Jaufré d’Orbiel felt the heat of the sun burning the skin at the back of his neck as he watched his men leading their horses up the winding stony track from the shade of the Gorge. It had taken five riverboats to bring the Hawks up the swollen river against the churning current. Now they had reached the head of the track and the path split into two as they emerged from the Gorge at the foot of the mountains. Traces of snow, white as sprinkled salt, still iced the distant, jagged line of peaks.
Jaufré called a halt and summoned Arnault.
‘Which way now?’
Arnault squinted up into the sun.
‘The path we took goes eastwards, away from the noonday sun.’ He looked at Jaufré, frowning into the brightness. ‘Talking of sun, Captain, you look as if you’ve taken a bad dose of it. Remember in Djihan-Djihar you were always telling us to cover up?’
‘Just take the lead Arnault,’ Jaufré snapped. ‘I’m relying on you.’
But as Arnault swung himself up into the saddle, Jaufré surreptitiously passed one hand across his face. His skin felt dry, almost leathery, like old vellum … but he had no mirror to check his reflection. He jammed his hat down, curling the brim low over his face. The glare of the sun hurt his eyes and as they rode on, he began to long for evening, for the cool and the night to settle over the mountains.
The Hawks rode on in silence, subdued, grim-faced; Arnault had told them what had happened to their companions-in-arms. Jaufré was in no mood to cheer them out of their gloom. He had preoccupations of his own.
‘Odd,’ Arnault muttered.
‘What’s that?’ Jaufré had been lost in the dark night of his thoughts.
‘We haven’t passed a living soul since we left the river. Not even a shepherd. Now doesn’t that strike you as odd, Captain?’
Jaufré glanced around; the mountain pastures were deserted.
‘Word travels fast up here,’ he said, shrugging Arnault’s concerns aside. ‘They’re keeping out of our way.’
‘Or lying in wait to ambush us,’ Arnault said with a twisted smile. ‘Keep alert there!’ he called brusquely to the men. ‘No day-dreaming!’
Jaufré had sent Arnault on ahead to spy out the route. Now Arnault came riding back to the winding column of riders; reins in one hand, using his battered hat to fan his sweat-sheened face.
‘There’s another fork in the road up ahead, Captain.’
‘Well?’ Jaufré croaked from a throat dry with heat and dust.
‘It’s a good place to take a break.’
‘Are you Captain, or am I?’ demanded Jaufré. ‘We’ll break when I say.’
‘But the horses are tiring. And the men.’
‘We’ve a mission to accomplish. This isn’t a pleasure-trip.’
Arnault gave a slow, resigned salute.
‘On. Upwards.’
Jaufré heard the mutter of resentment as Arnault gave the order. He scanned the horizon, seeing nothing but the haze of heat veiling the high peaks.
A sound began to resonate within his mind, a strange, dreamlike music that gradually evolved into words.
The words whispered of night, the velvet caress of the dark, the dazzling glitter of the starry canopy that lit the Garden of Perfumed Night …
For the first time in weeks without number, his fingers itched to pick up a pen, to capture the fleeting words and images, to celebrate his shadow-lover in verse. And here he was, on horseback, halfway up some damn mountain, miles from pen or paper. He tightened his fingers on the reins, trying to will away the frustration. Why? Why now?
‘It must be accomplished.’
He glanced round, certain that he had heard the words spoken aloud.
A shadowy figure stood high up on the mountain ridge, taller than mortal man, yet insubstantial as drifting woodsmoke against the intense blue of the sky.
‘And now it will be accomplished.’
He blinked … and saw that the figure had gone, a mirage of the stifling midday heat.
The dirt-track behind him was empty; the barren slope, with its lichened rocks and thornbushes, shimmered in the sunhaze.
‘Armed men.’ Jorah stood, a statue carved of mountain granite, glowering at Rahab across Malakhi’s chamber. ‘You told us that this Gentile lord I’ve been tending is a friend. Now comes the evidence of his friendship – a whole troop sent against us.’
‘Or sent to look for their missing Lieutenant?’ Rahab glowered back. He was determined not to be cowed by Jorah. ‘How do we know their intentions are hostile?’
