The Book of Whispers

by Kimberley Starr

  Laden with supplies soon after matins the next day, horses clip the ground with impatience to leave the Constantinople campground.

  Voices and calls sound from the other end of the procession. We ride off. The march is calming, lulling. We reach a line of ferries that will take us on the short journey across the Bosphorus into Anatolia. With thousands of others, we wait our turn and, eventually, make the crossing.

  In the midst of the bustling docks on the other side in the mid-afternoon, I farewell Father.

  ‘Luca, these are for you.’ It’s Narlo, surprising me with a kind deed. He’s filled my waterskins, ready for the journey.

  Father watches him and nods approvingly. Narlo wants Father to think he supports me and feels contrite about our joust. I clench my jaw and thank him, also for Father’s benefit.

  Accompanied by fewer than a dozen knights and an even smaller number of grooms, I leave the main body of the pilgrimage. All on horseback, my group can travel much faster than the others.

  Through the days that follow, while the rest of the pilgrimage progresses towards the first planned attack, retaking Nicea, we ride south. By night we sleep on the ground, with capes for pillows. We don’t carry much food so we hunt with bow and arrow as we ride, and each evening our scouts go out among the local population for whatever they can buy or steal.

  After we’ve been on our own nearly a whole sevennight, the countryside changes. The mood changes too. The men, like the horses, are tired. We ask each other what might have happened to the rest of the pilgrimage. Could they have already reached Nicea? What will they have found there?

  I take my mind off the heat by concentrating on Orestes’ pacing.

  One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One…

  Orestes suddenly stops.

  I look up. The others stop too. We’ve reached a high, rocky peak overlooking a mysterious valley. I’ve become used to scenery changing with each sevennight of our journey, from the familiar, poplar-speckled mountains of home to the magnificence of Constantinople. But this is the strangest place I’ve ever seen. Here, rocks grow like plants! Fields of stone towers as high as castle turrets stretch out as far as we can see, hundreds of them, in every direction. Somehow standing independently, they point like arrows towards Heaven. My companions whisper confused rumours: these are ancient tombstones placed for giants; these are the chimneys releasing the smoke of Hell.

  I turn and notice that what I had taken for ordinary rocks are actually smaller versions of the goliaths we see before us. Trees are dwarfed by them. Some men in our party cross themselves at the sight.

  ‘This could be Hell.’ Mattiolas wipes sweat from his face with his sleeve. ‘Look out for demons.’

  I look at him sharply, but this is just a figure of speech.

  We ride on through the heat, weaving between the rock towers of this mysterious terrain. Another day ages, hot and dry. I’ve been sharing Mattiolas’s waterskins in exchange for my share of wine, but now most of mine are empty. The liquid within them is stale and oddly flavoured.

  The second morning in Cappadocia, I take a long drink and almost immediately collapse onto the ground, falling into a cluster of dying plants.

  I’m violently ill, bringing up all the water I just drank, along with the eggs that were our breakfast. ‘I’ve been poisoned!’ I tell Mattiolas.

  He looks sceptical. ‘Maybe it was the eggs. Or you could have breathed in something foul.’

  The waterskin. Narlo gave it to me. How could I have been so trusting?

  Arms beneath my shoulders, Mattiolas heaves me back into my saddle. ‘We need to reach the community,’ he says. ‘They’ll have physic for you, Luca. You’ll be fine.’

  I hold on as tight as I can to the reins and feel my eyes drift closed. The others circle around me, guiding Orestes and making sure I don’t fall. I begin to dream. Again, I see Father dying. The book rests open on the ground beside him. Its vellum pages move in the wind. A black shadow looms over Father’s prone body.

  But the shadow is far too small to be Thanatos.

  With effort, I force myself to wake.

  ‘You’ve been very ill,’ Mattiolas says. ‘If it was poison, you’ve expelled it.’

  We ride on. And there is a shadow—someone walking alone in the desert. A girl, carrying a small basket. How did she get here?

  She isn’t really here. Narlo chose a potent poison, and I’ve lost consciousness again. I feel myself slipping, then my name is called and Orestes has stopped. Strong, friendly arms pull me onto the ground.

