Richard watched as Iranzu and Leila took the tent apart, their hands working together in an elegant dance. He moved toward them, then stumbled. "What?" He reached down and uncovered the chunk of metal that had tripped him. It was a knife, a hunter's knife. The hilt was black, but silver was worked into the side. His fingers traced the pattern. The de Reuilles crest.
Had Baron de Reuilles lost it? He could come back for it! Richard froze in alarm. But all was still. Nothing moved. He held the knife in his hands, felt its weight. Did the Baron leave it behind? Richard looked over to where Leila and Iranzu stood. They had finished taking the tent down.
Leila caught his eye, motioned toward the thickest part of the forest and pushed Maríana ahead of her into the space between the trees. Richard tucked the knife into his belt. Louis-Philippe might have left it as a sign. Her father must now know why Maríana had fled. Yet Richard could not be sure he would understand their flight. After all, they were abandoning Louis-Philippe. The Inquisition was seeking him, too. Richard stared at the trees behind him, seeing only snow-burdened branches. No, they could not count on Baron de Reuilles to lead the searchers away from Canigou. Richard must be more vigilant. He followed Leila into the woods.
AH, IBRAHIM. Louis-Philippe tramped through the snow in slow, deliberate steps. He had taken Henri and the men to the southwest slopes of Irati. Pines grew in thick clusters here. It would take them hours to search this area. He scanned the forest around him every few paces, but his thoughts turned again and again to Ibrahim.
When he had seen Ibrahim laying upon the floor, his had heart seized. He could not believe it; he wanted to go over to Ibrahim, shake his arm, see Ibrahim's eyes flash up at him, see the corner of Ibrahim's mouth lift in a wry smile. But Louis-Philippe had found that his feet were frozen to the floor. Even when Bauçais had told him that Ibrahim was dead, dead, he could not move. While Henri had stalked the rooms of the Saracen palace, Louis-Philippe had stood over Ibrahim, looking down at his face, seeing the curve of his lips, the sweep of his brow. He was not sure later what had drawn him to the chest in the back, the chest that held the silken gowns, the bangles. Ibrahim's penance. The chest had been empty. More than anything else, that had told Louis-Philippe that Ibrahim would never breathe again. The books were gone.
Who would have taken the books, the gowns? And why? There were no marks on Ibrahim. Not that he would fight. That was not Ibrahim's way. If bandits had come, Ibrahim would talk to them, make them laugh, tell them a tale of the southern winds. He never had any sense, his Ibrahim. No sense at all. Now he was gone. Ibrahim.
The first time Louis-Philippe saw him, Ibrahim had been so angry his eyes threw sparks. But Louis-Philippe was captured by the fire in those eyes, by the dramatic gestures, by Ibrahim's tender heart, his unflagging kindness.
Johanna had held Louis-Philippe after he had brought Ibrahim's body to her chamber, had held him as she used to when he was a baby. She had cradled his head underneath her chin while he shook and his breath whistled in and out through his teeth. Then she had smoothed the hair back from his forehead and pushed him away.
"Now," she had said. "We must think of Maríana."
Johanna had told him that she knew Maríana had fled. She did not tell him how she knew, but had made him promise to join the searchers. He was to do whatever he could to make sure that Maríana was not found. But if she was found, he was to take her directly to Johanna.
Louis-Philippe watched Henri prowl. Henri's head turned first one way, then the other, his cold eyes moving in a methodical sweep. Johanna was right. No time for grief. When he had seen the snow-covered hump under the pine, the black reed pointing into the sky, Louis-Philippe remembered Thérèse telling him how her family buried themselves in the snow when they traveled. It could be anyone there under the snow, of course, but he had used his body to hide the reed from Henri's eyes. Bauçais may not know how the Jakintzas traveled in winter, but he was not stupid. If he had seen the faint mist rising from the end of the reed, he would know that more than a snow-covered rock rested beneath the contorted pine.
