ALIM SHOWED SYDNEY TO HIS apartment, deep inside the palace. “No one will dare disturb you here. After prayers, we will discuss what happens next,” he’d told her.
Sydney had expected to see a room that resembled the interior of a tent, more or less, with lots of cushions everywhere and fabric on the walls.
The high-ceilinged, airy, interconnected rooms she stepped into were a shock. At the same time, they had a sense of familiarity.
There were three room sections, in an L shape. The section just inside the big doors was the largest. The wall opposite the doors and the one to the right weren’t solid walls. Instead, a series of slender columns joined to the ornate arches that peppered every building she had seen so far acted as room dividers. The arches opposite the compartment doors gave glimpses of the space beyond. She could see a black lacquered table with a sloped surface, that held papers and books. The stool in front of it was also a deep black, with gold filigree paintwork.
Beyond the desk were more arches—larger ones. Aquamarine gauze curtains hung inside each arch, billowing and shifting in the small breeze coming through the open arches.
The area through the arches to the right was for sleeping. Sydney could see a wide divan, scattered with cushions and covered in a gold cloth.
Alim lifted his hand up, waving toward the rooms. “You are welcome here. Make yourself comfortable. I will return shortly.” He closed the doors behind him, leaving her alone in the apartment.
Sydney wandered through the rooms, taking stock. As she moved about, she stripped the outer layers of clothing from her, until she was barefoot, wearing the translucent harem pants and the little bolero. She unwound the breast band as well, pleased to remove the grimy garment. Feeling considerably cooler, she uncoiled her hair and untied the leather thonging as she circled the rooms, examining Alim’s private sanctuary.
The main room had carpets fitted together like giant tiles, covering the polished stone floor almost completely. On top of the carpets was very little furniture—just two low divans used as sofas, with more cushions and bolsters. Round tables made from wood, with panel legs carved in intricate woven designs, were placed in front of them. There was a cupboard that seemed to serve as a type of sideboard, against the wall where the apartment doors were.
Throughout the apartment, Sydney could see evidence of Alim’s life and interests. Hints of the real man. There were books everywhere, stacked beside the desk. More beside the sofa and the bed divan. Individual books were scattered on the tables and on the sofas. The intricately carved sideboard held many more books. These ones had been carefully sorted and stacked, forming a more permanent display.
A small painted chest sitting on its own stool in the corner held medical instruments.
Sydney realized what was missing. There were no weapons proudly displayed here. No captured swords mounted on the wall. The artefacts and equipment of a warrior were completely missing, even though that was Alim’s primary role in this life.
The man who lived in this apartment was the real Alim. This was the heart and soul of him. There was little difference from the twenty-first century man she knew and loved.
The door to the apartment flung open, slamming up against the wall.
Sydney whirled, deeply shocked. Alim had assured her no one would come through the doors. They were well guarded and everyone was at prayer, anyway.
Rashid strode into the room, his odd eyes darting about until they found her. He sneered.
Of course, Rashid would be permitted to enter his little brother’s apartment. No one would dare question him.
Her heart sank. Rashid’s face was working with an anger deeper than he had showed out in the courtyard.
“Whore,” he breathed. “You chose my brother over me. You insult me at every turn. You publicly embarrass me. Now I find you here, in his sanctum.”
Rashid had not gone to pray as the rest of the household were doing. He had chosen, instead, to search for her.
Sydney held up her hand. “You misunderstand. I intended no insult.”
“I did not misunderstand your disgusting display of intimacy. You have turned my brother’s head. You have made him look foolish.”
Had she? Alim’s behavior over the last few days had perceptibly altered, yet he had remained properly dignified in public. Rashid was skewing facts to justify his fury.
Rashid charged at her, drawing his sword as he came. Sydney let him come close enough, then bent and picked up the nearest book. It was a heavy, leather-bound, studded thing with a metal clasp, the size of a big text book.
She swung it at his hand, the one with the sword.
It smashed into his knuckles. The sword skittered across the carpets, to slide up against the wall with a metallic, ringing sound.
Sydney swung again, this time aiming for his head, only Rashid was not distracted by the pain in his knuckles. He swayed back, avoiding the book. Then he jumped closer. His big hands reached for her throat.