  I’m still dreaming. My dream-self is certain the girl carries potions Father needs. She approaches, taking a jar from her basket. But instead of rubbing liniment into Father’s forehead, she crouches and tips red liquid over my book’s vellum pages.

  ‘No!’ I yell at her. ‘No! Save my father!’

  The girl doesn’t look up. Her outline vibrates and fades, and I realise I’m being shaken awake, roughly, by a fellow knight.

  ‘You’re shouting in your sleep, translator,’ he says.

  I open my eyes. I’m lying on a blanket on hard earth. Dawn is breaking, casting pink ribbons over the horizon behind silhouetted rock towers. I’ve lost time. I don’t know how much. It’s at least one day since I drank that poisoned water. I sit up and begin to blink my dream away. One blink clears my eyes of the book’s image. With another blink, I can no longer see my father’s fallen body.

  I blink again. But still I see the shadow of the black-robed girl.

  We prepare our horses for the day ahead. The sun rises fully, staining the sky with blue, fading the pink, returning the orange hue to the rock towers. I mount Orestes, ready to ride, and I still can’t get the strange girl out of my mind.

  And there she is: a girl in long, black robes rising from the desert. I look around. The others ride as though in a daze. I spur Orestes on, moving forwards to greet her. As we near, I see she’s just a girl, no older than me. Long strands of near-black hair fly around her face as she moves. She clasps a large basket in front of her, as tightly as if it contained all she owned in the world.

  We reach her. The girl looks up at me through clear amber eyes, the perfect counterpoint of dark and light. She opens her mouth and speaks a language I don’t understand. Her voice is deep and musical.

  Dismounting, I’m both enchanted and mystified. I shake my head.

  The girl smiles uncertainly and speaks again, this time in Latin. ‘My name is Suzan,’ she says.

  I bow. ‘I’m Luca.’

  ‘Luca.’ She seems to taste my name, to roll it around her tongue. I move closer. I’ve never seen or heard a woman like this before. There’s a glow about her, a magic. I feel like I’m falling under a spell. She is the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.

  ‘Luca,’ she says again. Then: ‘Help me.’

  CHAPTER 7

  Twenty-five moons

  GOREME

  Luca

  The wind picks up a little and a strand of dark hair frisks around the girl’s cheeks until she brushes it away. She stares at me. Beneath her unguarded eyes, a narrow, straight nose runs down towards a wide mouth and rounded chin. Her lips are full and pink.

  I’ve seen her before, which is impossible. And if I didn’t know this too was impossible, I’d swear the expression on her face was also one of recognition.

  Orestes twists his head and shakes his mane, snorting.

  ‘How can I help you?’ I ask.

  The girl—Suzan—drops her eyes. Her basket contains not the liniment I dreamed of, but something long and angular, wrapped in a scarf. It’s the sort of bundle the poorest pilgrims carry. Small demons connected to it play in the sand. I can tell she’s unaware of them: she nearly steps on one of their tails.

  ‘Can I join you?’ she asks.

  I run my fingers through my hair. I have seen her before. And I can’t have seen her before.

  ‘Well, Luca.’ Mattiolas has ridden up behind me and dismounted. ‘What have
we found here?’

  Suzan covers her mouth with a hand and makes a soft sound. She might be laughing. The first time I saw Mattiolas dismount, I thought he was falling off his horse.

  Mattiolas steps closer to us. ‘Have you found a girl?’

  ‘She wants to join us.’

  ‘Join us!’ Mattiolas walks around Suzan, examining her as if she were a horse he might buy.

  ‘That’s enough!’ The girl has an airy voice and a peculiar accent. She pauses between words. ‘Don’t look me over like a recovered relic.’

  ‘Aren’t relics meant to be old?’ Mattiolas asks.

  ‘We’re not really equipped for women,’ I say.

  ‘She can ride with me,’ Mattiolas decides, laughing.

  ‘Why are you fleeing?’ I ask. ‘Are you in trouble?’

  Suzan touches the corner of her mouth. ‘I’m not used to being allowed to talk.’ Her words might be a trick of the air.

  ‘You’re not supposed to talk?’

  She raises her hands, palms upwards. ‘I’m not supposed to exist.’

