by Jean, Rima
She was bewildered but ran anyway. The hunting party was large, however, and soon trackers, beaters, falconers, panting mastiffs, and hounds surrounded them. The horsemen tore through the underbrush, their mares snorting and stomping. Voices spoke in French, and a Frankish emblem glittered from a pennon: Molay’s coat of arms. She wanted to seek refuge in the trees, but she didn’t want to leave Earic alone—he had looked frightened. So she stood at his side, her feet firmly planted in the grass, their arms slick with sweat and touching. They were trapped game.
“Woah!” one of the horsemen cried, looking down at them as his navy blue cape swirled over his shoulder. Zayn stopped breathing, for the man’s face was much like Guy’s except older. “Earic,” he said, and his dark eyes rested on Zayn. “What is this nonsense?”
“My lord,” Earic said, his face paler still. “We were hunting.” He gestured to Zayn weakly and added, “This is Zayn, my…friend.”
Lord Gerard de Molay furrowed his brow as though he had misheard. “Your friend?” His eyes fired at Zayn. “Where are you from, child?” he demanded.
Zayn’s voice shook. “Rafaniya, my lord.”
“Rafaniya,” he repeated, now looking at Earic again. His expression was fierce, and it startled them both when he laughed. “Good God, I don’t believe it.” He looked around him at his attendants, his knights. “I take this bastard into my home, raise him as though he is one of my own, and this is how he repays me.”
Confused, Zayn looked to Earic for answers. He stared ahead, unflinching, white as a sheet, and fear swept through her. She was the reason Lord de Molay was angry and the reason Earic was afraid.
“A Saracen girl,” Gerard spat, as though the words left a foul taste in his mouth. “After what the Saracens did to me.” He turned his head sharply, and it was then that Zayn noticed he was missing an ear. There was only a hole embedded in scar tissue where his right ear should have been. He looked at Zayn with pure hatred, as though she had done it, had taken a sword and lopped the ear off herself. The desire to apologize sprang to her lips, but she could not find her voice.
Gerard de Molay then looked at his knights and nodded. They dismounted and approached, and Zayn knew from their manner that this would come to no good. She struggled against their grips, but Earic did not. Gerard said, “I am sorry to do this to you, Earic, for you know I love you like I love my own sons. But this”—he looked again at Zayn, his face twisted with revulsion—“is not acceptable.”
They’re going to kill us. It began to happen again—the strange thing that happened to her body when she sensed danger. The noise. The light. The strange sensation that crawled beneath her skin, like she was filling up…
“My lord!” Earic cried fiercely. “Punish me if you will, but let the girl go. I implore you.”
Gerard rubbed his chin. “I must keep my serfs in line, Earic. This child was poaching.”
“Only because of me,” Earic insisted, his voice sounding deeper and older than Zayn was accustomed to. “I am the one who tempted her to hunt. I am fully to blame.”
But that’s not true! Zayn tried to meet his eyes. In fact, it had been the other way around. She could feel her muscles weakening, the light dying.
Gerard chuckled, but there was a vicious edge to it. “You like the girl, do you? Ah, but you have so much to learn, boy.” He turned his hard gaze to Zayn. “Very well, then. Begone, child, and I will spare you the same lashing.” He flicked his gaze toward Earic, fingering the woven leather whip coiled around his waist, thicker than a man’s thumb.
No. Zayn clenched her teeth and tensed her muscles, trying to will her strength to return. Come back, please come back. If she could just summon her powers now, she might be able to help Earic…
“Zayn,” Earic said harshly. “Don’t you dare try that now. Go!”
“I won’t leave you…” Her body shook.
“Go!” he shouted angrily, shoving her away with such strength she slammed against a tree, heard it crack. In a blur of confusion, she scrambled away, her breath ragged. Run away, run far away. She paused only to retch in the grass, her body convulsing, and then continued to run, swearing to God she would never leave her mother’s side again.
