Black Lion’s Bride (Warrior Trilogy #2)

Chapter 12

The congestion at the city gates that morning had begun to ease by noontide. An hour later, only a few stragglers had yet to pass through: latecomers, squawking over their delay by the Frankish guards on watch. Sebastian was weary of the process as well, for the hours of search and supervision had yielded nothing more troubling than a bone-thin village youth attempting to breach the gates and make off with a merchant's purse.

The group waiting for admittance now looked to be no greater threat—a dozen women and old men, their sandals worn and dusty from their trek to the city, their faces ruddy and haggard from the heat, dark eyes fixed in contempt on the Christian heathens who would keep them from practicing their faith at the mosque.

Sebastian gave an impatient wave to the guards on post. “Let them by.”

He watched the lot of commoners trundle past, relieved when he heard the muezzin's call to jumah in the moments that followed. His head was aching, his eyes burning from hours spent under the glare of the too-bright desert sun. And underneath it all was the niggling feeling of foreboding that had been with him since he awoke that morning.

Death. So real he could still taste its acrid tang in the back of his throat.

His apprehension seemed ungrounded now, but nevertheless, he kept a trained eye on the folk milling about the streets as he left the gates. He followed what remained of the thinning crowd, heading toward the avenue that led to the mosque, where he knew he would find Abdul and Zahirah after the Sabbath service.

She had been on his mind that day; indeed, as much as his thoughts were haunted by images of blood and death, so, too, were they haunted by Zahirah. Somehow, she was turning him from reluctant protector to relentless predator. He did not like the change, did not like the idea that he was losing control of his own will. But like it or nay, he was pursuing her, he acknowledged, as surely as he sought her out here in the bustle of the city.

And what a bustle it was—more frenetic than any other Friday crush he could recall. The remaining folk who had yet to reach the mosque seemed almost mindless in their haste to get there. Slower moving villagers were pushed aside by the more spry; elders were left to toddle on in the waking dust of the youth.

Sebastian paused to steady an old man who was nearly trampled by the passing swarm, and as he set the graybeard firmly on his feet, he looked about him, taking in what his eyes were seeing: the quickly emptying souk, merchant stalls being abandoned—a few toppled over in haste. The villagers at the fountain well, leaving their cool refreshment to hurry toward the minaret and arcaded entryway that sat at the end of the avenue.

The people of Ascalon were not so much rushing to the mosque as they were racing.

Three boys came up from somewhere behind, their sandals beating the cobbled avenue, white robes flapping as they ran past. Sebastian reached out and caught the slowest of the trio by the arm.

“What is it? What is going on?”

“Murder,” the boy exclaimed, wild-eyed and breathless. “There has been a murder at the mosque!”

“Christ,” Sebastian hissed. Then fear settled in, cold and sharp. “Oh, God. Zahirah.”

He loosed the boy to follow him and his two companions at a dead run through the chaos mounting in the street. There were more than a few gasps and several muttered curses when he, a Christian, forbidden in a Muslim place of worship, fought his way past the mosque's sacred arches. He burst into the sun-filled courtyard and with a quick glance, searched out the trouble. It was easy enough to find.

A crowd huddled tight at the far side of a pillared colonnade that surrounded the wide square and its central minaret. People ran to and from the area, some crying, some whispering prayers; some were mute with horror. With his hand fisted about the hilt of his sheathed sword, Sebastian ignored the distressed Saracen faces that gaped at him as his boots tramped over hallowed Muslim ground. He waded to the fore of the onlookers, cursing when he spied the rivulet of blood spilling between the feet of the spectators. It was dark crimson-black. Lifeblood, and too damned much of it.

God forbid it belonged to—

“Zahirah.”

His heart clenched in his chest, thudding to a heavy halt at what lay before him. Zahirah slowly glanced up when he said her name, but if she registered who he was in that moment, her vacant gaze said nothing to confirm it. She was sitting on the ground, legs folded beneath her. Her face was streaked with tears, her damp veil askew and spattered with blood. Abdul's head rested in her lap. His sightless gaze stared up at her, fixed, frozen, his mouth slack in death.

The blood was his. It seeped from a deep wound in his chest, covering the front of his clothing and the ground beneath him. Zahirah wore much of it, too. It covered the bodice of her tunic and stained her hands and sleeves, as if she might have been bending over Abdul, trying to staunch the flow. The wound was too grave; she could not have saved him. Nothing could have.

Nor would anything save the fiend who slew him, Sebastian silently vowed.

“Who did this?” he demanded of the crowd, stumbling over the Arabic words in his grief for the loss of his friend. “Did any of you see who was responsible for this death? Speak now, or by my vow, you'll suffer far worse than this good man.”

No one answered. With a snarl, Sebastian drew his weapon. The crowd gave a collective gasp, drawing back as he leveled the blade on one of the handful of Muslims who dared to stare at him in silent contempt. Was this man at the end of his sword Abdul's killer? He listened to the litany of prayers that began to fall from the man's lips, hardly caring if they bore guilt or not, so great was his rage, so strong was his want to spill blood in retaliation.