Louis-Philippe had taken Henri away, but before he had herded the searchers down the slope, he had dropped his hunting knife. If Maríana were there underneath the snow, he hoped she would find the knife. He must trust that his message would be clear, that she would know he was on her side.
HERE THEY were on the southwest slopes of Irati, heading north. Henri had swept the area all day, but they were getting closer to Canigou. Louis-Philippe looked up at tattered clouds filling the sky, their edges and centers darkening. In a few moments, night would claim the mountain. But that cloud there, it looked like a wing. Yes, that sharp edge had feathers. He really must tell Ibrahim. Ibrahim.
Louis-Philippe stood, head bent back, and waited for the anguish to wash in a frigid stream from his heart down through his legs. His giraffe legs. He let the grief pass from his feet into the earth. This was not the first time he had given his woe to the ground today. He was leaving pieces of his mourning all over the mountainside. But it was fitting. And wherever he was now, Ibrahim would be amused.
Louis-Philippe drew in a breath and looked at Henri again. Bauçais had stopped. His squire leaned toward him, whispering. Then a voice yelled from the knoll that rose ahead of them.
"Over here!" It was Guillaume. "Tracks!"
Allah! Louis-Philippe ran with the others to where Guillaume knelt. Why hadn't he taken Guillaume aside, told him to kick over any tracks he found? Guillaume would not question this; he never disobeyed orders. Now, it was too late. Henri was kneeling and inspecting the footprints. Louis-Philippe looked at the sky. Soon darkness would slow the search, but it would also curb the pace of Maríana and whoever traveled with her. Merde!
Bauçais was staring at the tracks. Then he lifted his face to the fading light. His eyes glimmered under his strong brow, but he did not speak. The men stood around him in a clump, their arms dangling at their sides, waiting.
"What moon is there tonight?" Henri finally spoke, but his eyes were still fixed upon the darkening sky.
"Black," Guillaume answered.
Henri's face dropped and a muscle in his cheek jumped. Then he stood and approached Louis-Philippe. "It is for you to decide, de Reuilles," he said. "These are mostly your men and you know the area." Henri's eyes were direct. Where was the frost that usually blanketed his gaze? "Do we continue with torches, or wait until dawn?" He stopped an arm's length away.
"The day was warm," Louis-Philippe replied, watching Henri's eyes. "The snow may shatter." Something was unsettling Bauçais. His face was naked, stripped of the reserve that usually thrust people away. Henri was not a fool. He must know these tracks were fresh, that their best chance of finding Maríana was to pursue. So what was the desperate plea that shone from his eyes now? "We would risk avalanche if we continue in the dark." Louis-Philippe hoped that whoever was with Maríana would consider this also. He did not want to come upon Maríana's twisted body at the bottom of a ravine. Ibrahim would never forgive him.
Henri inspected the tracks again. Some struggle within him was traced clearly upon his face-a struggle, and sorrow. "Would we endanger the men if we continue?"
"We would."
Now Henri drew in his breath, his face lifted again. "I will not endanger you or your men," he said. "We will camp here."
He gestured to his squire and the boy brought him a length of ash, cloth wound around its end, the smell of animal fat rising from it. "I will follow the tracks as far as I can." No one moved or spoke as Henri struck his flint and blew the spark into a steady blaze. "No, Robert," he said as his squire made to follow him. "You will see to my squire, de Reuilles?" His eyes sought Louis-Philippe. How curious. He had not noticed Henri's eyes before. Beautiful eyes, those. In a fine-boned face. He could begin to see what Maríana had found in this man. Louis-Philippe nodded. "You can follow me at first light," Henri said, then turned to go.
The men used their staffs to clear a space for their camp.
He was aware of the swirl of motion around him, the sharp tang of burning pine branch as they made their fires, the ripple of voices. But his eyes followed the golden flicker of Henri's torch until he could no longer see it.
Chapter 28
A SHEER WALL of stone halted Henri. The air held the luminous sheen of dawn. Another warm day. Beams of sunlight settled upon icy slopes, cleaving snow that had melted, then frozen again under the stars. The crack and groan of fracturing ice drifted to where he stood.