Chapter Twelve
Earic did not look at Zayn—and why would he?—so she cowered back, hiding herself behind Marguerite and the other ladies. Five years, she reminded herself, trying to calm her racing heart. He won’t recognize me. But God, how her heart pounded as she peered out at him from within the shadows. The boy had grown into a man—a handsome, virile man. And yet, it was unquestionably him, the good-spirited boy she’d known at Montferrand. She recognized those lucid blue eyes, that jaunty smile, even though they now belonged to a face that could have been sculpted from stone… Breathe, Zayn. Breathe. He is your enemy now. The pain was sharper than she expected, and she gritted her teeth.
Sir Earic Goodwin was well-received, despite the prank he’d played on everyone. Marguerite clasped her hands tightly, her green-gold eyes lit from within, and Zayn could see how so very delighted she was to see him. Everyone save the knights who had fought him seemed to find the entire situation utterly amusing and greeted Earic with embraces and claps on the back.
“Did you only just arrive?” Marguerite asked him, her entire face strained with joy.
“Last night,” Earic replied. “But, my lady, you have yet to crown me.” He flashed her a boyish smile and pointed to his head.
She laughed and set the crown firmly on his head. “Sir Champion! And how are things in England?”
He shrugged. “Fine, I suppose. But I was eager to return to Jerusalem.”
Even his voice is the same. Deeper, but the same. Zayn clenched her fists. The pain in her heart was unbearable.
“How did you manage to pull off such a hoax?” Marguerite shook with laughter.
“Ah, but I had help.” Earic turned and called across the field, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Guy! Sir Guy de Molay!”
Guy looked over, hesitated, then swaggered over slowly, warily. Zayn retreated farther into the darkness of the gallery. She watched as Earic clasped Guy in a firm embrace, and she noticed the look of surprise and confusion on Guy’s face. “Guy helped plan the whole thing,” Earic said, holding Guy at arm’s length and smiling at him. “He promised to let me win for the sake of a good show. Isn’t that right, brother?”
Guy blinked, composed his features. “Yes, of course,” he replied, returning Earic’s affection with a squeeze of the shoulder. “Earic would be foolish to think he could truly defeat me.” A wolfish grin, a glint of malice in his eyes.
Earic’s smile never faltered. “Perhaps, but I wear the crown tonight.”
He’s still the good-hearted boy. Despite it all. Zayn waited silently for Marguerite, then accompanied her back to the palace for the banquet. She kept her head down and her veil across her face, her anguish hidden. Now she had two men to avoid, two men who might recognize her. Two men who hate me. She shook her head. She didn’t know if Earic hated her, but she had been the reason for his brutal whipping that fateful day five years ago in the woods. Perhaps he had grown to hate the Saracens, too, just like Gerard and Guy de Molay. He had ample reason to hate her—and spurn her.
She had to be ready to kill him if he remembered her true identity.
He is your enemy now.
“I can’t believe he’s returned,” Marguerite said as they walked back to her chambers.
“Were you good friends with him, my lady?” Zayn asked, peering sidelong at her friend and swallowing the lump in her throat.
Marguerite smiled, her eyes alight with memories. “Oh yes. He came to Jerusalem to train as a knight five or six years ago, but we were just children then. Then he went back to England for some special education, and he’s been gone these two years.”
Zayn asked, “What special education?”
“I wouldn’t know. Templar business, I suppose,” she answered.
Then he wasn’t he
re when Guy killed my mother. He couldn’t have helped me. Zayn shook the memory of that night from her head. “How is Sir Earic ‘ransomed’? I thought Templars did not allow themselves to be ransomed.”
“He is ransomed by his father to Gerard de Molay, their overlord. Gerard de Molay has turned Earic into a Templar.”
Before Zayn could process this information, they reached the bower. Marguerite burst into her chamber and squealed at her ladies-in-waiting, all of them preening for the banquet. “Sir Earic Goodwin has returned! Heavens, if you had seen it. Pray, ask Sara what he did…”
Marguerite chattered on, telling them the story of the tournament as Zayn walked to her bed in the adjoining room, pulling her veil free and letting it flutter to the ground. She did not want to go to the banquet. She was tired of playing a part in someone else’s game. All she wanted was to drive her dagger into Guy and Bashar in turn, then leave the High Court of Jerusalem for good. She was desperate, drowning. With heavy motions, Zayn washed the grime of the tournament from her face and neck using a washcloth and a gilded washbasin filled with scented water. Ingegerd helped her tighten her gown’s laces and adjust her hair. The girls were excited—indeed, more so now that Earic was here—and they were in a hurry to peek into the Great Hall.
