"Ibrahim! What..." His eyes were distant, face very still. But there was sweat upon his brow. She had never seen him sweat before.
"A moment." Golden light from the setting sun warmed his features, but his skull showed underneath his skin; his cheekbones made a sharp edge from ears to nose. He released her wrist and sat back.
"What was it?" She cradled her wrist in her hand.
He collected himself, shook his head as a dog coming out of water will, then his eyes warmed and he reached for her wrist again. As his fingers gently rubbed the bruise he had made, he said, "I am sorry, petite." He paused, rotating her hand. "I was remembering something your mother told me, something about the reason they had to leave their home in the west." He placed her wrist on his knee and held his palms over it. "Many years ago, someone in her family opened a door." His hands were dry. "He was unprepared; something came through."
"Richard told me to close it." She watched his hands. Her wrist was warming, tingling.
"And did you?" His eyes closed. The warmth in her wrist spread out, moved up her arm.
"I must have, but when it closed a great wind blew the fowl pen apart." He opened his eyes and took his hands away from her wrist. She held it up. "Oh!" The pain was gone now, the bruise fading to yellow.
"I remember that wind. So de la Guerche took you to the garden, eh?"
She was still examining her skin. "What?" Looking up, she saw his grin.
"Enough!" He stood and pulled her to her feet, then placed the books in the pouch at his waist. "I came here to show you something." He started walking down the path. "We will need to do this before the sun is gone." He led her farther into the garden, past beech and apricot, past beds of fennel, coriander and basil.
"There are two ways out of the château." He had taken her all the way to the back, where ash and hawthorn crowded against the thick stones of the outer wall. A creeping saffron rose climbed the granite blocks.
"The south gate and the east gate?" she asked. He shook his head, lifting a section of the mat of roses.
"I will show you the secret ways out," he said as they ducked beneath the green and ocher curtain. An iron trellis supported the roses. Steps led down to a stout wooden lattice gate.
"This is your key," Ibrahim pulled a large metal key out of his pouch. It gleamed faintly in the chill shadows. "I have one, and your father and Guillaume each have one also." He fit the key into the lock and turned it. The hinges screamed as he eased the door open. "We will have to butter these," he remarked, then motioned for her to follow.
She entered a stone tunnel. Moss coated the damp walls; the air was clammy. Twenty paces took her to its end, where another gate, this one made of iron strips, stood. It smelled of water and blood. He placed the key in the lock and opened it. She held her breath and pushed through.
"This is only a way out, there is no way back in through here." He followed her outside where a thicket of vines covered the entrance. "The gate locks itself behind you -- we put a drop bolt in the latch." He pushed her forward. She ducked under the vines. Through straggling thorn bushes, ahead lay the path to Ibrahim's palace.
"If you ever need to come to me in secret, you can take this path." He murmured beside her. "Though this gate is not as secret as the other." The pale fading of twilight was giving way to intense blue, edged with purple. "I must show you the other gate later, when there are fewer people in the donjon," he said. "It goes through a series of caves in Irati itself and comes out behind the palace." She picked her way through the thorns and started climbing. "Only your father, myself and Guillaume know of that one."
"And now me," she said, looking up at his face through blue shadows of the falling night.
His teeth gleamed. "And now you."
SLEEP ELUDED her. Maríana turned over and shifted her legs, wiggling so much that Geneviéve spoke sharply. Dust rising from the straw mattress tickled her nose. It was the eve of St. Agnes, the very end of January, when young women everywhere -- from France to the Languedoc, from Brittany to Navarre -- would place apples under their pillows, to dream of their future husbands.
Maríana had saved her apple from autumn harvest, wrapping it in wool treated with beeswax. It had dried well; there was little mold. The skin had wrinkled into velvety folds. She placed it under the side of her pillow that faced away from Geneviéve. Her aunt did not need to know she sought to discover the identity of her future husband. Other offers for her had come since the summer festival, but Ibrahim had seen that each offer was carefully considered, and just as carefully rejected. She knew none of the men who had asked for her. It was the alliance with de Reuilles they sought; she would have no say in who her father chose. No one questioned this; why should she?
