She felt her mind pushed aside with a strong hand as he coursed through her, every corner of her mind was searched. She saw remembered images of her mother smiling and frowning. She saw the gardens of her youth and hours of toil in the kitchens and laundry of her master’s house. The necromancer dragged her through long hours of study with her master, learning the perverse Hebrew letters that defied her at first, and then slowly opened her mind to their wonders.
She remembered how her master brought in a scholar from Damascus who showed her the numbers from India and how to use them to add and subtract, multiply and divide. She was swept through the Greek sea captain’s lessons in his language, the miserable attempt to decipher hundreds of French verbs and her master’s frustration with her. She saw her master toss that language away and hire a Frenchman to read his Frankish correspondence.
She felt the necromancer’s reluctant admiration for her literacy. He knew Greek, Persian, Arabic and Turkish. He touched her English with curiosity, he felt her Hebrew with astonishment. He reached deeper.
She tensed, trying to stop further progress, but he opened her as easily as a man puts two thumbs in an orange and breaks it in half. He read her travels through Andorra and her encounters with Monsieur Conti and DiMarco. He saw the French army, he saw her escape. He saw her raise her hands and burst the heart of the French soldier. He stopped there and she felt his admiration for a brief moment. She felt he knew he was missing something and pressed her harder.
She thought about sherbet and honey. She thought about cool mountain streams and the bright dawn over tall mountains. She thought about lilting music and graceful dancing. The images were swept away with a stroke of his staff. He reached for her heart and pried it open wider. The glitter of steel and the feel of leather emerged slowly from its depths, pulled up as one lifts a heavy bucket of water from a deep well.
“What do you hide in this well, little one?”
With a desperate cry, she called for the priestess to help her. What felt like a cold splash of water knocked her down. When she opened her eyes she saw the necromancer above her with a hand to his face.
“I do not come to you alone,” she told him.
“Yes,” he said to her with disgust. “I know her.” He turned around and walked back to the vizier and the agha, ascending the steps to the platform they sat upon and taking his place between them. “She is a weak woman, hiding in her hole.”
Nadira righted herself, hand to her throat. “Weak, indeed, Farshad,” she said. “She has put you away from my heart.”
“For now.” The necromancer looked defiant with his glare, but she saw the uncertainty in his eyes. He had not seen her friends. The priestess had sheltered them from him. She felt the priestess’ voice inside her, “For now,” the older woman said.
“For now,” Nadira repeated, understanding.
The vizier and the agha came to life. The vizier lowered the scroll. “His gracious majesty invites you to stay in the harem…” He stopped and stared at her. Nadira saw shock and confusion in his face. She put a hand to her head and realized her encounter with the necromancer had mussed her hair and veils like she had been blown by a fierce wind. And she had.
She sent a tendril between his eyes and the eyes of the agha telling them to forget her dishevelment. The necromancer chuckled softly. You look like a whore after a vigorous tumble in the silks and furs of my bed. I have taken you, Nadira the Reader. I have taken you.
She stood, shaking. “I request that I be sent to the house of Angelo Borelli in Pera.” She thrummed her cords to insist that she be obeyed, for her voice was too weak to pitch it properly.
The vizier nodded. “You will go to the house of his majesty’s friend, Angelo Borelli, in Pera.”
The necromancer agreed. Go there and rest. Regain your strength and save it to incubate my prize.
She felt nauseous at his words.
The interview was over. Nadira wavered. She picked up the fallen veil and covered her hair and face. The great double doors opened and she made slow progress through them. Her legs felt like thick planks and her silks weighed like stones upon her body.
Kemaleddin Reis stood outside the door, waiting for her. In a voice meant to be heard by the servants and his guests he said, “I am to see you escorted to the house of Angelo Borelli.” He made a slight bow of his head and his eyes were gentle when they met hers. In a softer voice, just for her, he said, “It still hurts.” He rubbed his chest with the tips of his fingers.
Her eyes filled with tears. “I know how it feels.”
Chapter Eight
Angelo Borelli had a large house and stables that took up an entire block. His estate was across the Golden Horn from the sultan’s Topkapi palace in the part of Istanbul reserved for foreigners. Nadira was ushered in through an impressive gate in the garden walls. East and west met in the design of this house and its gardens. The symbolic separation of public and private was evident in the massive walls that rose smoothly and without decoration from the dark soil to high above her head. Once through the massive gate, however, and it was obvious that Angelo Borelli was a Venetian and not a Turk. The house resembled the ornate stucco and red tile roofs Nadira had seen in Rome, but with oriental wood screens in the upper story windows and bright blue and white tile around the windows and doors in the Greek style. The clash of styles told her a great deal about Borelli. The disparate styles fought each other as violently as their representative people did.
Once through the portico and into the cooler halls of the great house, the sparring colors and designs of the exterior calmed to a simmering toleration inside. Borelli’s designer had indulged himself with frescos. The garden was brought inside with smooth lines and strokes of a brush. Nadira paused to admire a particularly graceful rendition of a pomegranate tree and the singing birds among its branches. The servant accompanying her gave a polite cough and scuffed a foot on the floor stones to hurry her along. She followed him to a small pleasant room and went inside to wait.
