by Jean, Rima
“No one said I intended to marry Earic Goodwin,” Marguerite hissed between her teeth, blood rushing to her face.
“No matter,” Melisende said with an indignant sniff. “You are forbidden from associating with him from now on.”
“Mama!”
“Listen well, Marguerite: If you want to remain in Jerusalem, you will forget about Earic Goodwin. Is that clear?”
Swallowing a lump in her throat, Zayn watched Marguerite battle angry tears. Zayn conceded that life wasn’t fair, but at least Marguerite had been born into privilege. Zayn could only hope the man Marguerite married would be good to her. As for Earic… Zayn’s life would become easier once he was no longer hovering about. Grown-up Fair Boy was proving to be a big thorn in her side.
“Now,” Melisende said, composing herself. She pulled back her shoulders and smoothed down her skirt. “I shall take my leave, Daughter.” As she walked to the door, she looked directly at Zayn. “Mademoiselle Sara, may I have a word with you outside?”
Zayn glanced at Marguerite as she stood, but the lady’s face was in her hands, and her women fluttered about her, blocking Zayn’s view. This isn’t good. Reluctantly, she followed Melisende out into the hall. “Yes, my lady?” she said in as meek a voice as she could manage.
Melisende did not look at her, choosing rather to look beyond her. “It would be silly for me to hold you responsible for Marguerite’s behavior,” she began haughtily, “but I had hoped you would serve as a guiding force, seeing as she is most fond of you.”
“Yes, my lady,” Zayn said again, slightly confused.
“You saved her life, and for that we are grateful,” Melisende said, finally looking directly at Zayn. “But you must discourage this hoyden behavior. Help her forget Earic Goodwin. No more archery lessons.”
Zayn bit her lip. Marguerite would be devastated. Melisende sensed her hesitation and pounced on it. “I have no issue with sending you back to your uncle, Sara Zachariah,” she said, her voice brittle.
“No, my lady,” Zayn said quickly. “I will do as you wish.”
Lady Melisende nodded. “Take care that you do.”
With a deep sigh, Zayn returned to Marguerite’s bedside. Marguerite’s face was splotchy, the eyes that looked at Zayn bloodshot. “She’s trying to kill me, isn’t she?”
Zayn took Marguerite’s hand. “No, my lady. She simply wants what’s best for you. You were born into a certain life, and Lady Melisende wants to ensure that you are fully prepared for that life.” The words soured on her tongue; she hated saying them. What a hypocrite she was, telling her friend to do exactly what she, Zayn, had refused to do.
“What a stupid fool I am,” Marguerite moaned, strands of russet hair falling into her eyes. “It is not fair to make you sit all day at the bedside of an invalid. Sara, you will tire of me.”
“Never, my lady,” Zayn replied, squeezing Marguerite’s hand. This, at least, was said with the utmost sincerity.
“You must go to the banquet tonight. It is the final night of King Baldwin’s birthday feast.”
Zayn let out a laugh. “I have no desire to go, Lady Marguerite. I would much rather stay with you.”
“No,” Marguerite said, an urgency in her eyes, which glinted even greener from within the fine veins of red. “You must go for me. You must take a message to Earic.”
Oh no, not that. Zayn hesitated, hoping the panic she felt wasn’t plain on her face. “My lady, I’m not sure it is wise…” God, but she wanted to encourage Marguerite’s free spirit. She also wanted to kill Guy de Molay, however, and she had to keep Lady Melisende from sending her away before she had her chance.
“You misunderstand me,” Marguerite said with a sad shake of her head. “I simply want to apologize for everything and to tell him that our friendship will endure this. I know what is expected of me, and I’ve no desire to ruin my chances at inheriting the lordship.”
Once again, Zayn felt a strange, inexplicable surge of jealousy. The words came out before she could stop them: “Do you love him?” She’d once thought that the people of Rafaniya and Guy de Molay had destroyed love for her. But Marguerite—and Fair Boy, damn his eyes—were proving her wrong. She still loved with a fierceness that seemed impossible.
“Of course I love him, but like a brother,” Marguerite replied, her slender fingers twisting the blanket on her lap. “Nonetheless, I cherish his friendship, and I want him to know that.”
