by Jean, Rima
Earic was silent for a moment, then asked, “What is it that you want, Guy?”
“Want?” Guy repeated, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes.” He licked his lips. “What do you want out of this life?”
“Glory,” Guy answered, placing his hand on the hilt of his sword, “to God and to myself, by massacring every last Saracen that dares to claim this land as his own.” He paused, his expression fierce. “Surely you, and every good Christian knight, want the same.”
“I can’t have what I want,” Earic murmured.
“Ha!” Guy shook his head and paced the width of the tower slowly. “You are a fool, Earic Goodwin. I will never understand what my father sees in you. You deserve to be wed to a shrew like Marguerite who will rule you and bear you a hundred screaming brats. You were not meant for the battlefield.”
Earic’s jaw tightened, but he did not respond. The conversation ended thus, and each man paced the tower and looked out over the battlements in turn, lost in his own thoughts.
Zayn, too, was lost in her thoughts—frantic thoughts. I could kill them both right now. With two flicks of her wrists, her problems would end. Desperately, she forced memories of Earic’s kiss from her mind. The power she had spent so many months learning to control faltered, stuttered. Flicker. Flicker.
At this point, she simply couldn’t afford to let it matter. She focused on Guy, narrowing her eyes. To her good fortune, he hadn’t bothered with his mail coif, so his head and neck were exposed. A very well-thrown knife could strike the base of his skull. She slipped the knife from her sleeve and shifted, trying to roll from her stomach to her back without making any sudden movements or noise.
Both knights were moving, pacing. Earic sighed deeply; she swallowed. The roar in her ears was erratic; her muscles shuddered. She could wait no longer; it was now or never. She came to her knees in a single movement, drew back her arm. As the knife left her fingertips, she sensed Earic look up in her direction. Flicker.
“Look out!” Earic yelled just as Guy whirled around, reaching for his sword.
The knife struck the mail over his collarbone; he fell. Zayn leaped from the tower down to the wall. She was not concerned with remaining unseen anymore—she was only concerned with escaping Temple Mount in one piece. The place would be teeming with Templars in no time, so she had to be faster and nimbler than ever. She heard Earic order a young sergeant to tend to Guy, then saw him draw his sword and head toward the spiral staircase out of the tower.
He’s chasing after me. Dammit, Fair Boy!
She ran along Temple Mount’s wall, hoping she could outrun him in his heavy mail hauberk. She leaped from the stones, rolled and stood, flickering in and out of the darkness. She could sense him behind her, in hot pursuit. She chose the darkest alley and stopped, leaning against the wall, listening as the guards cried to one another and startled into action, far too late. He was close now, for she could hear the clatter of his armor as he moved through the alley.
“Come out and fight, you coward.” He breathed heavily. “Come out and fight face-to-face instead of creeping about, stabbing men when they are unaware.”
Silence, save for the wind. She stepped out from the darkness to confront him. A cat, a scrawny, mangy thing, skittered between them. Earic held his sword before him, squinting into the gloom.
“I have no sword to fight you with,” Zayn said. “Surely you do not intend to stab an unarmed woman, like a…coward.” She pushed the hood from her head and glared at him.
He shifted, his sword still raised. His gaze scanned her length, taking in the black eyes painted with kohl, ruby red lips and matching silk beneath the cloak. A mischievous smile crept slowly across his face. “Do you intend to fight me or bed me?”
Her lips twitched. “Put down the sword, and I’ll show you.”
“Zayn.” Before he could recover from his shock, voices and footsteps echoed in the distance, swiftly approaching. She tensed, her eyes wide, and he anticipated her flight. He barred her path with his sword. “Wait,” he said.
“Get out of my way,” she growled at him, “or I swear I’ll kill you.”
“I cannot—” he began, but she didn’t let him finish. She kicked his sword to the side, nearly knocking it from his hand entirely. He managed to grab the back of her cloak before she could escape, pulling her back. She spun on him and struck his chin with a fist so sharp and fast that he let go of her cloak. But even in that moment he swung his arm, managing to bring her down. As he moved toward her, her foot crashed into the middle of his chest.
The men were dangerously near, their voices loud now. She reeled and gasped, her hair loose and hanging in her face, her Assassin blade grazing the tips of her fingers.