She stroked the skin of the apple under her pillow. Richard had not written again, but Geneviéve said she had not heard he was wed. He could still come for her, couldn't he? He was there in her dreams so often, holding her in his arms. Surely he would be there tonight on St. Agnes's Eve. The texture of the apple was so like his skin, smooth and curved, giving way slightly under the pressure of her fingers.
It was his face she remembered best-his quiet gaze, the way his brown-black eyes tilted at the corners, the fine bones, the tiny white scar at the side of his mouth. She moved her feet and Geneviéve grumbled.
Maríana sighed. It was surely close to dawn. Too late. She would have to wait another year. Her head turned toward the wall. She closed her eyes.
And found herself standing in the great hall of the palais. How did she get there? Johanna and her aunt had taken her inside the great hall only twice before. It seemed like late evening, or perhaps early morning. Light from the fire in the gigantic hearth bathed the walls in gold and crimson. The hall was filled with guests sleeping on the benches, the tables, in bedrolls upon the floor. So many guests in winter? When had they arrived? She moved toward the staircase, keeping her steps as quiet as she could. Perhaps she could stay in Johanna's room for the night. She was so tired and the snow was too deep to trudge back to the donjon. It was the eve of St. Agnes, after all. Her feet stopped by the staircase. What was it about St. Agnes's Eve? The donjon, surely she was not there anymore, was she? There was something wrong here, but her thoughts would not march together.
A man stood next to the staircase, his back to her. He was dressed in russet and the green of deep forest. Golden brown hair fell in a straight line to his shoulders. What region wore russet and green? A sword hung from the scabbard on his belt. A knight. A friend? No one would admit an armed enemy to the hall. He was not there a moment ago; when had he come in?
He faced the tapestry of the de Reuilles mermaid; his frame straight and powerful, full of repressed fury and barely controlled anguish. Strength radiated from every line of his form, as concretely as it would from a hurtling lance or a tensely drawn bow. She glanced around the hall. There were many close at hand, even though they were asleep. She was safe.
The knight relaxed suddenly, expelling his indrawn breath forcefully, his shoulders dropping. Her vision wavered. He had just left a fortress, this knight. She saw its walls rising from an immense and barren cliff. Something smoked at its base. How did she know this-had she climbed into his mind? She tried to speak words of comfort, but her lips could not shape the sounds. He started to turn; she saw the curve of his cheek, the glint of blue eyes.
Someone was shaking her arm. "Maríana! Come now, slug-a-bed." Her aunt's voice echoed. The man in front of her, the staircase, the hall, all shattered. She looked up into Geneviéve's face, felt the bulge of the apple under her pillow. Tears prickled in her eyes. It was not Richard there in her St. Agnes's Eve dream. Not Richard.
MARÍANA stepped from their tiny bedchamber to the outer room, her fingers caught in the tangle of her hair, forming braids. "What?" The odor of earth and moss greeted her. Bags of dried plants filled the room, stacked against the walls, sitting on the rugs. The pillows were heaped upon Ibrahim's garment chest. Ibrahim himself was sitting in the midd
le of the floor, sorting through a hemp sack. Measuring scales and metal pots surrounded him. A stone mortar and pestle stood to his right. He waved toward the kitchen without raising his head.
"Geneviéve has bread and cheese ready for you. When you have eaten, you will help me here." When she did not move he looked up. "Yves brought these up in a cart this morning. I usually wait until later in the spring to do this, but I received word yesterday that we will have visitors soon," his hands spread out, encompassing the jumble of plants and implements, "visitors who will need our medicines." He went back to his sorting. "They should be here today. We must make ready."
LATE THAT afternoon, Maríana rubbed her eyes. One of the lamps was sending an acrid smoke into the chamber. The oil must have turned. She retrieved a metal paddle and snuffed out the flame. Two other lamps sent out their light and the hearth cast a steady glow in the kitchen. They did not need this one.