“God damn it,” he growled in his own tongue, the vicious bark of anger needing no comprehension to send several big men back a healthy pace. “Someone must have seen something. Who did this? Who is responsible?”

“I am.”

Zahirah's voice was little more than a thread-bare whisper. Sebastian pivoted to regard her over his shoulder, frowning at the pained gaze that met his own. She shook her head and blinked as a fresh wash of tears filled her eyes and ran down her cheeks. “Allah forgive me, but I—I am the one to blame for Abdul's death. I should never have . . . He was trying to protect me . . . I tried to stop him . . . “

She broke down before the words were out of her mouth. Her chin dropped to her chest and her tears began in earnest. Sebastian's fury paled at the sight of Zahirah's distress. He lowered his weapon and eased it back into its sheath, then turned and knelt down beside her.

“No, my lady,” he said, gentle, despite the tumult of his own guilt and anguish. He wanted to reach out and enfold her in his embrace, but there were too many people gawking, and with all that had passed between them that morning, he was not at all sure Zahirah would accept his sympathy. Strangely, he realized that he, too, needed comforting in this moment. Abdul's death, and the thought that Zahirah had been so close to danger, shook him deeply. With effort, he was able to school his voice and his expression to some semblance of calm. “Do not blame yourself, my lady. You couldn't have seen this coming. There was nothing you could do.”

Although he meant to soothe her, his attempt at consolation only seemed to upset her further. As if she could bear no more of what he said, Zahirah held up her hand. She started to get up, tried to find her feet, and failed. When she wobbled, Sebastian caught her and lifted her into his arms. Her head lolled onto his shoulder but she clung to him, sobbing quietly into the crook of his neck.

Sebastian scanned the knot of villagers and met the eye of the boy he had followed into the mosque. “Go to the city walls where my knights are working,” he ordered the lad. “Tell them what has happened. Have them bring the body—” He bit off a curse, then corrected thickly, “Have them bring my friend back to the palace.”

~ ~ ~

Zahirah had no strength left at all. It had poured out of her with Abdul's last breath, with the blood that stained her hands and tunic. A queer, empty numbness was all she knew as Sebastian carried her away from the carnage at the mosque. She could feel nothing of her limbs, but her heart beat dully in her breast, and beneath the deadened pall of shock was something else. Something deep inside that ached and swelled like bitter bile.

It was guilt: dark and smothering. She thought it would devour her—prayed it would—for she did not know how she would carry the burden of Abdul's death. She had never intended for him to meet with harm. Would that she had taken Halim's dagger instead. Abdul was a good man; he did not deserve such a terrible end.

And then there was Sebastian. She wrapped her arms around his neck and shoulders, burying her face in the smell of him, the warmth of him, feeling safe and protected in his strong arms where she had no right. It hurt, how badly she needed his arms around her—how thoroughly he would hate her when he discovered the truth of who, and what, she was.

Zahirah closed her eyes and listened to the sound of his boots on the cobbled streets, felt his heartbeat pound against her cheek. She wished he would just keep walking, that he would carry her somewhere far away from this place, somewhere green and peaceful, somewhere that pain and death did not dwell. She was weak to think it.

By Allah's grace, she was too weak to say it.

She must have fallen into a doze as he carried her to the palace, for when Zahirah next opened her eyes, Sebastian was setting her down on the bed in her chamber. He was gentle with her, as if he feared she might break. As if he did not know that it was his tenderness that would shatter her. She had no strength to protest as he removed her damp veil and brushed an errant wisp of hair from her brow.

“It's all right,” he said as she blinked up at him. “You're safe now. I will keep you safe, my lady.”

Zahirah gave a feeble shake of her head, sinking her teeth into her trembling lip to keep from blurting out a careless reply. When she might have reached for him, instead she fisted her hands at her sides. They were sticky with Abdul's blood, a realization that brought a fresh well of tears to her eyes.

Sebastian touched her shoulder, lightly resting his palm on her. “Zahirah, I am sorry. I should have been with you today. Abdul's death—” He broke off abruptly and let out a sigh. “Ah, Christ. His death is my fault, not yours.”

A small flame burned in the lamp at her bedside, gilding Sebastian's face. His pain was etched into the lines that bracketed his mouth, in the flat press of his lips and the slight flare of his nostrils as he breathed. Abdul's death had wounded him. It should not have surprised her, for what little she knew of him, Sebastian seemed a caring man. But that he would mourn the death of a Saracen, more, that he would grieve for Abdul as he would a true friend—no less than any of his Christian friends—touched her.

How hard it was to reconcile Sebastian with the image her father had painted of the Franks: cold uncaring beasts, faithless villains who would not stop until they had destroyed everything that was Muslim. Sebastian had never shown her such blind enmity. His sorrow now was real. His friendship with Abdul had been true .