Kill him now. Do it.
Earic stumbled toward her, a palm raised. “Go,” he panted. “Hurry.”
She hesitated, her heart in her throat.
Earic clenched his jaw. “What are you waiting for, dammit? Go!”
She moved quickly, evaporating into the shadows. I am invisible.
“Brother Earic!” Templars filled the street, knights and sergeants armed to the teeth.
She heard Earic’s voice: “A tall man. Bearded. Probably a Turk. He went that way.”
Chapter Fifteen
“I cannot believe it,” John Zachariah roared, pounding the heavy wood table with his fist. “Sinan raved about you, how you were our secret weapon. You never missed the target, he said.”
Zayn sat quietly, as though carved from stone. Her eyes never left his, even as he spat invectives at her. He shook his head. “He said you were the…that you were special. Clearly, they ended your training too soon.”
The knife had pierced more mail than flesh, and Guy de Molay was injured but alive. Injured, alive, and angry, she’d heard. They suspected the Assassins, of course; no one else struck as they did. That Guy was their target came as no surprise, since the arrogant Templar had made a hobby of killing Saracens and would inherit a vast demesne that abutted Assassin territory. The last thing the Assassins needed was for the Templars to obtain the Lordship of Montferrand through Guy.
Zayn didn’t move, didn’t let her eyes betray her. She couldn’t have explained why she missed—she couldn’t even understand why herself. She tried telling herself she’d deliberately missed because it did not suffice, stabbing him anonymously. She wanted to punish him. She wanted to see the terror in his eyes, the realization that she’d found him and was wreaking a brutal revenge on him. She could not admit this to the Assassins, since they did not want her to implicate herself.
But there was something else, too…something that maddened her with its simplicity, with its validity: Earic Goodwin. His presence had shattered her focus. He’s so good, so pure, and I am nothing but a cold-blooded killer. She’d intended to kill him, too. Then he’d let her go, helping her escape by feeding the Templars false information. It’s the third time he’s helped me escape. In the woods with Guy and Henri… In the woods again, with Gerard de Molay… And last night.
She had forsaken God, and yet things like this, the way she felt inexorably linked to this fair boy, this knight, made her pause and wonder. Something much greater than the silly wars of men was at work here, and she shivered to think what it might be.
“Zayn, did you hear me?”
She looked at John Zachariah. He leaned toward her, his palms flat on the table. “No, I’m sorry,” she replied.
“I said, you need to return to the palace immediately. Sara Zachariah must not suddenly disappear. It would look suspicious.”
She began to rise. “Yes, of course.”
He held up a hand. “But,” he added gravely, his heavy eyebrows drawn together, “you must not make another attempt on Guy de Molay’s life.”
Frozen midstand, she said, “What? Why not?”
“We cannot risk you,” he said. “Not at the moment, in any case.”
“Then, when?” she asked, her agitation mounting.
John
shook his head. “Perhaps in several months, when the uproar over the failed attempt on his life has died down.” There was no mistaking the reproach in his eyes.
In spite of herself, heat spread across her cheeks. “Several months!”
“Yes, several months. Surely you knew that this entire mission could last a lifetime, Zayn. It is not something to rush. You are an Assassin, and you must dedicate your life to the cause, regardless of the sacrifice.” He was looking at her warily, as though he no longer trusted her.
“I know,” she said, her voice wavering. “I will do as you say, of course. But there is a small matter you have forgotten about: the Templar from Montferrand, who may have recognized me. What if he gives me away?”
John Zachariah remained unruffled. “Earic Goodwin,” he said with a small smile. “He will not be a threat for much longer.”
“Why not?” She kept her face expressionless even as her heart battered her rib cage.
“Bashar was sent to dispose of him,” he said. “Convenient, really. Bashar’s mission had always been to kill Earic Goodwin. This mishap with you…well, it simply accelerates things a bit. But heed me, Zayn: if, at any point before Bashar has an opportunity to kill him, you believe Goodwin has exposed you, leave the palace immediately and return to Masyaf.”