“I see.” Relief flooded through her, angering her. What difference did it make, if Marguerite had no romantic interest in Earic? It made no difference at all. Bashar’s words haunted her—while she considered Marguerite a true friend, the friendship was born in lies. She and Marguerite were enemies by blood, and Zayn sometimes forgot that critical fact. It’s so easy to forget. She looked at the white hand in hers, felt the warm vitality it thrummed into her with each beat of Marguerite’s heart.
A soft-spoken maid helped Zayn ready for the banquet. Just once more, and I am done with Earic Goodwin for good. Much to her annoyance, the thought saddened Zayn. She frowned as her black hair was twisted and knotted on her head. What was wrong with her? Marguerite, Earic—they were distractions from her true purpose. Why did she feel attached to these Franks, who would kill her without hesitation if they knew what she was? She was growing soft in this place. She had to kill Guy and leave as soon as possible.
She had no patience for the frivolity of Court life tonight. She needed to move on, to accomplish what she had come to do, and leave. Jerusalem was playing with her mind. Zayn often heard Junaid’s voice in her dreams, and it could not have been clearer now than if he’d been standing before her: It took years of deception, of living a lie. Are you prepared to do that? She pinched the bridge of her nose. She hadn’t anticipated feeling affection for those she deceived.
She hadn’t anticipated feeling affection ever again.
Without Marguerite at her side, Zayn felt even more out of place than usual. Only a couple of Marguerite’s ladies attended tonight’s feast, at her request. Zayn found herself answering many questions regarding her lady’s health, as she had expected. She kept glancing at the Templars in attendance, trying to make eye contact with Earic while avoiding the dark gaze of Guy de Molay. Though the two men sat side by side, they did not speak to each other. Zayn wondered at their strange relationship, and at Earic’s involvement with that sinister family.
Sometime after her second goblet of wine, Earic looked to her. She straightened, widened her eyes, and parted her lips as if to speak. He seemed to understand and kept glancing back at her, apparently waiting. When the moment seemed right, Zayn excused herself from her company and with a meaningful look in Earic’s direction, left the Great Hall for the royal gardens. She sat on a stone bench and not a few moments later, heard footfalls on the path behind her.
Earic emerged from behind a rosebush, his eyes glistening at her. He looked misplaced, this broad-shouldered monk-warrior, wandering amid the blooms of an Eastern garden. Even at night, the reds and golds and pinks were vivid and breathtaking. “Is Marguerite well?” he asked immediately, his brow creased with concern.
Zayn frowned as he sat beside her on the bench. “She has been better.”
“Her injury—”
“It is healing well. It’s not her leg that ails her so much.” Zayn looked down into her lap. How would she tell him what Marguerite should be telling him herself? This whole situation was terribly uncomfortable. “Lady Melisende has forbidden her from keeping your company.”
He exhaled, looked down as well. “I thought she might.” Zayn tilted her head to look at his profile. His hair was freshly washed and still damp, dark at the roots and shorter than before. Gone was the baby-faced Fair Boy she remembered; the man beside her had a network of scars on his sun-baked face and neck. His palms were like cracked leather, and the scent of sandalwood mingled with the musk of a man. She was surprised to find that it did not repulse her. In fact, it did quite the opposite. She glan
ced away.
“She never did approve of our friendship,” he said with a sad smile. “I was not good enough for her daughter. And I don’t disagree—I am not good enough for Marguerite.”
“Oh, stop,” Zayn said impatiently. “Just because you were not born into the right family doesn’t mean you cannot be friends.”
Earic looked at Zayn. “I suppose. But Marguerite is something special.”
Her expression softened. “Yes. I agree.” She hesitated for a moment. “She wanted me to tell you that no matter what, your friendship will endure.”
His smile was like a bolt of lightning in the dark. “Of course it will. Just like ours has.”
Zayn focused straight ahead, her blood beginning to hum. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Zayn.” His voice was hoarse with emotion, his hand gently brushing against hers. “I know it’s you. I knew it was you the moment I saw you.”
“Your enemy,” she heard herself say, turning to look at him.