  For a long moment I don’t know what to say. I stare at Mattiolas, who shrugs. Suzan has clearly chosen me as her rescuer.

  ‘We’re headed for Jerusalem,’ I tell her.

  ‘Eventually,’ adds Mattiolas.

  ‘To fight?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘The Temple of Artemis was destroyed during battle,’ the girl says.

  Mattiolas tips his head to one side. ‘She’s mad,’ he mouths.

  I ignore him. ‘We go to save the city, not to harm it. God calls us. Why do you want to come?’

  ‘You don’t believe God might also call me?’

  ‘Not many young women make this journey without their families.’

  ‘I need to leave. I’m in danger.’ She looks at me steadily. I’m simultaneously confused and compelled.

  ‘Come with me?’ I ask.

  She nods and passes her basket to me, waiting while I fasten it to Orestes’ bridle. My hand slips and I tap her mysterious package. It makes a sound like strings pulled tight.

  ‘Is this a dulcimer?’ I ask.

  Suzan reaches up and I help her mount the horse. Her hood slips back and her hair, long and silky, brushes my hand. I climb in front of her.

  ‘My mother calls it a santur,’ she says softly. ‘She gave it to me.’

  Mattiolas manages to mount his horse in a relatively normal way. We move off. Orestes speeds into a trot. The pace makes Suzan slip to one side.

  ‘Have you ridden before?’ I ask, helping her straighten herself.

  She shakes her head. ‘Do women ride where you are from?’

  I blink. ‘Of course. My sister will get her own horse when she turns sixteen. Like I did. She wants to grow like the Grand Contessa Matilda.’

  ‘The Grand Contessa…’ Suzan sounds confused.

  I laugh. Stories of the famous female Margrave of Tuscany haven’t travelled this far. ‘Matilda. She’s the ruler of Tuscany. She’s had three husbands. Went to war against the last one.’

  ‘War? What about promising to obey?’

  ‘She also had affairs with at least two popes.’

  Suzan looks shocked, then laughs. ‘I’ve lived in a convent.’

  ‘You’re in for an adventure.’

  Suzan

  This is exactly what a young man should look like! Blue-eyed, like the knight I’ve seen in my dreams. He rides in a fluid suit of chainmail. Its links catch the sun like gemstones. He carries a painted shield and a lance with a red-cross banner. Luca. His name is Luca. Like one of the disciples. I have never imagined a disciple as warm as Luca. Luca de Falconi, he tells me when I ask for more information. His horse, Orestes (Luca says the name means conqueror of mountains), is decorated in metal and armour too and is the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen.

  If Luca turns me away, I don’t know where I’ll go.

  Later, when the ones I’ve left behind will be gathering in the convent for noon prayers, Luca leaves me with his friends while he rides off to deliver news. He is away until it’s nearly time for vespers. When he returns, we sit to eat with the others. My legs are stiff from a day’s unfamiliar horseriding. Luca smiles. His eyes are lively and clear as stars. ‘I’ve passed on my message. We’ll leave to rejoin my father in the morning.’

  Luca’s groom helps him remove his chainmail gloves, which were tied to his shirt sleeves. I watch him and the others, anxious to learn their customs. I need them to accept me. There’s no other way to survive. Free of the metal, Luca’s hands are nimble and robust.

  Sitting by the fire after we’ve eaten, I notice that sometimes Luca’s eyes track a person who isn’t there. ‘Who are you watching?’

  Luca looks startled. ‘Do you see it?’ he asks.

  ‘See what?’

  He looks down. ‘Nothing.’

  I disappointed him. But I don’t know what he wanted me to say.

  ‘You have unusual eyes,’ he says.

  I touch my right eyelid. I’ve never seen my own eyes. I always assumed they were brown. ‘What colour are they?’

  ‘They’re flecked…as though with light. They’re pretty.’

  Pretty? Is he being cruel? I know how ugly I am. I’ve been told often enough.

  ‘Do you know anything about demons?’ he asks.

  My mind reels from the sudden change in subject. ‘Demons? Well, I’ve heard of them.’

  ‘What have you heard?’

  I gather my thoughts. ‘Well, my mother says they’re beings of smoke. They’re alive, but not like us. They don’t have actual bodies. Most are invisible.’