His sympathy toward her was more than she could bear, but no more burdensome than the weight of her own dishonor for allowing Sebastian to blame himself for the death of his friend. She could not bear his kindness, but neither could she confess her part in the day's tragedy. Summoning the barest shreds of her will, she turned away from Sebastian, rolling onto her side and giving him her back. “Please,” she whispered brokenly. “I want to rest now.”

“Of course,” he said after a moment. He bent down and stroked her hair, and Zahirah choked back a sob for the kindness in his touch, a kindness she could not allow herself to accept. Not when her heart felt so poisoned and black. “Rest, my lady. I will send a maid to help you wash and change your clothes.”

“No. Don't send anyone,” she said. “I don't want anyone to help me. I don't want to see anyone at all.”

“Very well.” The mattress dipped under his weight as he seated himself on the edge of the bed. “Then I'll stay until you are asleep. You have been through quite an ordeal. I don't think you should be alone.”

But she was alone, especially while she was in this place, and the longer he remained in the room with her, the more painful that realization was. “Leave, Sebastian,” she pleaded, the words raw and heavy in her throat. “I don't want you here, either. Please, just . . . I need you to leave me alone.”

She waited for him to consider her demand, part of her praying he would go without delay, and a more foolish part of her hoping he would refuse. His pride would never permit that, however. He rose without another word, then left her side to cross the room. His footsteps paused several paces away.

“You know, Zahirah, I am not the enemy.”

That said, he stepped outside the room and closed the door behind him. Zahirah lay there, listening to the ensuing silence of her chamber, then she pushed herself up and sat on the edge of the bed. Her dagger was sheathed beneath her tunic where she had replaced it after the altercation with Halim. The hilt rested against the bare skin at her waist, cold as ice.

She withdrew the blade and held it before her in her palms. There had been a time, not too long ago, that she would marvel at the artistry of Masyaf steel. She had always appreciated its lethal beauty. Now, in her blood-stained hands, her fingers soiled by the death of an innocent man, that curved length of shining steel had never looked so wicked.

It had never looked so wrong.

Disgusted and confused, Zahirah slid off the bed and knelt beside it. She said a prayer for Abdul's soul, then lifted the edge of the thick mattress and shoved the dagger deep beneath, hoping to banish her doubts along with the blade.

What was wrong with her? She knew how dangerous it was to question what she had been raised to believe. She had seen members of her clan killed in cold blood when they questioned the teachings of her father. Who was she to doubt him now? How weak was her heart that she would doubt the validity, the divine purpose, of her mission?

She was the daughter of Rashid al-Din Sinan, she reminded herself sternly. She was a skilled fida'i , not some sniveling girl to fall to pieces over the death of one man. Abdul was an unwitting pawn, no more than that. His death changed nothing. Indeed, it only raised the stakes of her mission, for now the Franks would be watching everyone more closely, including her.

Zahirah tried to nurse this new feeling of budding anger, knowing she would need something solid to cling to when she next saw Sebastian. She could not allow herself to soften—not toward him, certainly not toward her cause. She was stronger than this. She had to be.

She had to put aside what happened today. She had to forget it and move on, and to do that, she supposed she would first have to rid herself of the appalling evidence. Efficiently, telling herself she could put things back on course, she stripped off her ruined clothing, then donned a clean cotton shift as she walked to a wash basin that sat atop a pedestal on the other side of the room. She cupped her hands and brought the cool water up to her face, but before she could rinse away the day's troubles, Zahirah made the mistake of glancing up.

Her reflection stared back at her from a plate of polished glass that hung above the basin.

She did not know the woman in the mirror. She looked older than Zahirah might have guessed, tired beyond her less than twenty years of age. Her eyes were haunted and red-rimmed, her forehead splattered with blood, her cheeks soiled likewise but streaked clean in places where her tears had left their tracks.

Was this who she was? Was this what she had become?

Zahirah wiped her wet hand across her brow, watching as the rivulets of water ran down her nose and past her eyes, turning red as they met with Abdul's blood. The moment of his death flashed before her suddenly: the thrust of Halim's dagger, the lurching sag of Abdul's body as he crumpled to the ground, the accusation he hissed at her with his final breath.

Assassin .

Zahirah fought the swell of guilt that rose inside her, gripping the sides of the wash basin when her legs threatened to buckle. “I am Zahirah bint Sinan, daughter of Rashid al-Din Sinan,” she whispered, forcing her wretched reflection to speak the words, words of loyalty and subordination that had been demanded of her from the time she was a little girl. “I am one of the fida'i . My destiny is cast; I will not question it. I will not fail. I will not . . . “

The woman in the mirror knew her for the mockery she was. Her eyes were sad, pitying.

“You are a fraud,” she said.

And as her tears began to fall anew, Zahirah lifted the bowl of water and hurtled it into the face of that weeping young woman, shattering vessel, mirror, and reflection as one.