His voice was barely a whisper. “God’s bones! What have you become?”
Emotion clogged her throat, made her voice rasp. “Forget you ever met me, Earic. You must forget. I must kill you otherwise.”
“You can try. You won’t succeed.” He moved his hand up her arm, sending sparks throughout her body. “I had intended to visit Monteferrand soon. I wanted…to find you.”
She shook her head, her breath coming quickly now. “Find me? Why? You are a Templar, have you forgotten? And I…I’m not the girl you remember, not even a shadow of her.”
“I follow no one’s law but my own.” His face was illuminated from within. “As for the girl from Rafaniya… She’s here, I can still see her.” He raised his hand to her mouth and touched her lips with his forefinger.
Her every nerve tingled in response, her brain woozy with realization. Was it possible that he had feelings for her? In the blink of an eye, her hand flashed out, seeking his throat. Before she could grasp him, he’d snagged her wrist in his powerful fist. Her other hand lashed out; he stopped it as well. Her body rose in fury, but he rose with her, twisting her forcefully against him. Locking her within his arms, he lowered his head. “I won’t touch you, Zayn, I swear it. Please, control your strength. I don’t want to hurt you.”
The roar abated; her strength retreated like a falling tide. She gasped and slumped against him. How was he so strong? She was surprised how far up she had to look to meet his gaze. “I don’t understand. How…?”
His lips were inches from hers. “Haven’t you realized it yet, Zayn? You and I…”
His breath mingled with hers, intoxicating her. “What?” she managed to whisper.
Rather than answer, he dipped his head just a fraction and touched her mouth with his. The spark his lips ignited was so very different from the one created by her power. A warmth spread throughout her body, turning her muscles to jelly. She felt completely, utterly human in Fair Boy’s arms, and it was too good to be true…
She pulled away abruptly, horrified. “I have to go. I can’t… You must forget about me, Earic. Or else you put your life in danger.” Before he could reply, she turned and hurried away, breathless with fear.
…
He knows who I am.
She had let down her guard with him. She had let him kiss her. Zayn swore under her breath, using every curse in Arabic she could think of, and a few in French for good measure. More than that, she had kissed him back! She’d intended to be done with him and had landed in his arms instead.
She’d spent much of the next day strung as tightly as the raw silk string of a Mameluk bow. A Templar knows who I am. He had been so cocky when she’d warned him about risking his life. Did he think he was so much stronger than her? She was posing as a Syrian nobleman’s daughter and could throw knives like…an Assassin. How long would it take for him to piece things together?
It didn’t matter what he thought. She had to act now.
“Must you leave me?” Marguerite groaned, tugging childlike at Zayn’s sleeve. “I feel like I’ve been immobile for an eternity, and my monthly courses have just begun. I may go mad.”
“You’ll survive,” Zayn said with a wry smile. I, on the other hand, might not. “I need to visit my uncle. His wife is ill, and I promised to go.” Her Assassin duties had been delayed on account of Marguerite and Earic, but she had a mission to complete. She hated deceiving Marguerite, but she had little choice in the matter.
“Promise you’ll return as soon as you can,” Marguerite pleaded. She’d grown pale and sullen, and Zayn was loathe to leave her. She could not be certain that she would ever see Marguerite again, and it gnawed at her soul.
“When I can,” Zayn said carefully, “I will return.” She leaned down and kissed Marguerite on the brow. “Promise me you will take care of yourself.”
Marguerite grunted. “Go. Your uncle awaits.”
With a heavy heart, Zayn left the palace, riding her mare to the Zachariah home. Forget Marguerite. Only one thing matters now. She set her jaw and looked ahead. Despite the night, the streets of Jerusalem were bustling. Some shops were closed, but many were still open, the smell of food wafting from them. Pilgrims filtered in and out of the various churches and chapels, Greek and Latin, piously shrouded in cloaks and veils. The pilgrims wandered from the Dome of the Rock and the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, through the Vale of Jehosaphat, and finally to the Jordan River to bathe where Jesus had been baptized.