She stretched her arms and rotated her head, feeling muscles tighten and spine crack. She had gone through all the sacks of plants Yves had brought. Her belly rumbled; she glanced toward the kitchen. Maybe she could stop now and join Geneviéve there. But Ibrahim was still in the center of the floor, his fingers deftly braiding what looked like a bulging white rope. She could not leave while he still worked.
Now he turned away from the packets of dried herbs, mosses and tree bark they had ground and mixed and blended. He rose easily from where he had crouched for hours and moved to the back of the chamber. "I want you to make a carrying pack for the herb mixtures we have created today. It should be made out of this cloth." Pushing pillows aside, he pulled a heavy dark gray material out of his low chest, shaking it out so that it formed one large piece. "It should have a strap to go over your shoulder and the thread you use must be treated with bees' wax."
When she took the material from his hands, he said, "Now, what would you give someone who had a chest ailment?"
She looked at the packets of plants spread out on the floor. "Parsley for congestion," she picked out packets of the leafy green fragments, "mallow for inflammation of the chest, and a diluted infusion of glovewort for pain and pressure in the chest."
She continued until she had chosen a packet or packets for every ailment he specified. All warmth in the palace came from the kitchen hearth. The shutters sealed snow and frigid air out, but her breath still made white clouds in the central chamber.
Someone pounded on the door. Ibrahim leaped to his feet, striding toward the door and throwing it open to the lemon white of late afternoon sun upon snow.
"Old friend!" he cried, throwing his arms around a large figure standing there, encased in layers of wool and holding a staff. Behind this figure a shorter one hung back from the door, swathed in a cape, with a black scarf wound around the face.
Maríana rose to her feet as the two entered the chamber and Ibrahim closed the door on winter. The larger figure emerged from his wool. A full gray beard hung to his waist and his hazel eyes were framed by the deep creases of age. The other figure stood back from him. Cold gray-green eyes stared out at her from over the black scarf.
Ibrahim clapped his hands. "Geneviéve!" he called to the kitchen. "Iranzu is here!"
"What?" Maríana's heart started hammering. "Grandfather?"
Ibrahim took her hands as Geneviéve emerged from the kitchen, beaming. "Iranzu," he said again, pulling Maríana to the old man. "Here is your granddaughter," he turned to the other figure, who was pulling down the scarf that encircled her face, "and this is?"
"Thérèse's other daughter." She spoke to Ibrahim but her frozen eyes were upon Maríana, "Leila."
A BUTTERY gleam filled the doorway of their bedchamber. Grandfather Jakintza and Ibrahim had not retired, but their voices were so low Maríana could not make out their words. The young woman who called herself Leila was a rigid shape beside her. All through their evening meal she had glared at Maríana. When it grew late, and Iranzu told her she must bed down with Geneviéve and Maríana, Leila had flushed a deep crimson. But she said nothing, and she was here, now.
"Are you asleep?" Maríana whispered.
"If I was, I would not be now." Leila's voice was quiet, but acid.
Maríana ground her teeth. Try again. "Why do you hate me?"
"Why shouldn't I? Mother stayed with you, didn't she?" Leila's voice sounded harsh, but the last words quivered and she shifted her body to turn away.
Maríana grabbed Leila's hand and held it before she could turn over. The girl struggled briefly, but a grunt from Geneviéve stilled her. "No, she didn't," Maríana whispered when Leila stopped struggling. "She did not stay with me." Maríana saw Leila blink twice, then Leila's mouth became a thin line and her fingers clamped down on Maríana's hand.
The bones in her hand slid and ground as Leila increased the pressure, squeezing and digging her nails in. But Maríana would not let her sister turn away. "She... left... me, too," she said, each word bit off as the bones in her hand crunched.
Leila released her grip. Maríana caught her breath, stopped the whimper that threatened to slip out. She did not let go of Leila's hand. Then something touched her in a place she could not name. The skin above her navel grew warm and an image blossomed before her eyes. She could see the rearing slopes of a narrow valley, feel her throat clog with pride and sorrow. The image and feelings disappeared abruptly and she turned toward Leila.
"Damn!" Leila said. "I didn't mean to do that, I didn't want to help you." There were tears on Leila's cheeks now. She dashed them away with her free hand and sniffed.
