Black Lion’s Bride (Warrior Trilogy #2)

Chapter 8

True to his word, Sebastian sent Abdul to Zahirah's chamber that next morning with four new tunics and shalwar . The pretty silks were lovelier by far than any she had at Masyaf, their bright hues and intricate green-and-magenta embroideries glowing like jewels in the sunrays pouring in through the window grate. She luxuriated in the sight and feel of them all, finally settling on a ruby-colored outfit as the first she would wear. Abdul had scarcely departed the room and shut the door before she tore off her old tunic and pantalets to slip into the new.

Indulgences such as this were not permitted at her father's house. There, she was a soldier first, treated thusly in both form and address, for the great Sinan would have it no other way. She was loathe to think what he would do to see her garbed as richly as she was now.

Nor would she think about that.

Not now. Not when the crisp silk felt so good against her skin, the fine fabric pleasingly scented with the warm, heady spices of the market. And if the ankle-length embroidered tunic was lovely indoors, she imagined the fiery color would be stunning under the full glory of this new day's sun. But why imagine, she decided, when it would take but a moment to see for herself?

Zahirah fastened her veil across her cheeks, then quit her chamber. Her step was light as she navigated the corridor and maze of inner arcades. None of the servants or palace guards did more than glance up as she passed them on her way to the large courtyard, the folk evidently advised that she was free to walk about by the captain's leave.

Near the pool at the center of the dusty yard, a knot of women worked at washing clothes. They were Frankish, laundresses of varying age and appearance, brought along from their homeland to service the infidel army. From their bawdy talk and ease among the soldiers, Zahirah suspected their duties extended beyond the tub and board, yet they glared at her when she passed as if she were the whore.

His whore.

No doubt the story of how the formidable captain had unwillingly shackled himself to a Muslim village girl had already traveled the camp. And here she was the very next day, out among his folk, dressed as fine as a rich man's favorite concubine. Suddenly, her idea to stroll the courtyard seemed worse than foolish.

Zahirah had been raised with great discipline to not call attention to herself, to blend in with her surroundings, one of the most vital weapons of the fida'i . Standing there now, she had never felt more conspicuous, nor more exposed. Her gaze strayed to the gaggle of hard-faced washerwomen. She would have needed no amount of studied training in the coarse lingua franca to understand what one of them called her through a gap-toothed sneer. Another slur quickly followed, then a third.

Feeling cornered in the middle of the huge yard, Zahirah pivoted her head and found a group of infidel knights watching the scene from several dozen paces at her back. A couple of them were chuckling, clearly enjoying the sport.

If they thought her defenseless, it only made her yearn to prove them wrong. Her skills were thorough enough that she could have fought off the washerwomen's taunts, showing by swift, lethal example what happens to a Frank who is fool enough to tangle with a fida'i . But the dagger she wore hidden beneath her tunic was meant for one Frank alone; she would not sully it with the blood of these squawking, petty hens.

She spared the lot of them no more than a glance, turning on her heel and striding out of the courtyard as haughty as a queen. Her brisk steps carried her down a hall and through a wide colonnade, a path she quickly recognized for its pattern of intricate mosaic tile work. Her feet began to slow of their own accord. This was the same corridor she had traveled the morning before with Abdul, at the start of her troubles, when she had been summoned to join Sebastian as he broke his fast.

To her dismay, she found that he was there now as well.

She had sensed him even before she saw him, seated at the same table, his forehead braced on his fist as he studied something that sat on the table before him. After her embarrassment in the courtyard, the last thing she wanted was a confrontation with the captain. Hoping to slip by unnoticed, Zahirah picked up her pace, careful that her sandals made no noise on the tiles as she walked past the arched entryway.

“That color suits you well, my lady.”

Faith, but did the man miss nothing?

Zahirah froze at the sound of his deep voice coming from within the garden alcove. Hands fisted at her sides, she reluctantly turned and walked the two steps back to face him.

“Abdul has a merchant's eye for quality,” he said when she stood at the threshold, mutely meeting his gaze from across the distance that separated them. “I trust you were pleased with his selections.”

