place.”

Stretching his hand toward Cait, who grasped it with unseemly alacrity—so it seemed to Rognvald—the prince said, “My beautiful Ketmia, I could not endure the thought of seeing you bereft. To reunite you and your loving sister—
that
has now become the pure flame of my ambition.”

Raising her hand to his lips, he kissed it. “By the will of Allah, I shall not rest until I have brought about this reunion.”

Rognvald watched this immodest display through narrowed eyes; but Cait, much taken with the prince already, found her heart beating a little more quickly for his promises. Unable to stomach any more, Rognvald rose and, begging the prince's pardon, took his leave saying that he
wished to see to his men. “I want to be ready to ride out as soon as a break in the storm permits,” he said.

Rising, he acknowledged the prince with a bow, then turned and strode quickly from the room—almost colliding with Jubayar, who was lurking at the door. Cait watched the tall knight depart, before turning to Prince Hasan to apologize. “I pray you forgive Lord Rognvald, my lord. He seems to have forgotten himself since coming here.”

“Ah, well, as the poet says, ‘Warriors, like swords, grow dull with neglect.' All men of action feel inactivity an onerous burden. No doubt he will feel more at ease when he can return to the saddle.”

“You are too kind, my lord prince.”

“If I am, it is your good influence upon me.” He kissed her hand again. “You inspire me to greater virtue, and I am happy to be so inspired.”

They spent the rest of the morning together; the prince showed Cait through various chambers, halls, courts, and quarters, each more sumptuous than the last with rare woods carved and inlaid in fantastically intricate patterns, and fine colored marble. In some, the walls were smooth-plastered, and painted with rich, glowing colors; in others, the walls were decorated with ornate and costly tiles; some had windows fitted with triangles of colored glass, and others with grills of carved wood or stone.

Some of the rooms were spacious and grand, while others were intimate as bedchambers; whether large or small, however, the rooms were immaculate in cleanliness and conception, revealing the full splendor of the intellect that had created them. Each room was named, and the names were wondrous, too: Zaffira, Caravanserai, Ivory Court, the Ladies' Tower, Red Sirocco, and one called Evening Narjis—where the deep-colored tiles reminded Cait of a peacock's feathers, and so instantly it became the Peacock Room.

As they went on, Cait could not help but notice that the rooms, although exquisite to the tiniest detail, were uniformly devoid of furniture. After viewing one barren expanse after another, her curiosity grew unbearable. “Truly, I have
never seen such a wealth of magnificence. Yet, I cannot help wondering where all the furnishings have gone?”

Prince Hasan put his head back and laughed, the sound of his voice full and deep. “Oh, Ketmia, you are a very marvel of practicality. Yes, the rooms are bare until the moment when I decide which shall be occupied and for what purpose. Then, the things I require are brought by my servants and arranged as need dictates.”

Cait thought this practice highly resourceful, and expressed such delight at the ingenuity of it that Prince Hasan said, “Allow me to demonstrate. Now then, of all the rooms you have seen so far, which do you favor?”

Cait was ready with her reply. “Oh, it must be the Peacock Room. The colors are exquisite.”

The prince appeared pleased with the choice. “Splendid! I knew you would choose that one; it is one of my special favorites, too. So! Tonight we will dine in the Peacock Room, you and I, and I will show you how this feat is accomplished.”

Cait spent the rest of the day examining the books in the prince's considerable collection. Obtained in various places throughout the Arab world, each one was bound in fine leather and, although written in the graceful, flowing Arabic script which Cait could not read, she enjoyed looking at the painted pictures which adorned page after page. One book contained scenes of life along the River Nile, the Great Mosq of Cairo, and the Sphinx—and this one she especially enjoyed.

“You like this book,” said Hasan, enjoying her delight. “I can see it in your eyes.”

“Oh, yes, very much,” she said. “You see, my father was once a guest of the Caliph of Cairo. He told me about it many times, and in these paintings I can see what he saw.”

“You love your father,” observed the prince. “I can hear it in your voice when you speak of him.”

“I did, yes. He was a fine man. He is dead now, and I cherish his memory. It is the most precious thing I own.”

“Then you must have this book so you can look at it whenever you like and remember him in a happier time.”

“Oh, but I could not—” Cait protested. “A book like this—I have never seen the like. It must have cost a fortune. I could never accept such a costly gift. I have nothing to give you in return.”