"Help me?" The slopes rose before her again. Now new feelings roiled in her belly; resentment and a grudging curiosity. "Where is that?" Feelings and image shut off more slowly this time.
"He must have told you -- the Egyptian, Ibrahim." Leila gritted her teeth.
"Told me what?" Now Maríana saw a stone house with a steep roof. A mountain reared up into the sky directly behind it.
"Don't play with me!" Leila turned her head, eyes narrowed. "You must know why we came! Why else would you touch me?"
Maríana released her hand. "There, I am not touching you now." She rubbed the hand Leila had crushed. The images and feelings vanished. She flexed her fingers slowly, one by one. "You didn't have to do that," she said, and turned on her side, away from her half sister.
The straw mattress shifted. Leila had risen on her elbow. "You are right." Her voice was flat, resigned. "Grandfather said I had to help you, so I will."
Maríana sealed her lips and did not move. Her hand was swelling; she could feel her heart beating in her fingertips. An arm pressed her shoulder, not to turn her, just firm pressure resting there.
"Very well," Leila said.
And Thérèse was there before Maríana, young and smiling, black braids streaming back over her shoulders, hands thrust into a washtub. The stone house stood behind her, its door thrown open. Her arms were bare; it must be summer. Now she was in front of her mother, looking up into her face, as if she were there next to her.
"This is not my memory." Leila's voice cut across the image. She lifted her arm and the scene disappeared at once. "I suppose it is Adelie's -- my aunt's." She moved her arm and dust rose from the straw. "I was only a baby when Mama left."
Maríana sat up. Her sister was propped on her elbow, ignoring Geneviéve's snort. Light from the outer chamber revealed Leila's face. It was as stern as before, but her eyes no longer bored into Maríana. "No wonder you hate me," Maríana said. "You never knew her at all."
Leila's eyes dropped, but her shoulder lifted in a lopsided shrug. "My aunt told me about her. I know enough." She looked up again. Leila reached out her hand and her lips twitched when Maríana backed away. "All the Jakintzas can do what I just did," she said. "When you start, you must be touching, but once you have learned, you won't need to touch anymore." Leila sat up and crossed her legs, facing Maríana and placing her hand, palm up, in her lap. Geneviéve muttered, then her breathing deepened.
Maríana sat
clutching her injured hand against her chest, staring at Leila's open palm. "You will teach me this?" Maríana asked.
"I won't hurt you again -- I promise. Give me your hand. I can heal it." Leila's voice broke off at Maríana's stare. "Oh, I will not lie. I do not like you. I never will. But I will keep my promise to Grandfather." She reached for Maríana's hand. "Come now, let me heal you. Or you can squeeze my hand."
To see inside another, know memories, know feelings. Maríana turned her head toward the door, where she could hear the muted voices of Ibrahim and her grandfather. Ibrahim could not teach her this.
"Well." Leila started to close her hand. "Perhaps you are not a Jakintza, after all."
Maríana extended her injured hand and placed it firmly in her sister's palm.
IT WAS THE eve of the hawthorn moon. Ibrahim had sent Geneviéve down to the palais. As winter gave way, the air grew softer. Four moons until Maríana must return to the château. Only four.
She loaded herb and root packets into the bag she had sewn. Every week Ibrahim accompanied her to Reuilles-la-ville and they joined Iranzu and Leila in the square, offering healing gifts to the people there. Whenever the flat boat took them back across the lake, she averted her eyes from the walls of Reuilles-le-château and, with Ibrahim, climbed the Irati path all the way to the palace. Sometimes squires fought in the fields outside the château walls. She searched crowd for black hair that glinted red in the sun, but Richard was never there. He was a knight by now, surely.
She was replenishing her supply of plants, roots, bark and mosses for the next journey to Reuilles-la-ville. Leila told her that she and her grandfather had arrived soon after the midsummer festival last year. They came down from their valley high in the mountain Canigou to see her, but they could not approach until Ibrahim summoned them and he did not send for them until he deemed her ready. Ibrahim gathered the pillows and piled them on top of the low chest.
"Is Yves bringing more plants?" she asked.
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