Zayn managed to conclude her visit with John Zachariah and in a daze, follow his manservant back to the palace. Bashar was sent to kill Earic Goodwin. Bashar intends to kill Fair Boy. She could not have anticipated this. Why on earth did the Assassins want to kill Earic? He was a Templar, to be sure, but was otherwise no threat to the Order. He was not a lord, not a baron, not a prince. He did not lust for Saracen blood, the way Guy de Molay did. He held no sway over the course of history here in Outremer.
Or did he?
Back at the palace, Marguerite was still bedridden but in high spirits. She beamed upon seeing Zayn. “Sara! God’s sooth, am I glad to see you. Come, sit with me. How is the Lady Yasmina?”
Marguerite held her arms out. Zayn sat at Marguerite’s bedside and placed her hands in Marguerite’s. The lady’s fingers were slender and white and—despite their frail appearance—always warm. Zayn welcomed their touch. “She is feeling better, thank God,” she answered, unable to look Marguerite in the face while lying. “And you, my lady? You look well. Radiant, really.”
“Oh, stop,” Marguerite said, smiling. “My leg is healing, however, and I am optimistic. I should be running about again in time for Christmas Court, much to my mother’s chagrin.” She shifted in bed, moving closer to Zayn. “And did you hear of the Assassin attempt on Guy de Molay’s life?” Her eyes were wide, and Zayn nodded. “It seems the Assassins and I are of like minds on the subject of Guy,” she whispered, smiling crookedly.
Zayn unfocused her eyes so that she was not truly looking at Marguerite. “My lady, come now. Surely you would not see him dead.”
She shrugged. “No, I suppose not. But I would not drown in tears for him, either.” Changing subjects suddenly, Marguerite leaned forward and said excitedly, “Oh! And did you hear? Princess Sibylla has eloped with Guy de Lusignan! King Baldwin is furious, as he disapproves of him. Lusignan is now set to become king consort if the king’s health fails, and Raymond, Count of Tripoli, may attempt a coup, as he was hoping to become regent…”
As Marguerite continued to chatter, filling Zayn in on politics and court gossip, Zayn’s mind wandered back to Earic. Consciously, she’d been stunned and passive since learning about Bashar’s mission to murder him; subconsciously, her mind had been plotting.
Her heart had decided what she would do—she would stop Bashar.
Odd, really, that she had no doubts, no misgivings about it. But he had allowed her to escape, despite knowing that she was an Assassin. Despite knowing that she had meant to kill Guy de Molay.
Something snapped into place within her soul. A truth that had been shrouded in gloom since her mother’s death was now crystal clear. Her loyalties were not with the Assassins or the Franks, the Christians or the Muslims, the Sunnis or the Shi’ites. None of it touched her; none of it compelled her to action. It was all very simple: her loyalties were with those who saw beyond their personal prejudices, who rose above self-righteousness and intolerance.
Her loyalties were with Marguerite and Earic.
In that instant, she knew what she would do. She was going to lay a trap for Bashar, and her bait would be Earic Goodwin. In order to proceed with her plan, however, one particular ally was crucial…
“My lady,” she said in a low, steady voice—not Sara’s voice, but Zayn’s. “I need to speak with you privately. It is critical that we are not overheard.”
Marguerite was silent; her smile faded. She looked into Zayn’s eyes and saw something that jolted her to attention. She nodded, her chin firm. “I’ll meet you in the solar this evening, after supper.”
Zayn managed to get through the rest of the day somehow, her mind racing through her plans restlessly. As she dressed herself for supper that evening, Ingegerd looked at her strangely and said, somewhat awestruck, “You look different, Sara. You look like…an angel.”
Startled by this comparison, Zayn laughed. “An angel? A demon, perhaps.”
Ingegerd considered. “No…more like an angel of destruction.” She offered a smile. “I mean it as a compliment.”
A destroying angel. Zayn smiled furtively. It was odd that Ingegerd would see it, since she felt different. She suddenly had a purpose beyond killing Guy. She no longer sought death.
…
As Zayn made her way to the solar to meet Marguerite, tears pricked her eyes. This time, however, she felt no despair. She would use her gifts to do good, just as Miriam had wanted.
Two nights after Zayn had refused Sharif’s marriage proposal, Guy de Molay and his father’s knights came for Miriam. They murdered my mother because I was such a willful, impudent girl. It was all my fault. Now, Zayn realized that while the memory still made her heart throb with pain, her guilt had subsided. She could see that Miriam had abetted her, that Miriam had decided her fate and the fate of her daughter long before she was burned at the stake. Miriam had not wanted Sharif for Zayn. She had not wanted a life in Rafaniya for Zayn.