  Luca nods. ‘I’ve already noticed they don’t have any private parts.’

  ‘Noticed? Do you mean in paintings?’

  Luca pulls an ivory horn from one of his leather satchels and passes it to me. ‘Father brought this back with him last time he went to Jerusalem.’

  I turn the horn over. It’s heavily carved, along the entire length of the tusk’s curve. One band is a line of braided flowers and leaves. Below it, armoured horses attack a carved castle. And below that again is a line of imaginary creatures. Some have body parts like real animals—a goat’s horns or a bird’s claws—but they’re put together like no real animal.

  ‘They couldn’t reproduce like animals.’ I hastily change the subject. ‘What happens when you blow this?’

  Luca seizes the horn. ‘Don’t. It’s a battle cry. People will think there’s a Saracen attack. What else did your mother tell you about demons?’

  ‘Well, they don’t need food like humans do. They need human pain…it’s kind of like their food. Haven’t you heard this?’

  ‘They live on pain…’

  I nod. ‘They need us. We don’t need them. And they’re connected to the seven deadly sins—somehow.’

  Luca holds my eye, his pupils darkening. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Pride, sloth, envy,’ I begin. ‘Lust—’

  ‘Yes,’ he says, impatiently. ‘I know what the deadly sins are. I have a cousin, Narlo. His demon is called Invidia.’

  ‘Invidia,’ I repeat. ‘Envy. You make it sound like a real demon! Is your cousin envious?’

  ‘He wants my inheritance.’ Luca falls into silence and looks away. He speaks no more of demons.

  The men lie on their cloaks after evening prayers. I retreat to the tent Luca erected for me, watching the sky through its opening. How far away are the stars? They look like torches of another army, an angel army.

  The others soon snuffle and snore. No one breathes with my mother’s quietly rhythmic exhalation. I doze and wake with a start when I realise I can’t hear her.

  Moonlight seeps through the tent’s light fabric, illuminating this small place where I’m utterly alone. I might never hear my mother again. Until so recently, whenever I woke from a nightmare, I could reach for the comfort of her hand. I long for that comfort. From now on, the sound of my nights will be the sound of her
absence.

  I lie wrapped in wool that smells of Luca, beneath the canvas that has stored his breath. Waiting for sleep, I wonder how far away Luca is. I remember my mother telling me about love between a man and a woman, and let myself wonder, safe in my own imagination.

  When I see him in the morning, Luca is ready to ride, wearing a full suit of chainmail in case of attack. He asks, again, if there’s anything I need. It’s kind of him to try to understand. But my feelings are so intense I don’t know how to describe them. My mother has been the warmth in my world. Her absence is like losing the sun. I want to tell him about her and the dark cell where we lived.

  I need to go home, I want to tell him.

  Again and again, I consider ways that my last day with her could have gone differently. Could she have come with me as I left?

  Wrapping my arms around his waist, feeling his strength beneath the chainmail, I prepare to spend the day riding behind him. Before we set off, his companions ask about the plan.

  ‘We’ll rejoin the others in Nicea,’ Luca tells them.

  Although I never knew there were so many armed knights in all the world, it seems they are part of a much larger group.

  ‘You need to think about how to explain your new pet to your father,’ Mattiolas says to him, looking at me.

  Luca laughs and smiles. I smile back. Mattiolas is a joker.

  ‘We’re returning to our pilgrimage,’ Luca explains. ‘We left the others preparing for a siege.’

  ‘Siege?’ My stomach tightens. I remember convent cells full of dried food, and plans for taking goats and chickens into the caves should Saracens attack. We were constantly preparing for a siege that never came.

  When we pause for our noonday meal, the news Luca has waited for arrives, carried by a solitary horseman. Luca listens to him and looks alarmed.

  ‘Bad news?’

  ‘My friend Serafina is missing.’ Luca looks down, avoiding eye contact. ‘I’ve been hoping scouts might have news of her group, but there’s nothing.’

  It’s foolish that a spear of envy pokes at me when Luca mentions a woman’s name.

  ‘I’m so sorry to hear that.’ Serafina. What a beautiful name. I try to force a sympathetic smile. No wonder Luca is so kind to me. He does understand how I feel, because he has lost someone too.