Last night he had been stopped in his tracks by the mounting roar of snow and rock tumbling and sliding somewhere on the mountain. He had waited, torch clutched in one hand and sword held ready in the other, while the thunder of collapsing snow faded to a rumbling lament. When the night was silent again, he had looked in surprise at the sword in his hand. When had he drawn it?
He had followed the footprints through the night, searching the ground for signs of human passage. Several times he lost the trail, was forced to retrace his steps and follow an orderly search, fanning out from the last tracks he had found until more traces of his prey appeared. At first, he had noticed nothing around him except the faint marks upon the ground, signs that would lead him to his Maríana. But the torrent of rolling rock and snow had unnerved him. De Reuilles had been right. It was dangerous to travel in the dark over this terrain.
Now, he surveyed the granite and slate cliff barring his way. Last night, he had hunted for a route around this barrier which towered into the clouds above his head. But the cliff continued far into the distance. And the trail ended here.
Henri looked down at the scraps of beef and crumbs of bread scattered upon the ground. They had stopped here, he was sure of it. A hurried meal, but then where did they go?
The gathering light revealed more of the cliff that reared above him, scored and pitted, with twisted fissures. Henri was no climber. His fief was on the northern coast. The sea did not daunt him, but this mountain defeated him. He had spent the night seeking the fissures in the rock, handholds that he might use to ascend the sheer wall. At one time, he had mounted the height of three men before he could go no farther and he was forced to come down again.
This mountain would not suffer his touch. It repelled him at every turn. He had hung suspended, the promise of broken bones and twisted limbs awaiting him below, until his toes found a resting place. He could not scale this wall of stone, but de Reuilles had experienced climbers. They would find a way.
The steady crunch of feet upon snow heralded the arrival of de Reuilles and the men. Henri watched the group, noting the men's pallor, the way they averted their eyes from the cliff. Was this the mountain Canigou? These men seemed to fear it.
Louis-Philippe came forward, stopping next to Henri. He grunted a greeting, then peered up at the granite barrier, bending his head back and shading his eyes.
"They were here," Henri said. He released some of the crumbs he had. Louis-Philippe's eyes darkened when he saw the bits of bread flutter to the ground.
"Guillaume." Louis-Philippe snapped his fingers, then gestured toward the cliff when Guillaume approached. "Can this be climbed, or can we go around?"
Guillaume considered, glancing up and down, then across the length of the granite wall. "It will take time."
"How much time?" Louis-Philippe drew his gloves over his knuckles.
"Hard to say," Guillaume answered. "One week, perhaps two?" He shrugged. "Maybe more."
Louis-Philippe turned to Henri, reached out his hand. "Come, Bauçais," he said. "Guillaume will stay with two men and try to find a way up or around." He waved his other hand at the men. "We have done all that we can here."
The air was still, hushed. No more cracking ice now. And De Reuilles was right again. They would do better back at the château where Henri could question the servants and visiting knights a second time. His earlier interrogation had been cursory. He had been so anxious to find Maríana that he had not followed the system Hughes des Arcis had taught him during his time as a Soldier of Christ. Henri was still a warrior of the Pope. They had not reassigned him yet. He could use this. Tongues tended to loosen when people were confronted with the garb of the Inquisition. Even de Reuilles' men watched him, became very still when he came near. They were watching him now, though they did not know he caught their sliding glances. He brushed the rest of the crumbs from his breeches, looked at the group of men surrounding Guillaume.
He would don his silken tunic with the white cross as soon as he got back to Reuilles-le-château. Once they reached the château, he would find the knight who had shared a chamber with the Breton.
The Breton. Why did he not remember this man's face? He could picture all the other knights, even the squires. But not this man. Guillaume was pacing the base of the cliff, shading his eyes, peering upward. Henri was sure Guillaume would find a way up. He must.
The chill of damp stone radiated from the granite wall before him. Henri turned his back to the cliff.