‘Malakhi.’ Jorah ignored the question, turning instead to Malakhi, who, arms folded, eyes cast pensively down, had not intervened in their argument. ‘Don’t waste any more time. Authorise the use of the amulets now.’
What was it with Jorah? Rahab clenched his fists behind his back, trying to will away the growing impulse to hit the man.
‘Think, Jorah!’ he said. ‘Rashiel will destroy the castel and leave us homeless. Another snowstorm will bring famine to the whole country. We have to consider the consequences.’
‘Barakiel, then.’ Jorah said. It was a direct challenge.
‘You ask too much of Rahab,’ Malakhi said. ‘A second summoning could kill him.’
For a moment, it seemed as if the brightly sunlit room grew dark. Rahab blinked.
‘Shouldn’t we wait to find out who these armed men are, what they want?’
Jorah let out a short, mirthless bark of laughter. ‘Wait until our throats are cut?’
Rahab had lost patience with Jorah. He wished Malakhi would take a more dominant role in the argument and silence him. But Malakhi seemed distant, almost unwilling to become involved; unwilling, Rahab suspected, to be forced to take such a difficult decision.
And even as he was still gazing in mute appeal at Malakhi, the room grew dark once more. He glanced out of the window, wondering if clouds had appeared to dull the sun’s glare …
‘Rahab.’
Talmai stood on the threshold, deathly pale, shakily leaning against the doorpost for support.
‘Bar Talmai – you should be resting –’ began Jorah.
‘Can you sense it?’ Talmai asked, his eyes fixed on Rahab, ignoring the others. ‘The darkness?
‘Darkness? Rahab repeated. ‘I – I thought it was clouds – moving across the sun –’
‘Clouds?’ Malakhi went to the window and gazed out. ‘There’s not a cloud in the sky. Not even mares’ tails.’
‘Then what –’ And suddenly Rahab understood Talmai’s warning.
‘What?’ demanded Malakhi.
‘Lailahel,’ Rahab whispered. The coming of night. ‘The darkness is coming.’
‘Stream ahead!’ Arnault called out.
The liquid sound of clear water splashing over stones trickled into the dark labyrinth of Jaufré’s thoughts. The dusty dryness of his parched tongue and throat reminded him that his physical body still had human needs, human limitations.
‘All stop!’ he shouted, raising his hand. The mountain stream was swollen with snow-melt. The Hawks dismounted, hurrying over to plunge their heads and hands into the fast-running water. Jaufré waited, watching as they filled their water-bottles and led the horses to drink further downstream. Only when the last man had drunk his fill did Jaufré go to kneel on the stony side of the stream and lean over the glass-clear water.
The cold shock of the stream-water was like a slap on the face; he gasped as he raised his head, hair dripping down his embroidered Hawks tabard. It was only then, as he knelt over the stream, that he saw, distorted by the fast-moving water, a twisted reflection of his face.
It was not so much the darkness of his sun-seared skin that shocked him, but the worn, wasted look, the hollowed sockets in which his dry eyes burned. He looked ill, burned up with fever.
And yet he felt strong, vigorous, powerful.
Lailahel would protect him. Lailahel would guide him. He was Lailahel’s Warder now.
Lia shivered. Glancing up, she saw that the shadows were lengthening. It must be later than she thought; she had left Berengar alone for longer than she had intended.
She stood up, brushing the earth and dead leaves from her skirts. She had not meant to linger so long here. But now she hesitated. Going back meant facing up to the prospect of Berengar’s disability.
She saw him limping across the Hall of the Belcastel mansion. His face was drawn, prematurely lined and twisted with pain, his golden hair greying at the temples. She saw them sitting together, awkward, silent, because there was no longer anything to say that did not speak of resentment or guilt. There would always be the unspoken accusation that his noble upbringing forbade him to articulate: I would not be lame now if you had not run away …
And then there was the matter of the Hawks.
She went slowly, reluctantly, to the doorway of the watchtower. Seven deaths on her conscience. In the burnished light of late afternoon, the plateau shimmered …
There were men on horseback coming up the track.
She gripped the rough stone of the tower, feeling it grate against her fingers. The mirage swirled in front of her dazzled eyes.