She inclined her head in acknowledgment. “Yes, my lord. Thank you.”

“Won't you join me?” he asked, and although it was not quite a command, his invitation was compelling enough that she obeyed.

As she drew near to where he sat, she saw what had so captivated his interest before she arrived. There before him on the table was a checkered game board, peopled with rows of white and black pieces, some half dozen moves advanced in play. The captain played the white side; he was about to lose a pawn to the black .

“You know shatranj ,” she said as he studied the board, somewhat surprised to see this Westerner playing at the ancient Arabic game of kingly war.

“I am still learning,” he replied, lifting his shoulder in a shrug. “Abdul took it upon himself to teach me a few weeks ago, when I was good for naught but lying about in bed as an invalid.”

“After you were . . . injured?” Zahirah asked carefully as she came to stand beside him.

“Attacked,” he corrected, glancing up at her. “I stood in defense of my king when an assassin crept into our camp one night last month. The whelp nearly gutted me with his blade.”

Chagrined to recall the events that led to his convalescence, Zahirah had to force herself to hold that steady gray-green gaze. “Not many would dare to stand against the assassins, my lord. They are said to move as phantoms among the villages and mountains of Syria. Some say they are enchanted by a black brand of magic—that they are devils possessed.”

The captain scoffed. “Before he stabbed me, I held this particular devil tight in mine own hands. He was flesh and bone, same as you or I. When next I meet him, he will bleed the same, too.”

Zahirah swallowed hard at the bald determination in that statement. Sebastian had since turned his attention back to his game, grabbing up his jeopardized pawn and moving it out of danger. It was a decision that would cost him the match in four more turns, if his opponent had half the skill of Zahirah herself in this game she had played since childhood.

She saw where he had been heading, impatiently clearing a path for the white queen to challenge the black. It was a bold move, she would grant him that, but if he had thought it out more cautiously, he would have seen his mistake. Zahirah looked at the white ruhk suddenly made vulnerable, her fingers itching to sit in where Abdul had left off.

“How eager you Franks are for blood,” she remarked in an easy, if somewhat provocative, tone. “You play at war the same way you play at shatranj .”

Sebastian chuckled. “You sound like Abdul. He says this game will teach me the virtue of biding one's time.” He arched a dark brow. “Do you play, my lady?”

Beneath her veil, Zahirah smiled. “A bit.”

“Please,” he said, indicating the bench opposite him.

Zahirah took her position as the black player and moved without the slightest pretense of hesitation. She advanced her faras two squares forward and three to the right, the horse-shaped piece neatly capturing the captain's unprotected ruhk .

He grunted, meeting her unapologetic gaze with a look of wry understanding. “I see I can expect no quarter from you, my lady.”

She shook her head. “None, my lord.”

He smiled a smile that had likely melted a thousand maidens' hearts from England to Palestine. “Then I shall consider myself under no obligation to grant quarter, either, gentle lady.”

“Do you presume I would need ask it, sir Frank?”

He laughed aloud, and so began their dance.

At once, Zahirah ruled the board, blocking his every stratagem and driving him back with a steady offense worthy of Saladin himself. Sebastian seemed to enjoy the contest, despite that he was losing the battle to a woman—or perhaps, she thought, because of that fact. More than once she caught him eyeing her with a look that she was want to describe as warmth or interest, maybe even a small measure of admiration. Oh, he glared and sputtered over each forfeited piece, and cursed a bit, too, but his laughter was never far behind, and soon, Zahirah found herself sharing his mirth.

Worse than that, she found herself genuinely enjoying his company. So much so, that when the game came down to the last handful of pieces, she almost regretted the haste with which she had played. A quick glance at the board showed that, depending on what he did next, Zahirah could claim Sebastian's king in one more move. She sat back, rather hoping he would see the potential breach in his defenses and move elsewise to prolong the match.

To her dismay, his hand hovered over the white queen, the piece blocking her swift victory. He thought for a moment, then started to pick it up.

