CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Sioned did not know whether to kiss the man or kill him. It was a grand and knightly thing he had done, marshaling an army of the jinn to rescue her, but there was nothing wise about it. And Mustafa . . . she would wring his neck when she saw him, for inciting Ahmad to this madness.

The jinni, for whatever incalculable reason, would not do as Ahmad commanded, which was to carry them to his house in Damascus. “The lady commands,” it said.

She sat in the protection of its hands, looking down at the darkened world, and tried to set her thoughts in order. When Ahmad burst in on her, she had been calling to mind every spell she knew, and gathering powers to free herself before the dawn. For all her haughty words, she had been losing hope. She did not have the knowledge. She could turn the executioner’s axe to a plowshare and transform her chains into garlands of flowers, but she could not spirit herself away. She did not have the art of the mageroads, or of binding place to place with a cord of strong magic. She could not even comfort Henry.

“Henry!” She sat bolt upright. “Gods help him, he’s still in Tyre. They’ll blame him. They—”

“Shall we fetch him?” the jinni inquired.

She shook her head. “No. No, he should stay—my brother needs him there. But if you could keep him safe—if you could protect him—”

“As you command,” said the jinni. “And you, lady: where does it please you to go?”

She frowned. “I don’t want war among the Franks. Let Conrad know that I was freed by the armies of the air. Let him think I’m an Assassin if it suits him—but don’t let him blame my brother.”

“It shall be done, lady,” the jinni said.

“As for me,” she said, “I’ll vanish for a while, until the marquis has found another obsession. Damascus will do as well as anywhere. On one condition.”

The jinni waited, but it was not the spirit of fire to whom she spoke. “You will explain everything that you have done. And you will teach me all that I should have known, that would have kept me out of this predicament.”

“Gladly,” said Ahmad.

“Damascus, then, of your courtesy,” she said to the jinni, “where this lord of men directs you.”

The jinni bowed its enormous head and banked on a wing, wheeling away from the sea, toward the pit of darkness that was the land.

It was the strangest journey she had ever taken, and yet also the most sublimely comfortable. She lay at ease in the loose clasp of fingers as long as her whole body. The wind blew chill through the vast curve of talons, but the jinni’s substance was fire; she breathed clean cold air but was enfolded in warmth.

Ahmad sat on his heels just out of easy reach, hands on thighs, head bowed. Having told the jinni where to go, he was resting; she thought he might be praying. He was not working magic.

The light of moon and stars shone softly on him, limning the lines of his profile. Even on this wild venture, there was a calm and self-contained look to him. He always knew exactly who he was and what he was about.

It was preposterous that he should have raised an army of the jinn and come roaring to her rescue. Preposterous, and yet not inconceivable. If she could believe what it meant. If she could accept the truth. That he loved her—enough to risk everything that he was or had done, to save her from the threat of death.

She said nothing while they sailed through the air in the jinni’s talons. Dawn was just beginning to glimmer in the eastern sky when it circled above a city of domes and minarets, covered markets and a burgeoning extravagance of gardens. Even from high above and even through the stench of closely crowded humanity, she smelled the heady sweetness of flowers. Roses and jasmine—sweetest of all flowers that grew.

The jinni deposited them on a roof that she knew well, set amid a circle of gardens: the house in which she had learned so much of magic, and come to love the master of the house. Its roof was a garden. Roses bloomed in profusion, and jasmine tumbled out of pots and grew headlong down the walls. The great creature trod with care lest it trample them, bowing again before her. “We are yours,” it said. “If you have need of us, invoke us in the name of Allah, and in the name of His Prophet, and by the seal of Suleiman—which although it never bound us, is still a great power among our people.”

“I thank you,” she said, bowing in return, “and wish you and your kin well, wherever you may go.”

“Some of us will always be near you,” said the jinni. It bent the great golden orbs of its eyes upon her. “Pure spirit. Blessed of Allah. May He protect and keep you—as we shall do, for the wonder of your existence.”