Zayn wished she felt some of their enthusiasm. What wouldn’t she give to be as young in spirit as they were? She scanned their young, fresh faces, full of anticipation. They had not watched their mothers burn at the stake for witchcraft. They had not been raped and defiled and left for dead in a sheep’s pen. They had not been transformed into ruthless killers, seeking their next victims. She was a hundred years old compared to these girls.
King Baldwin was in high spirits this night. He looked very much like a king in his gold silk tunic, and Zayn swore she could see him smiling beneath his dark veil. Earic Goodwin was, without question, the main attraction of the evening. People were drawn to him like moths to a flame, and a flame he was. He had bathed and shaved, and although he wore the Templar attire like so many other knights, everything about him gleamed—his flaxen hair, his white teeth, his cerulean eyes. His nose was swollen and bruised, but it did nothing to detract from his aura. Even Princess Sibylla could not keep herself from speaking to him, and she smiled at him in a way that others noticed.
A feeling of unexpected jealousy assaulted Zayn. I love him. It was like a blade twisting in her heart, deadlier than any cruciform sword or Assassin steel. How could she still have feelings for him after all that had happened to her? She’d been certain that Guy had killed any interest she’d ever have in men. She would spend the rest of her life loathing men and their touch, she’d thought. And yet, Fair Boy was reentering her life, and she felt a longing she couldn’t understand, a longing that threatened to drive her mad. She clenched her teeth, closed her eyes briefly. He would spit at you and laugh, just as Guy did. You are ruined, and no man will ever love you. Somehow, the thought calmed her, strengthened her resolve to complete her mission.
“Is Lady Marguerite not dancing tonight?” Suddenly, he stood at their table, a mere two feet away, dazzling them with his smile. Marguerite laughed affectionately and waved him away. “You know me better than that, Brother Earic.”
“Ah yes,” Earic conceded, “my lady has always preferred riding to dancing. I assume not much has changed?”
“Only that it’s gotten worse.” Marguerite laughed. She touched Zayn’s hand. “Here, take Lady Sara to dance with you.”
Oh God, no. Zayn stopped breathing altogether as Earic’s eyes slid in her direction. She avoided his gaze, her cheeks burning. “I would rather not, my lady, as I am not feeling well at the moment…”
“Forgive me, ladies,” Earic interrupted, bowing slightly, his eyes still fixed on Zayn, “but I don’t believe my brothers would approve of my dancing. So, Lady Sara, you are safe.”
Zayn released her breath, relieved. But even as Marguerite talked, Zayn could sense Earic looking at her from time to time. Her skin prickled. I have to get out of here. “If you would please excuse me, Lady Marguerite, Brother Goodwin,” she said, rising from her chair. “I think I will retire for the evening.”
His gaze burned a hole in the back of her head as she hurried to her bedchamber, relaxing only after she’d shut the door behind her. Exhaustion flooded her body as she went to the window. With nothing but the moon to illuminate the empty room, Zayn leaned against the cool stone. Very seldom was she truly alone, and she savored the moment now, wallowed in her pain. Killing Guy de Molay had been her sole purpose for living for nine months. What would her purpose be, she wondered, after it all ended? She had nothing but the Assassins, and she knew better than to trust them. She was but a tool to them, and even Junaid had proven deceitful.
She thought back on their final conversation, just before she left Masyaf. Junaid had known her mother and father when they were alive, but he hadn’t told her more than that. She’d thought on it and didn’t like the conclusions she came to. Her father had to have either been an Assassin or a jinni, for how else would Junaid have known about her existence? Zayn exhaled slowly, pressing her forehead against the stone wall beside the window. Junaid thought he could use her father’s identity as leverage to ensure her return to Masyaf, but little did he know that she’d stopped wanting to know. She did not want to accept that the villagers of Rafaniya had been right in calling her a demon girl.