She sat on the edge of the wooden platform that served as a bed. She put a hand on the folded and stacked blankets and cushions and felt the soft textiles. The room was cool and a breeze from the garden outside brought with it the scent of honey-sweet flowers and the green freshness of plants. She sighed deeply and forced herself to relax. Her friends would enter soon, and she must be able to explain what had happened with the necromancer. So much of what had transpired would be inexplicable. She focused on what could be told, and prepared to answer their questions. This would not be the time for joyous greetings. It was the time for a serious discussion of their mission.
They pushed open the door and filed in quietly, taking places throughout the small room, sitting or standing where they could. William shadowed Calvin and Montrose sat next to her on the narrow ledge. They exchanged glances but did not speak.
Alisdair closed the door with one shoulder and leaned against it. When all the faces turned to her she told them, “The necromancer is more than the sultan’s astrologer. His influence grows, and as more of the sultan’s ministers come under his influence, more decisions are made that are not their own. Some know this.”
She thought of Kemaleddin and his worry for his sultan and the people of the empire. The reis was terrified that the necromancer would use him to further his aims. As fleet captain, he was in the position to fire on any ship in the Mediterranean, friend or foe. One tendril in Kemaleddin Reis could start a war with any of the kingdoms of Europe.
Kemal knew what the necromancer was planning. He had learned it when she had been inside him. He did not know where to turn for help. His extensive education did not include a defense against the machinations of a magus. She felt the intensity of this burden.
She continued, “The sultan wishes Evren Farshad had never come to Istanbul, but now cannot rid himself of his magician.”
She turned to Corbett. “Your plans were to retrieve your book and leave to find your treasure. That is not going to be so simple
.” She looked at him and saw that he had not expected the attempt to be easy.
“And you were hoping to hear news of Massey in the harbor,” she said to Montrose. “You knew he had spent winters here before.” He nodded.
“And you.” She said to DiMarco. “You expected to bargain for services.”
The old man spread his hands before him. “I will bargain with whoever can grant them.”
“We are all going to be disappointed,” she sighed. “The priestess will help keep him out of me for now, but he is very powerful. He will find another way in.” She touched Montrose’s thigh. “I will not be able to keep him from you.”
“If we get his grimoire we will be able to protect ourselves. He will not be able to hurt us if we have it.” Corbett put a hand on Calvin’s shoulder. “It will defend its owner.”
“Then it defends him now,” she pointed out.
“Our Order is the rightful owner. He is a usurper. When we are in the presence of the book it will want to return to us,” Corbett said.
Montrose arched an eyebrow.
Corbett and Calvin exchanged glances. “It knows it belongs to us,” Calvin insisted.
Montrose asked, “Then all we have to do is show it to you? It will become your ally and defeat its former master?” His voice was heavy with disbelief.
Corbett nodded once.
Nadira made a point, “I did not feel the book when I was connected to him.”
Corbett answered her. “No. It is not a book that everyone can read. There is a key,” he said. “Only the Master of the Key can command the book.”
She rubbed her eyes, “Why am I not surprised?”
“I should be the one, but after all these years we have lost the means. That is why I need you. I would use you as the Key. You have tasted the Hermetica. I have not. The Grimoire will not recognize me as one who can speak to it.” He glanced at DiMarco, “Until I take an elixir and go where you have gone, Nadira. Only then will I be able to use it.”
“He will not taste the Hermetica,” Calvin said firmly. “He would go mad.”
Corbett made a face of disgust and gave Calvin a sidelong look. “You do not know. I might be able to use it.”
“I will never forget that night in Firenze. You foamed at the mouth, Malcolm. You raved for hours then lay insensible for hours more. I say you will not taste the Hermetica.”
Nadira was aware she was listening to a rehash of a very old argument between the two Templars. “What do we do?” She slumped lower.
Montrose shook his head, agreeing with Corbett. “I say you taste the Hermetica and become your own Key. The sultan has returned the book to us. Eat it.” He waved a hand at DiMarco, “Or suck down all his poisons. We take our leave. Nadira is to go to Attica; she is to meet with the priestess there.”
“Not yet,” Corbett insisted. There was an uncomfortable silence. “For two hundred years we have been trying to collect the treasures stolen and dispersed by the king of France. With it I can complete the quest of the Order, to restore the treasure of the mind as well as the treasures of the earth that sustained us in our learning. We must do this to protect Christendom from destruction. Even now Derrick and Reginald make arrangements in Rome. Lionel will join us with money and supplies. He is to meet me on St. Isidore’s day at the harbor.”
Montrose was not convinced. “What do you offer Nadira in exchange for her services? You promised to take her to Attica. She has been called to meet with the High Priestess of Elysium. She will not be able to complete her quest if yours kills her first.”
Corbett glanced briefly at Nadira to remind her of their secret agreement outside Rome. He could not answer the baron without betraying her reasons for helping the Templars. Corbett said as much as he could, “There is much danger, but the reward will be worth the risk. You will one day reap that reward yourself, Baron.”