She wanted me to be free.
Marguerite waited in an alcove within the solar, surrounded by high windows. She sat comfortably in a chair, her injured leg propped up on a bed of pillows. Zayn approached her, murmured, “My lady,” and sat on a bench carved from the wall across from her. It was intimate and quiet—a perfect place for sharing secrets.
“I practically turned purple insisting the servants help me here,” Marguerite said lightly, smiling. “One gets tired of sitting in bed, after all.” She looked at Zayn expectantly, her hands folded in her lap.
Here goes. Zayn swallowed. “My lady, over the course of my time in Jerusalem, I have come to adore you like a sister. This was not my plan at all, as I was sent for a different purpose entirely. Lady, I am not what I seem.”
Marguerite was rigid, her eyes like luminous orbs. “Go on.”
Zayn looked steadfast at Marguerite. “I am the Assassin who tried to kill Guy de Molay. It is the very reason I was sent to Court, disguised as one of your ladies.” Marguerite’s lips parted, but she said nothing, so Zayn continued. “I am a Saracen, a serf of Montferrand. My name is Zayn. Guy de Molay murdered my mother and raped me. I am using the Assassin cause to seek my revenge.”
Marguerite looked like a marble effigy, sitting there so motionless with the moonlight washing her skin silver. Zayn was almost afraid she had made a mistake, confiding in her. What if Bashar is right? What if we are enemies?
Then, Marguerite spoke, her voice strange. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I am turning my back on Masyaf and the Assassins, and I need your help.” Zayn leaned forward. “I have learned of a plan to murder Earic Goodwin.”
Marguerite uttered a sound, horror and outrage playing in the light and shadows on
her face. “No,” she said, like a plea.
“I intend to stop it, at the cost of my life if necessary,” Zayn reassured her. “And I think I can, but I need your help with the…formalities.”
“Wait,” Marguerite said, her hands at her neck, her chest heaving with each breath. “You are an Assassin. You tried to kill Guy. And you are now going to try and stop another Assassin from killing Earic?”
“Yes,” Zayn replied, watching Marguerite carefully. Please believe me. Please trust me.
“What do the Assassins want to kill Earic for?”
Zayn shook her head. “I don’t know. I’m told nothing that doesn’t directly involve my mission.”
“Why do you want to risk your life for Earic?”
Ah. Zayn sucked in her breath. She’d gone to the heart of the matter, Marguerite had. Zayn answered haltingly. “I knew Earic long ago, as a child. He defended me against Guy and even Guy’s father, Gerard. He withstood punishment on my behalf. I owe him my life.”
Marguerite lifted her chin, and Zayn knew she had made up her mind. “And I,” she said, “owe you mine. You saved my life in Ascalon, on the hunt. Tell me what you need me to do.”
And they began to plan. Their whispers were heavy and feverish, their heads, black and bronze, drawn together in conspiracy. Hours passed, maids came looking for their lady and were promptly sent away. Finally, Marguerite sat back, drumming her fingers on the arm of her chair.
“Yes. It could work. It must work. I will speak to the king as soon as you give me word.” She sighed. “Mother Mary, how will I sleep tonight?”
Zayn shook her head. “Badly, as will I. But fear not, lady. ‘To they that will, ways are not wanting.’” She smiled. “Is that not what you Franks say?”
Marguerite could not resist returning the smile. “Indeed, Lady Zayn.”
The following morning, Zayn wasted no time before going out to the royal stables. She and Marguerite shared a look before she sneaked off, ostensibly to rest on account of a headache. It was a brisk morning, cold enough for fur-lined mantles, but nothing compared to the brutal winters of “Francia,” Marguerite had reassured her. Zayn watched the mist coil from her mouth after each breath, grateful for the heavy Frankish cloak she wore. When she reached the gate she sought, she paused, wrapping her fingers around the cold iron bars. She thought the courtyard was empty until she heard a high-pitched growl, and the largest of the royal cheetahs sidled out from its nest, its keen yellow eyes on her.