A STACCATO howl shivered and echoed around her. Maríana clung to the wall on her right. The stone felt gritty under her fingers. Iranzu and Leila were in front of her on the ledge. Maríana knew they were there from the taut pull of the rope that Iranzu had used to connect them all, just as she knew Richard was behind her from the tug and slack of the rope that tied him to her. But when she held her hand up a finger's width from her eyes, she could not see it. How could Iranzu see? He was leading.
Leading inside Canigou.
They had stopped at the doorstep of the Lady's mountain last night and shared their remaining food. Maríana had eaten. She was sure of this. Leila would not have allowed her to refuse. She had been aware of the weight of bread on her tongue, the bulk as it slid down her throat, but it had no taste. Plaintive voices kept speaking to her. They had started their chatter in her ears after she had drawn the spiral in the snow. She could still hear their faint whispers, though these were now fading. Once or twice she had answered them, but stopped when she saw the keen glance Richard gave her, the worried furrow between his black brows.
When Leila had pulled her to her feet and pointed to the cliff that soared above them, Maríana had blanched. How could she climb this glassy surface?
But they all had. Iranzu had tied them, one to the other, and led, finding handholds on the sheer wall. He had sent images of where he placed his hands and feet, marking the spots somehow so when Leila and Maríana followed they could see a faint glow upon the rock's surface.
It was Maríana who talked Richard through the climb, who told him where the fissures and chinks in the stone lay. This had slowed them, but talking to Richard helped her. It stopped the giddy flutter in her belly whenever she had to look down and saw the ground fading into the distance. She could focus on the next place to put her hands, how to tell Richard where to reach for the indentations in the rock so that he could follow. Richard looked up at her the whole climb. She caught the gleam of his eyes in the starlight. It was a miracle, the way Iranzu guided them, showed them all the places where the ice had not settled, where they could drive their fingers and feet into the side of the mountain.
They had climbed the height of thirty men before Iranzu pulled her up onto the ledge. She shook with the effort of the climb, her muscles taut and hands burning. Yet Iranzu had not allowed them to rest there. He had waited only until Richard reached the ledge, then he had turned and disappeared into the cliff wall, pulling Leila, and then Maríana and Richard behind him into blackness. He had placed Maríana's hand against a flinty, icy surface, telling her to keep to the wall. They could not risk a light. It would be seen. When they had gone far enough into the mountain, then Iranzu would light his torch. She must have inched along this wall for hours now. They would be in this mountain forever, she was sure.
Her face now leaned into the wall as the chirping cry bounced off the walls around them again. Richard touched her shoulder, his hand a firm, warm pressure. "Bats," he whispered. "It is only bats. We must keep going."
Ma
ríana nodded and shuffled forward, her hands following the wall, slackening the rope that held her to Leila and Iranzu. Richard gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. His touch captured her breath. He could never return to Brittany. Not now. Not ever. He had left everything behind, even his harp. Everything except his sword.
It was her fault. If she had not gone to the tower, had not wakened him, he might be safe now. Or he might be out with her father, searching. Her fault.
But she was glad that he came with them. She could feel him behind her, feel the warm push of his breath on her neck when he drew close. The deep timbre, the rich wine-dark resonance of his voice traced a path from her ears to her toes. He had held her when she lost the baby. She swallowed the clot of sorrow that filled her throat and her foot wandered to the left, hung in the air.
Nothing there! She drew in her breath and pulled her foot back, listened to the clatter of pebbles falling into the blackness.
The rushing gurgle of water somewhere below and the scrape of feet upon stone reached her ears. Their breath had its own music; the deep rhythm of her grandfather, the quiet inhalation of Leila, the steady whispering murmur of Richard. The fresh dampness of mist and the warmth of their bodies mingled. But over it all, a sharp vinegar bit her nose, drifted toward them from somewhere up ahead. The rope pulled her to the right around a sharp corner, then it slackened. They were stopping. A slick tearing rasp, then the distinct brilliance of flint striking was followed by the warm glow of torch light, revealing Iranzu's profile as he lit fabric he had tied around the end of his staff.
Door in the Sky Page 32
