The burning spark of lightning crept closer, arcing from the Prince's hand to hers.
It touched, and her universe collapsed, every memory, every sensation rushing together in one point just behind her eyes. Every thought, every emotion, every word she had ever spoken flashed past her, swallowed into that one hot point of fire that spun and flickered behind her eyes.
Something clicked, then scraped in the room.
Awareness flooded back into its usual dimensions and shapes. Krista sagged to the floor, her nails skidding across the rough stone. There was a tart smell, like burned pepper, in the air. She looked up, her hair falling around her face like a thicket of tight reddish-brown brambles.
The coffin had folded away. A man sat up from a bed of linen; a strong hand, burned almost bronze by some ancient sun, rubbed a face of noble proportions. He was naked, not a tall man, but well made. His limbs were long and clean, with sharply defined muscles. His hair was long and golden, falling in a wave of curls over his shoulders and broadly muscled back. The man looked around, his blue eyes narrowed in apprehension. Krista remembered to close her mouth. She brushed the hair out of her face.
"Was... was I dead?" His voice rang with command, a voice that would inspire men to valor on a field of battle. His Greek sounded strange to her ear, clipped and hurried. Krista felt her throat dry at the sound.
"Yes," she croaked and stood up, forgetting to keep her head low. "Ouch!"
The man laughed, a musical sound, and offered her his hand. She did not take it.
"You've been dead a long time," she said, glancing at Maxian, who was only beginning to recover consciousness. She pointed. "He brought you back."
"Then he is a well-met friend," said Alexander, son of Phillip, standing gingerly on unsteady legs. "I will thank him for it."
Gaius Julius rolled over, groaning and pressing the palms of his hands to his eyes.
"Yes," Krista said, eyeing the Conqueror as he stood up. He was well made. "Yes, you will."
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
The Oasis of Sabkhat Muh, South of the Ruin of Palmyra
"And the body of the Queen?"
"Laid to rest in the tomb of her father, sheykh. We sealed the entrance with many stones."
"Good."
Mohammed sighed and laid his hand on the mane of his gray mare. The animal looked over its shoulder, speckled with flea bites, at him and twitched its ears. Birds chattered in the palms around the camp. The twenty other men in his band climbed onto their camels and the ungainly beasts rose up. The last man scuffed sand over the firepit with his boot and clambered up onto his mount.
The Southerner felt the side of his face, his fingers tracing the path of the long scar that occluded his right eye and had cut across his mustache, lip, and down his chin. A long arrow of stone, spalled from the collapsing tower at the Damascus Gate, had come within a finger's width of ending his life. He wondered if he would ever be able to see out of that eye again.
I wonder if a priest could heal it, he thought, but then he thought of his friends and their mutilated bodies and resolved to leave the scar. His men looked away, seeing his face marked with a deep and abiding anger. It was not wise to look upon the Al'Quraysh when he was in such a state. The chieftain had already slain a man for speaking ill of the dead; it would not do to press him.
Mohammed adjusted the fit of his kaffieh and touched the scabbard of the sword that she had carried into battle. The blade was nicked and badly used, but there were weaponsmiths in his home city who could restore the sword to health again. It seemed that he could still feel the touch of her fingers on his hand, cool and soft, but this could not be so. He nudged the horse again and she trotted out of the shade of the palms into the searing light of the desert sun.
At his back a bare twenty Tanukh rode, all that remained of their tribe. With ibn'Adi dead, they had come to him as he had laid up in a cave miles from the ruined city, slowly healing, and pledged themselves to him. The sands opened up before them, long endless rolling dunes that filled the Waste at the center of the world. Mohammed set an easy pace, for they had many miles to cross before he saw the doorway of his home or heard the welcoming voice of his wife.
His eyes glittered with fury as he rode, thinking of the news that ibn'Adi's nephew had brought, of the defeat of Persia and the capture of their great capital by the armies of Rome. A few hundred miles away they had marched, the legions that could have relieved Palmyra. He thought of the treachery of Kings and the sacrifice of a brave Queen and the priest who had loved her.
Purpose grew in his heart, hot and filled with hate, and the horse, sensing his desire, moved a little quicker. There were many leagues to cross, ere he was home again.
The Shadow of Ararat Page 80