She resisted the impulse to grab his wrists and try to fend them away. Instead, she gripped the fronts of his tunic, which gave her a precise sense of how close he was. She took a half step closer and drove her knee up into his groin.
It was only a partially successful blow, for the layers of linen dragged at her knee, blunting the impact. Yet it was enough for him to stagger backward, bent over to protect his genitals.
He lifted his head to look at her. His eyes were bloodshot. He didn’t look angry now. He looked crazy. The psychopath who thought nothing of slaughtering the mother of his child and her baby because it was not the sex he preferred was staring at Sydney with the same unstable gaze that Gamala must have looked upon as she died.
Rashid reached behind him and withdrew a curved, wide-bladed knife. It came to a point that looked as fine as a needle. He waved it, drawing her gaze.
Sydney wondered if he thought the mere sight of such a weapon would faze her. She turned and snatched up the long length of breast band. It was linen, a strong fiber.
Rashid laughed. “A typical woman. You bring a garment to battle.”
He leapt.
Sydney flicked the end of the strip out, lashing at his face.
He cried out and reared backward, as it snapped at his eyes. He went down heavily, onto his ass. The knife dropped to the carpet with a muffled thud.
Sydney threw herself on him, deliberately landing on his chest with her knees, driving the wind out of him.
As Rashid gasped and heaved, trying to get his paralyzed diaphragm working again, Sydney spread her knees, pinning down his arms. Then she whipped the cloth around his neck and yanked, tightening it. She wound the ends about both her hands and hauled.
Rashid’s eyes bugged and he gurgled and grunted, straining to reach the cloth with his hands. She shifted her legs, putting even more weight on his upper arms.
He tried to dislodge her. He heaved and bucked and twisted.
Her knee slipped and he instantly yanked his arm free. He hammered at her, raining blows on her thigh and her side, which was all he could reach. However, he was weakening. A few more seconds and he would pass out. Sydney could see the knowledge in his eyes. The fury leapt, distorting his darkened face. True madness showed itself.
He punched her in the side. The blow didn’t hurt and Sydney held on. She knew it was his last ditch effort.
The door to the apartment slammed open again.
“Xanthe!”
Sydney didn’t take her eyes off Rashid. She heard Alim’s footsteps on the carpet, as he ran toward her.
Rashid closed his eyes. The last breath escaped him. He grew still.
Alim dropped to his knees beside them. “I saw him leave the prayer hall. He waited until I got there.” He touched her wrist. “You can let go. He is harmless now.”
Sydney dropped the linen strip and scrambled to her feet. She didn’t want to touch the man any longer than she had to. She took only two steps, then her knees buckled unexpectedly, bringing her back down to the carpet.
“Xanthe…Zidnay…no, no, no, no, no!” Alim got his hand up under her neck as she wilted. She couldn’t hold herself upright.
Alim laid her down. He touched her side and hissed.
His hand was bloody, the blood dark and thick.
Sydney looked down at her bare torso. There was a small cut there, the same width as Rashid’s knife. Blood oozed from the cut. A lot of it. “He punched me…I thought. He must have picked up the knife. I was too busy throttling him to see.”
“Don’t talk,” Alim said. His voice was hoarse. He leaned over and snatched up the strip of linen, wadded it and pressed it against her side.
It hurt and she moaned. “You’ll have to fix it, doctor,” she breathed.
Alim touched her face with his other hand. “There’s too much blood,” he whispered. “A wound that no longer bleeds…that is something I have the skill to stitch. But not this.”
Sydney closed her mind to the fear that bloomed there and tried to think clearly. She knew she had little time to figure out how to deal with this. The blood loss would steal her consciousness very quickly. Then, it would be over.
Stitching wounds. There was something about stitching wounds niggling at her. A stray memory.
Rashid heaved himself upright with a roar, leaping for them. He had woken again.
Sydney opened her mouth to cry a warning, for Alim’s back was to him.
Alim whipped around without hesitation. His hand fell on the knife lying on the carpet. He gripped the hilt and threw his hand up protectively as Rashid fell on him. The knife punched into Rashid’s chest and buried itself to the hilt.