A subtle movement of her wrist slid the blade from her sleeve. The sliver of metal emerged from the blue silk, warm from her skin. She removed it and turned it in her hands, over and over, as though it held the answers. Maybe it does. She ran her forefinger along the blade, relishing the sight of her blood beading forth from the cut. Once she killed Guy de Molay, she would have no real reason to live. She had been the cause of so much pain—Miriam’s pain, Fair Boy’s pain. It was futile for her, this living business. If she truly was a demon, a jinniyah, maybe she’d be doing the world a favor by finding escape in this very blade.
“Sara?” Marguerite moved silently, her mouth in a frown, her eyes brimming with concern. She reached Zayn’s bedside and stopped. “I was worried about you when you left so suddenly. Is something wrong?”
Before she could lie, the words had escaped. “I miss my mother.” The knife glided back up her sleeve, the blood staunched with silk.
“Heavens, Sara, you aren’t a prisoner here,” Marguerite declared. “A visit can certainly be arranged.”
Zayn smiled humorlessly. “No, my lady. She’s dead.”
Pursing her lips, Marguerite said softly, “I am sorry, Sara.” Then she did something that stunned Zayn—she strode around the bed and folded Zayn into a fierce embrace. Zayn could smell her, the scented water mingling with clean sweat on her skin, in her hair. She could feel that human tenderness, that breathing, thumping warmth beneath her head, her chest, her arms. It had become a distant memory to her. I thought the Franks were a frigid people. Locked in Marguerite’s arms, Zayn’s blood warmed again, her spirit stirred. She was tired of feeling sorry for herself. She swore to herself right then that she would no longer spend this grand adventure wishing for death—death would come in good time. She had a mission to accomplish, and wallowing in self-pity was useless and pathetic. Enough!
With sudden energy, Zayn raised her head and held Marguerite at arm’s length, grinning. “I think I’d like to shoot some arrows,” Zayn said. What she truly wanted was to throw knives, but that was impossible. Moreover, she knew how much Marguerite enjoyed archery.
Marguerite blinked, surprised. “Now?”
“Why not?”
Marguerite smiled back—a smile that crinkled her eyes. “Why not, indeed. Let’s go, then.”
Down in the courtyard, the guards were amused to watch two finely dressed ladies shoot arrows by starlight. Marguerite had improved significantly, thanks to her relentless desire to succeed, as well as Zayn’s skilled instruction. Zayn savored every sensation, the nocking and drawing, the stiffness of the bowstri
ng, the fight of the bow, the release of the arrow. The motions came as easily as inhaling and exhaling, and in the darkness they had to. It was in those repetitive motions of resistance and release that Zayn soared.
“Well, what have we here?”
Earic grinned at them, his legs apart and his arms crossed on his chest. Zayn lowered her bow and her head, her heart in her throat. Damn him, must he follow us? Is he determined to die by my blade? Marguerite returned his smile, her face like a moon itself in the night. “Oh, the banquet was tiresome,” she said cheerfully. “We wanted some fresh air.”
“I remember when I tried to teach you to shoot,” Earic said, stepping forward. “You pleaded with me to show you. How old were you then? Fourteen?”
Marguerite’s face reddened, but her smile grew. “No. Much younger. Thirteen.” She laughed. “And then I injured my arm trying to shoot without a bracer, and my mother punished us. Will you forever hold that over my head?”
“Absolutely,” Earic replied. “I am not above it.” He glanced curiously at Zayn and inclined his head. “You’re very good with the longbow, my lady.”
“Lady Sara is an exceptional archer,” Marguerite said, turning to smile at Zayn. “She’s taught me how to do it properly.”
“I noticed,” he answered as Zayn remained still as a statue, her eyes on the ground, willing him not to recognize her. He glanced over at the target, where all six of her arrows were embedded in the very center.
She replied softly, “Thank you, Brother Goodwin.”
“Please call me Earic.” He cleared his throat and looked back at Marguerite. “Considering, my lady, that you have now acquired the skill, would you and Lady Sara care to join the hunting party on the morrow?”
“Yes, we would love to,” Marguerite said in a rush. “I’ve been dying to go on a hunt.”
“I won’t be taking you deep into Syria, now,” Earic said, holding up a palm in response to Marguerite’s eagerness. “Just outside Ascalon, to hunt some hares and small game. I don’t want your mother to pull me by the ear.”