“What—” she began. “I am not—” But the jinni was gone, leaving behind a swirl of wind and a faint scent of heated bronze.

She rounded on Ahmad, only to find that he was almost gone himself—downward into the house, with a glance that bade her follow. She could be contrary and refuse, or she could be sensible and let herself be led.

 

The house was precisely as she remembered it: a place of beauty and grace, order and peace. Servants were waiting as if they had been expecting her; they greeted her gladly, as a familiar and much loved guest. They took her away to be bathed, pampered, fed—the ritual without which no hospitality was complete. She could hardly object to it. The bath alone was a blessing beyond price; she had dreamed for days of being clean and properly clothed.

They offered her a choice: garments of the east or Frankish gown and chemise. She chose light trousers and long soft shirt and brocaded coat, but not the veil that lay folded on top of them. She did let a shy and tongue-tied eunuch plait her hair and suspend a jewel between her brows, an amethyst almost exactly the same color as her eyes.

They would have preferred that she sleep once she had eaten, but Ahmad was awake; her bones could feel it. “Take me to him,” she said, and kept saying it until they obeyed.

He reclined on a divan in a room of green and golden tiles. His robe was of amber silk embroidered with creatures remarkably like the jinni that had brought them here. He too had bathed; his hair was still damp, his eyes soft as if he had slept while his servants tended him.

She planted her feet, ignoring the servant who tried to coax her into a chair, and stood with fists on hips, glaring at Ahmad. He blinked like a cat, deceptively lazy, and smiled in return.

“Tell me what you did,” she said. “Why are the greater spirits worshipping me? What did you tell them? Why did you—”

“They wagered with me,” he said, “that a human could not be a pure spirit. I assured them that one human could. It appears they agreed. Now you have the fealty of the armies of air. It’s a great gift, and may prove useful.”

“It was a wager?” She could have hit him. “What would you have had to pay if you’d lost?”

He shrugged. “Nothing unduly terrible. A year and a day in their service.”

“A year and a day,” she said, “in the middle of a war. Love’s a sickness, they say, and I believe it. I am not worth that much.”

“You will pardon me, lady,” he said silkily, “but you may not be the best judge of that. In any event I won the wager. I gained you powers that you will be glad to have.”

“Powers that I could use against you and yours, to win victory for my brother. That wasn’t simply foolish, my lord. It was stupid.”

He stiffened. She rather hoped that he would lash out, but he was too much in control of himself—now that he had no compelling need to be. “Time will prove either the wisdom or the stupidity of my choices,” he said.

“I hope for your sake that they were wise.”

“As do I,” he said with the flicker of a smile. “Lady, will you sit? Be comfortable? Forgive me a little?”

She did not want to do any of those, but a belated sense of courtesy convinced her at least to take the chair the servant had left before bowing himself out of the room. “We can’t be doing this,” she said. “We’re on opposite sides of a war.”

“So we are,” he said. “Does it matter?”

“It should!”

“Ah,” he said. Just that.

“I don’t know,” she said through clenched teeth, “how I can love a person so much, and want so very badly to throttle him.”

He grinned, so sudden and so startling that she could only sit and gape. “Why, that’s passion, beloved.”

“It’s my father’s thrice-bedamned temper,” she snarled: “the black heart of Anjou. Aren’t you glad I come by it honestly?”

“I am glad you are in the world, however you came there,” he said.

“And I,” she said, “cannot help—”

Words were feeble; words were useless. She abandoned her chair to kneel beside him. He did not resist, at all, as she drew him close. He tasted of cloves and honey.

It was a tearing pain to draw back, to separate herself from him. “Your wives,” she said. “Your children. Where—”

“In Egypt,” he said. “All but Safiyah. She is here. A handful of my sons are with my brother. Would you meet them?”

“Would they meet me?”

“They would be honored beyond measure,” he said.

“Because you order it?”