Zayn had attended numerous masses since her arrival in Jerusalem and was no more touched by them than she was by prayer in the mosques. In a time when religion defined people, Zayn was an outcast. She was constantly, acutely aware of it—there was no escaping it, not when notions of God infiltrated every aspect of daily life.
Save for the occasional lamp, the Syrian Quarters were covered in darkness. A stable boy emerged to take her horse, and a porter led her into the dimly lit home. She did not want to disturb anyone—Zachariah had granted her use of his home for the duration of her mission. In the room lent to her, she swiftly changed into her black breeches, shirt, and hooded mantle. She strapped on her knives of various sizes beneath her sash, within her sleeves and boots.
Once ready, she made for the Dome of the Rock. Her feet skimmed stone, faster and faster, until she was but a sharp breeze or a glimmer of light to those she passed in the streets. People failed to see her, the girl in black who ran at a miraculous speed, even when she brushed past them, lifting their hair with the wind she generated.
But even at her speed, the Templar insignia caught her eye and made her pause. The blood-red cross stained the inside of a fluttering cloak, whispering to her. Zayn halted in the shadows, turned her eyes on the group of hooded men striding with purpose in the opposite direction. Slowly now, she followed.
The streets became narrower, dirtier, and lined with taverns and brothels in abundance. Groups of men stood in doorways, drinking spiced wine and playing games of dice, their faces flushed and their laughter loud. The hooded knights she shadowed paused before one establishment in particular, with a sign above the door that read in flowery script, “Desert Rose.”
From across the alley, Zayn watched them enter, caught a glimpse of the woman who greeted them inside. Her lips were too red, the bodice of her gown too revealing. The scent of cloying perfume mingling with rot reached Zayn’s nostrils as the door shut. A small boy skittered across her feet like a rat, and she stopped him. He peered up at her with his enormous, urchin eyes, and she pressed a coin into his palm.
“Go inside the Desert Rose and discover the identities of the three knights who just entered. You will be rewarded.” She held up another coin.
The boy wasted no time scampering across the street. As she waited, she scanned the decrepit walls of the building, the shaded windows above. The boy reemerged quickly, smiling a toothless smile. “Two of them are Templars, madam,” he said breathlessly. “Bacheur. Milly. Molay.”
Zayn smiled grimly. She gave the bo
y his second coin, then held up three more. “Discover which girl Molay prefers, and these are all yours.”
The boy trembled with joy. “I can tell you, madam, without going back. Molay chooses Lubna every time.” He smiled proudly. “I know, because she is my sister.”
God. Emotion clogged her throat, and she felt the uneasy flicker of her strength. She passed the coins to the boy and thanked him, forcing herself to turn back to the matter at hand. The three knights were quick with their business, emerging together and moving quickly into the darkness beyond the alley.
She entered the Desert Rose. The place was not very clean, and chiffon curtains, brightly colored, covered walls and doorways. She could hear laughter and thumping from the rooms above, whispers and footsteps. A woman, wan and plainly dressed, breezed out from behind a fluttering panel and looked at Zayn with little interest. “May I help you?” she asked.
“I wish to speak with Lubna,” Zayn said. The woman nodded, not in the least curious as to why a woman was asking for a whore. She’d likely seen far stranger things, Zayn guessed. When Lubna came down the creaking stairs to meet her, Zayn swallowed. Her strength flickered again. Flicker. Flicker. She was so young—no older than thirteen—but painted and perfumed to seem older. Was Guy as offensive with Lubna as he had been with Zayn? Did he call her filth and spit at her, then laugh at her afterward? How much did he pay Lubna, Zayn wondered, for the privilege of demeaning and defiling her, when he could do it for free on his father’s lands?
Lubna regarded Zayn suspiciously, with a gaze far beyond her years. “Well?”
Zayn held up a purse of coins. “I may have a business proposition for you, if you will answer some questions for me.”
Lubna smiled at the purse, her cheeks dimpling. “Won’t you have some tea?”
Chapter Fourteen
John Zachariah’s footsteps echoed against tile and stone. Zayn stood in the foyer, waiting for him. She had left the palace again two days later, claiming her aunt’s health as the reason. No one had asked questions. “What has happened, child?” he asked her, his voice gentle but his eyes razor sharp.