Afternoon ghosts, returned to haunt her?
And then she realised that the mirage was the clouded dust scuffed up by the horses’ hoofs.
A dizzying whirwind of cloud and snow suddenly swirled through Jaufré’s mind: Barakiel, Shalgiel, Rashiel …
‘Close now, so very close …’
His heart beat faster. Above it the amulet burned against his skin, a constant torment.
‘Where are they?’ he whispered, one hand on the reins, the other sliding to make contact with the amulet. ‘Guide me, Lailahel.’
The shadows were lengthening as the Hawks rode on in single file up the narrow track. To their right the mountainside fell away into a sheer-sided ravine. To their left, jagged crags of rocks towered up into the intense blue of the sky.
Ambush country.
The stillness of the barren mountainside was broken only by the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves on the rocky path; there was no birdsong, no sultry summer hum of insects. The icy hand of Shalgiel had turned the verdant mountainside to untimely winter, even though the sun still burned in the sky.
Up ahead the track widened … and Jaufré caught sight of a ruined watchtower perched on the precipitate edge of the cliff.
A plateau lay ahead … and there, nestling beneath the peaks, stood the walls and towers of an old castel, its crumbling stones seared by the afternoon sun to tints of ochre and ash.
‘Company halt!’ he called. ‘Arnault – is this the place?’
‘Yes, Captain!’ Arnault called back. Jaufré could hear sullen resentment in his voice. Somewhere in the deep ravine close by lay the broken bodies of his detachment, unburied. ‘Do we attack?’
All that stood between him and the fulfilment of his ambitions were the crumbling walls of the old castel – and a handful of Tsiyonim fanatics. Yet now that the moment had come, he hesitated. They possessed three amulets – and he had only one.
Attack. His hand froze in the act of lifting it to give the command.
Whose will was directing his actions? Was he acting for himself alone? Or was he merely a human puppet in the power of the spirit that possessed him?
‘Why do you doubt, Jaufré?’ The voice burned in his blood, his brain, dark as midnight fires. ‘Fulfil your destiny. I have made you strong, I will protect you. You are my Warder.’
But … afterwards?
‘You always wanted to be strong, didn’t you, Jaufré? Invulnerable? I have armoured you against life’s assaults. No one can touch you whilst you are my Warder.’
‘Captain!’
He looked up, blinking, to find Arnault staring at him, eyes narrowed.
‘Do we attack? In broad daylight?’
Beyond Arnault, Jaufré’s eyes caught a flicker of movement. Someone had come out of the ruins of the watchtower.
A girl.
‘Not yet,’ he said, pressing his heels into his horse’s flank, urging it forward across the plateau.
The girl half-turned as she heard the sudden thunder of horse’s hoofs. He saw her face, white with shock, saw her mouth open to scream.
He tugged hard on the reins, bringing his horse to a skidding halt, and leapt down from the saddle, running after her. Lailahel had lent him strength; he covered the rough ground easily.
She began to run, but hampered by her skirts, she was slower than he. He lunged out, grabbing hold of her by the wrist, pinning her arms behind her back.
‘Let go!’ she cried, whipping around, kicking him. ‘Let me go!’
‘You’ve caught yourself a mountain cat, Captain!’ Arnault called, trotting up.
Her dress was filthy, her dark hair had come loose from its gold-threaded net – but still he recognised her.
‘So here you are at last,’ he said. He smiled, pleased with his prize. ‘Lia Maury.’
Rahab, with Jael clinging tightly to his hand, led Laban and the older girls down the wooden ladder into the castel cellar.
‘Ugh,’ said Jael with a shudder. ‘Big spiders down here. Hairy ones.’
‘Light another lantern, Laban,’ Rahab said. ‘That should keep the spiders at bay.’
‘I want to be upstairs with the men’, Laban said sullenly.
‘We need someone down here to protect the little ones. Someone sensible,’ Selima said, handing him the tinder box.
‘Are all the children accounted for?’ Rahab asked, gazing around at the pale faces peering at him in the gloom.
Only a few weeks ago he had led Thirzah and Iudith down into Baruch’s cellar, and now the nightmare was happening again, happening in Tifereth, where he had believed they would be safe. And all because of the amulets …
‘All here,’ Laban said, striking a flame.