Rashid jerked, his eyes growing very wide. Then he grew limp. Alim dropped him to the floor, letting go of the knife hilt. Rashid rolled onto his back. His eyes stayed open.
Alim looked down at his bloody hand. “What have I done?” he whispered, horror thick in his voice.
Sydney gasped, as the disassociated elements came together in a single beat of her heart—Taylor talking about having her shoulder stitched by Alex and wishing for a modern ER and anesthetic. Alim, staring at his bloody hand. Rashid, the Caliph’s favored general, dead on the floor. History as it should have been… The elements shifted and locked together.
She knew what to do, now.
“Alex. Alim,” she said. Her voice was weak. Time was ticking.
Alim spun to face her again and pressed down on the cloth. “Not you, too,” he breathed.
“Not if I can go home quickly enough,” she whispered. “They will be able to fix this, at home.”
He looked at her, his expression bleak. “Home, which is so far away, no one in the known worlds is aware of it?”
“I’m going to do something. It will take me home immediately. It will look odd, Alim. It will make you think of witchcraft, only it isn’t.”
He swallowed. “It will take you home fast enough to save you?”
“Yes.”
“Then do it,” he said hoarsely. “I don’t care if you call upon demons, if that is what it takes…” He sucked in a breath, his eyes widening. “Wait. Can you wait, just a moment more?”
Sydney gasped as the pain throbbed in her side and all through her belly. “I don’t know.”
He scrambled to his feet. “It is important,” he assured her. “Another life can be saved.”
Sydney swallowed. “I’ll try.”
Alim bent and picked up her hand and pressed it against the cloth. “As hard as you can. It will slow the bleeding.”
He ran from the room.
Sydney gripped her side. She was weakening. Her fingers had little strength. She fought to stay awake and aware, for there was still something she had to do.
Alim returned quickly. He could not have gone far, yet he was carrying a basket by the handle. From the basket came soft gurgles and murmurs. A tiny, chubby hand rose above the edge.
Sydney’s eyes widened.
Alim put the basket on the floor next to her, then tilted it so she could see inside. The baby was wrapped in clean cloth, her tiny mouth in a bow, her eyes closed tight.
“Gamala’s child…” Sydney breathed. Stunned, she looked at Alim. “You took her and hid her.”
“With Saffiyah’s help,” Alim admitted.
“You let me think you didn’t give a damn about the baby.”
“I didn’t know you. I didn’t trust you. Not then.” He picked up her hand and curled her fingers around the handle. “Take her with you to your world, where women can be leaders of men, where they are truly free.”
Sydney nodded. “I will try,” she said. “In return, I want you to do something for me.”
“Name it,” he said swiftly.
“You just killed your brother, to save a Christian. That is an offense they will not forgive you for. You can’t stay in Cairo, Alim.”
His gaze dropped. “I would do it again, if I had to,” he whispered.
“Nevertheless, you must leave.”
“And go where?” he asked bitterly.
“Palestine. Jerusalem. There is a man you will find there. His name is Peter the Hermit. What he will tell you will change your life, Alim. You will be free to study medicine, to study anything you want—the sciences, literature, history, all the knowledge of man. You will become a great doctor. You’ll cross the sea…you’ll cross many seas.”
His gaze met hers again. “You know this?”
“Yes. Don’t ask me how. I just do.” She hissed, for the pain was growing. “Promise me you will go.”
He swallowed. “I promise I will do this. Now, go.”
“Kiss me first.”
He bent and kissed her and she felt the moisture on his cheeks.
“You must forget about me, Alim,” she whispered. “Tell no one what you see next. Tell no one what I have told you about your future. Let everyone believe your brother killed me and you, too.”
Alim sat back. “I will do all that you ask, if only you save yourself now. Please, go, in whatever way you must.”
“Goodbye,” she whispered and closed her eyes, gripping the handle of the basket tightly.
Marit’s instructions repeated themselves. Relax. Repel fear. Reach with your mind and take your body with you…
Sydney leapt. In the darkness, she reached out with her mind.
Marit! Help me!
I am here.
Relief touched her. Sydney let go and darkness closed over her.