“Because you are yourself.” He took her hand and kissed it, a brush of lips so light and yet so potent that it shivered in her bones. “The Christians’ humility—it’s a contagion. You should shake it off; see yourself as you are. Glorious. Splendid. Beautiful and beloved.”

He was making her dizzy. “Beautiful,” she echoed. “Beloved.”

“Wonderful,” he said.

“I can’t,” she said. “I can’t resist. I can’t be sane or sensible. I can only love you.”

“Why should you want to resist? This is the will of God.”

“Is that what it is? It’s like a wind from heaven. I’m blown like a leaf.”

“Yes,” he said, loosing the word in a sigh.

“We do believe in fate,” she said. “But also that we can choose. I—choose—”

He silenced the rest. He was gentle, but he was not either tentative or shy. This was an art he knew well.

She knew only what she had heard and seen. She had never properly understood it. It was a clumsy and rather ridiculous thing to look at, but to be in the midst of it . . .

She had lived in this body for twenty-odd years. She thought she had known all its quirks and foibles, and all the things that pleasured and pained it. She had never known the full round of its senses. Brush of lips and tongue across bared breast; flutter of fingers down her belly. Murmur of words that were both prayer and love song, gusting breath across skin that felt eerily transparent.

She knew then that she was beautiful, because he knew it. With my body I thee worship . . . words that had intrigued her in the Christians’ wedding rite, because they were so utterly pagan. Now she understood them. They were truth.

If she had stayed in Gwynedd, this would have come to her years since, in a holy rite, at the hands of a priest of the old gods. She was glad that she had been kept from that; glad that she had waited, to have this gift to give him, whose soul had been part of hers from before time.

From that memory of life upon life, she drew a memory of art and skill, mingling instinct with remembrance and finding the steps in the dance. She was all bare; he was still in shirt and trousers: Muslim modesty. She found laces and fastenings. The fine muslin slipped free.

Men’s bodies she knew; she had healed a myriad of them. But this was his, all his own, and therefore hers. His skin was fair where the sun never touched it. He was not a massive man, but he was well made, supple and strong: a rider, a swordsman, born and bred to war. She traced the lines of scars, memories of old wounds, and a knot in his arm that spoke of the bone broken and knit somewhat awry.

If he had come to her for mending, the bone would have set straight. He saw the thought: his eyes glinted. She bit him, but lightly; he barely flinched.

Wildness rose up in her. She grappled, rolling him onto his back, holding him still with her weight. He was still laughing inside. The heat of his body warmed the length of hers. She was suddenly aware of her breasts pressed to his breast, and her hips to his hips, and—

She shifted. He moved to match her. Her breath caught at sudden pain, but she did not recoil for more than an instant. Her body began the slow rocking rhythm that she had seen . . . often enough. Now she knew why people did it so. The body knew.

His breathing came quicker now, but he kept the same slow rhythm, letting her settle to it. He was guiding her, oh so subtly, just as he taught her magic. There was magic in it, a magic of body matched to body and heart to heart.

It was she who quickened the pace, with an urgency that seized and mastered her. Her whole mind and being were centered on the joining of bodies, on the throb of the flesh, on the manifold incarnations of pleasure, each more intense than the last, until with a cry of astonishment and triumph, it came to a crescendo.

She clung to it, craving it, but flesh was not strong enough to bear it. She dropped down gasping, racked with spasms that died away into the very center of her.

She blinked away completely unexpected and unwarranted tears. He had raised himself on his elbow, regarding her gravely, but with the faintest hint of a smile in the corner of his mouth. She had no strength to kiss it, but she could raise her hand to brush it with a fingertip. “Mine,” she said. “You are mine. I’ll share you, because there was so much of you before you knew me, so many duties, so many obligations—but you belong to me.”

He arched a brow. “Indeed? Do I have a say in it?”

“No,” she said.

He laughed. She loved his laughter: it was pure gladness. “Then I am bound. I belong to you. And you,” he said, “to me.”

“That goes without saying,” she said.