‘We need someone to keep them amused.’ Selima caught Rahab’s eye. ‘To keep their minds off things …?’
‘Me?’ he said.
‘You stay,’ Jael insisted, tugging on his hand.
‘Yes, Rahab,’ Laban said, making for the door, ‘and then I can go help defend the castel.’
‘You’ll stay here,’ Selima said, catching hold of him by the collar and hauling him back. ‘Because I tell you to.’
‘Lia will tell you a story,’ Rahab said. ‘I’ll go fetch her.’
In the courtyard outside, the Tsiyonim were hastily herding the animals into the barn, barricading the outer doors and shutters with benches and tables.
‘Has anyone seen Lia?’ he asked.
‘She’s with the Gentile,’ someone called.
‘What’s … all the … noise?’ Berengar asked muzzily as Rahab skidded into his room.
‘Where’s Lia?’ Rahab asked, out of breath. ‘They said she was here.’
‘Been … asleep …’ Jorah must have drugged him to help alleviate the pain. ‘What’s … going on?’
Rahab gazed down at the wreck of the Hawks’ Lieutenant. Should he tell him the truth? Berengar would demand he put his sword in his hand and help him from his bed. In spite of his splinted broken leg, gashed head and cracked ribs, he would insist he should be on guard to defend the castel.
‘Are you sure you don’t know where Lia is?’ Rahab said.
‘Gone … fetch drink maybe …’ Berengar’s bruised lids closed.
A drink. Had she gone to the well – or to the kitchen? Rahab squeezed through the last gap in the barricaded door and scanned the courtyard. There was no sign of Lia. But a new sound disturbed the clarity of the mountain air, a sound he had not heard since he left the city: the regular rhythm of horses’ hoofs trotting in military formation and the jingle of metal links on bridles and harnesses.
And now Rahab became aware of another sound, a distant, dull throb, so deep that he sensed rather than heard its resonance deep in the very core of his being.
The sound stopped him in his tracks. It filled his mind with the dark of winter twilight. It spoke of the coming of everlasting night.
‘Is this the place they call Tifereth?’ Jaufré d’Orbiel’s voice rang out, piercing as a clarion trumpet on the field of battle.
From the battlements, Rahab gazed down on the detachment of Hawks ringed in formation below. His throat tightened with fear. There were too many of them. Even armed with pitchforks and scythes, a handful of elderly scholars and bookish young men would be no match for Jaufré’s élite fighting men, all schooled in the art of war in Djihan-Djihar.
‘Who is that man?’ Malakhi asked.
‘Jaufré d’Orbiel, Captain of Aymon’s Hawks.’ Rahab had not anticipated that the sight of Jaufré d’Orbiel would provoke such a powerful physical reaction. But even the sound of Jaufré’s brazen voice evoked memories of fear and hatred that set his stomach churning.
‘Open the gates!’ Jaufré cried. ‘In the name of Aymon of Arcassanne!
‘Why has Aymon sent his soldiers to attack us?’ demanded Malakhi. ‘We are a peaceful community, scholars and farmers.’
‘I have reason to believe you are harbouring a dangerous criminal. A child-murderer,’ Jaufré d’Orbiel said. ‘Comte Aymon has sent us to arrest him.’
Rahab felt the chill of oncoming night seep through him. Now he understood Jaufré d’Orbiel’s tactics – and saw how cleverly they had been outmanoeuvred.
‘You are outside Arcassanne’s jurisdiction here.’
‘We have come to negotiate. You give us Rahab the Tailor – and Aymon will let the Tsiyonim go free from Arcassanne.’
Rahab could sense that, even without moving their heads to look, the attention of the scholars had focused directly on him. Below, the evening sun glinted on unsheathed blades.
‘You have a warrant for this man Rahab’s arrest?’
‘I have even better …’ Jaufré beckoned. Two of the men came forward, dragging a hooded figure between them. At Jaufré’s signal, they removed the hood and blindfold from their prisoner – and Rahab saw a young woman standing blinking dazedly, her dress torn, her dark hair unkempt, unbound about her shoulders.
‘Lia,’ he whispered.