Montrose stood. “I am no longer certain this is the best route, and I did not come here for a reward. I came to protect Nadira on her journey to the priestess.”
“Peace, Baron.” Calvin put a hand out to stop him from advancing toward Corbett. Montrose turned like he would pace the room, but it was too crowded. The other men moved out of his way, but his long legs could not complete even one stride. Both men turned to Nadira.
Corbett said, “Nadira. You have felt the necromancer. You can see the importance of this book to us. I cannot allow the necromancer to continue to control its power. I will get it from him. But think of this as well. Once you have read this book, you will bring that power with you to the priestess and you will possess the ability to protect those you love from any future danger that threatens. This is what you desire, is it not? Our mission is yours as well. Tell me you see that.”
Montrose interrupted, “There would not be any danger if she abandoned this pursuit.”
She answered, “The danger is real, and there is enough of it for everyone. I cannot go back, my lord. I cannot go back to doing figures and writing letters. I agreed to accompany the white knights to learn more about the Hermetica and this Grimoire. I cannot go back. Is that what you are suggesting?”
She saw his mind work, and felt sympathy for his struggle. “I asked you to abandon your search for Massey. Is that something you will give up because I wish it?” She had hoped that he might. “And each must face different dangers,” she added. “But none of us do so alone.”
He turned to her and his face was hard. “You are saying that if I agree with the Temple Knights, you will help me find Massey?”
She felt her face blanch. He saw it too. He narrowed his eyes and insisted. “Is that what you are saying?”
“My lord…” It was not what she was saying.
“Nadira. You deny me the one simple word that would release me, and yet you risk your life for this man and his quest.” He glanced at Corbett.
She felt squeezed. He was right.
Corbett spoke gently to her, “Once you have the Grimoire all things become possible.” The unspoken words were in his gray eyes. He pressed her to remember what he had told her. This book will heal his hurts. He looked at DiMarco and his, then he turned to indicate William. Even his.
She nodded once, understanding.
And your own.
She winced.
“I will take that,” Montrose said, staring hard at her, “as a promise. I will see the Templar’s mission through and in return you will give me my enemy.” Nadira could see in his eyes the unpleasant fact that there was something inside him stronger than his love for her. The muscles in his jaw bunched as he ground his teeth, as they always did when he thought of Massey, and his eyes glittered with a viciousness that frightened her.
Corbett saw it too. He extended his hand to Montrose. “Peace, Baron. We help each other. We will triumph, each over our own enemies.”
Montrose took it. “Peace, Knight of Christ. I have no doubt we will.”
DiMarco agreed. “Then leave the girl to rest. We have much to talk about and I would not do it in this house. There are ears in the very walls.”
The men filed out through the doors. William made as if to stay behind, but Alisdair put a hand on his back and prodded him. Montrose stood on the threshold, the last to go. He turned to her.
“I have your promise.” He put his hand over the place on his ribs where she knew he kept the long braid of her hair inside his shirt. “You will find Massey for me.”
Nadira did not meet his eyes. She did not trust her voice, so she gave him a slight nod. She was grateful he could not read her mind.
“Greetings to you, Nadira Sultana.”
Nadira nodded absently, looking at the young woman who stood before her. She was close to her own age and height. More than that she could not discern through the veils. She was obviously no servant, for her clothing was very fine, and the eyes that stared out at her from behind the brown silk were lined with kohl and a faint aroma of gardenias accompanied her graceful movements.
“Greetings…” she r
eturned.
“Forgive me, I was so eager to see you I have forgotten my manners. I am Thedra. Angelo has asked me to show you the house and make sure you are comfortable. He says you have come from the house of the sultan’s fleet captain, the great Kemaleddin Reis, and will be staying here until you are granted an audience to see the Padishah.”
“Yes, that is true.”
“And you are cousin to the sultan and wife to a frenki lord?”
Nadira winced, causing Thedra to raise an eyebrow. “I see,” she said, suggesting she did not believe it.
“This is what you have been told?” Nadira glanced into the hall.
Thedra dropped the veil that covered her face. She was very beautiful. Her eyes were bright and her teeth straight and white when she smiled. Her hair was not as dark as those of the Turkish women and her Arabic was spoken with a Greek accent. “It is what the servants told me, though I hardly believe them. The Senore told me you are to have your own room. The frenki are roomed together in a different wing of the house.”
“That is the custom, however?”
“Yes, in the city it is, but not here. Usually. If he were your husband, you would be in his room, yet you are not. And…they call you sultana?” Thedra’s brow furrowed. “This is curious to me and it may be terribly rude, but I cannot see a princess being given to a frenki as wife. I do not believe them. I decided to come and ask. Tell me if the servants should be beaten for their lies.”
“Please come in,” Nadira backed into her room and Thedra followed. “Do not have the servants beaten,” she answered.
“So it is true. How did he get you? I mean…were you a gift? How is such a marriage arranged? I saw them retrieve their belongings when the wagon came from the harbor. They are very strange-looking.” Thedra moved through the room. She touched the satchel on the table then Nadira’s neatly folded clothing on the bed. “I am eager to hear a good story.”
“Well…”
The Necromancer's Grimoire Page 14