“M-my lord,” she murmured, shocked, and not a little bemused, to hear the warning slip past her lips. “Are you sure?”

He paused, staring at her for a moment, as if weighing her advice. She could see the surprise in his gaze, the question he very likely thought but did not voice: Did she protect him now, or lead him into defeat? He glanced back down at the game, his finger tapping on the piece he might have moved, and realization suddenly dawned.

“Perhaps there is a bit of mercy in your heart after all, Zahirah.” He chose another tactic, a better move by far, then tilted his head to regard her across the table with a wry grin. “I confess, after this ruthless game, I was beginning to wonder if the heart of an assassin beat within your breast.”

She laughed at his jest, but to her ears, it was a forced sound. That heart he wondered at was suddenly tumbling against her ribs. Did he possibly suspect? She dismissed the thought at once, certain that this warrior lord would not be sitting there, laughing with her and making jokes, if he thought for one moment that she was not what she pretended to be.

What was it she pretended at now, she wondered, when she looked into the face of this Frank—her foresworn enemy—and felt nary a kindling of proper scorn? What game did she purport to play when she laughed with him, sparred with him, but a few moments ago?

And what flimsy ruse could she claim when her fluttering heart beat as wildly simply to be near him as it did at the thought of being discovered for the betrayer she would inevitably prove to be?

“It is your move, my lady. ”

Flustered by the droll reminder, Zahirah reached out hastily to take her turn. As she did so, the wide edge of her tunic sleeve caught on one of the game pieces and knocked it over, sending it rolling to the edge of the table. She made a grab for it at the same time Sebastian did. His hand closed over hers, large and warm and strong.

For a moment, she was unable to draw her breath. She stared at that warrior's hand, the hard sun-browned fingers engulfing her nearly to the wrist in a firm, yet undemanding, grasp. It was light enough that she could have pulled away—should have, certainly—but to her utter bewilderment, she lingered in his hold.

Allah, forgive her, but she reveled in it.

He stroked the tender skin at the juncture of her thumb and forefinger. “Have you ever permitted a man the privilege of enjoying your company with your face unveiled, Zahirah?”

It was a scandalous question, a proposition that should shame her just to hear it. She felt a blush flood her cheeks, but could not fool herself into blaming the heat on humility. “What you suggest is a right granted only to a Muslim woman's husband, my lord.”

“A regrettable fact,” he drawled, “in light of the terms of our arrangement.”

Was that another jest, or something more serious? He was smiling vaguely, but his gaze was too intense to be misconstrued as mockery. Taken aback by his implication, at last, Zahirah found the will to withdraw her hand from his grasp.

It was a struggle to gather her wits so long as he was studying her. She could scarcely see the game board for the effort it took to steady her hand as she reached for the black left ruhk and slid it forward two squares.

“Do I make you nervous, Zahirah?”

“N-no. Of course not,” she denied quickly. Too quickly, perhaps, for when her anxious gaze darted up to meet his, he was leaning back in his seat, grinning.

“I am glad to hear it,” he said, his voice low and rumbling like the purr of a big desert cat. “It is not my intention to make you nervous. And I hate to leave you thinking that I would take unfair advantage.”

She watched in mild confusion as he came forward to have his turn at the board. The gleam in his eye as he made his move was pure deviltry. “ Shah mat , my lady.”

Zahirah sucked in her breath in disbelief. She gaped at him, then to the game board, to where the black king stood, abandoned by the ruhk she had moved in her befuddlement, and now, left no escape from Sebastian's advancing queen.

Shah mat . Her king was forfeit; the game was ended.

“That—that's impossible,” she gasped, having not lost at shatranj since she was an impulsive, careless child just learning to play.

But the truth was irrefutable. This unskilled Frank, an opponent she should have easily trounced, had instead managed to turn the tables and beat her at her own game.

“Perhaps my lady wishes a rematch?” he asked, very full of himself in that moment.

Zahirah arched a brow, her own pride seething for revenge. “I more than wish it, my lord. I demand it.”