Journey to the Lost Tomb (Rowan and Ella Book 2) (32 page)

           
“The
third incantation will provide the final test. The sling. The lamb. The
coffin.”

           
Ella
waited while Halima dipped her needle into another pot, and gritted her teeth
against the pain.
 
“I will follow
the prompts,” she said, praying they were almost done.

           
“No,
Ella,” Halima said. “This time you must trust yourself. The incantation will
show you the choices but there will be no prompts. You must choose wisely or
all three of you will die.”

           
Ella’s
arm was throbbing as Halima stuck the needle into her arm again. “Okay,” she
said, breathing hard.

           
“There
will be no one but you, Ella. You must trust
yourself
. ”

           
“Okay,”
Ella said. “I will try.”

           
The
next morning Ella slept later than usual. When she awoke, Halima was bandaging her
forearm.

           
“Morning,”
Ella said, struggling to sit up. “You let me sleep late.”

           
“Dr.
Zimmerman is coming this morning to examine you.” Halima handed Ella a cup of
tea. “How does your arm feel?”

           
“Burns
a little.”

           
“I
will tell the doctor that you wandered too close to the steaming kettle.”

           
“My
arm smells nice. What did you put on it?”

           
“Salve
of azalea and sandalwood. It will soothe the wound but you must keep it away
from your face. It is fatal if inhaled.”

           
“Won’t
people see when the bandage is removed?”

           
“The
dyes are faint,” Halima said. “They will only be noticed by someone who looks
for them.”

           
Ella
sipped her tea. “Thank you, Halima,” she said. “I will always think of you when
I look at them.”

           
“You
must prepare yourself now,” Halima said. She reached out for the teacup as Ella
heard the door to her bedroom chamber swing open and the sound of leather booted
footsteps pound into the room.

           
Dr.
Zimmerman was an Austrian physician in his late sixties. With a sallow
complexion and a pointy van dyke beard, he resembled a Freud-wanna-be to Ella.
His foppish coat, tie and wool trousers seemed more fitting for a café in Salzburg
than for the Egyptian desert. A brown leather knife sheath hung from his belt
with the hilt of an ornately painted knife protruding, looking more ornamental
than practical. Now that she was alert and knew to the fullest extent that she was
this man’s prisoner, it took all the guile she possessed to continue to behave like
a drugged or addled child in his presence.
 

           
While
she had no detailed memory of her previous exams with him, now that she was
fully aware, she realized that what he was doing, while not completely
inappropriate, was not entirely professional either. He examined her slowly,
almost tenderly and although Halima remained in the room with them, Ella knew
she would not intervene if the good doctor decided to fling down his speculum
and mount Ella on the exam table. Fortunately, he didn’t try.

           
“And
all is well, Halima?” He spoke to Halima as she re-draped Ella, the two women
getting eye contact as she did so.

           
“Yes,
effendi
,” she replied. “Except for my
continued worry about the eunuch, Horus.”
 

           
“Yes?”
he said, turning to her and frowning as if he had not had this conversation
with her many times before.

           
“He
continues to threaten the
effendim
with rape,” Halima said.

           
“You
do know that Horus is a eunuch, do you not, Halima?”

           
“Yes,
effendi
.”

           
“They
are only words that cannot be acted upon and she is too weak from the drugs and
the blood the baby is stealing from her brain to care
what
he says.”

           
“Yes,
effendi
.”

           
“Is
he threatening to rape
you
, Halima?”

           
“No,
effendi
.”

           
“Just
so.” He turned to look at Ella who was sitting on the table, her head hanging
as if dozing. “The baby is growing strong. Is she eating?”

           
“Yes,
effendi
. Her appetite is good.”

           
“That
is
sehr gut
. She continues to take
her medicine?”

           
“As
you see.”

           
“The
Shah wants to see her before she delivers. He will be coming to the palace next
week. Perhaps you could do something with her hair?” He gathered up his jacket
and medical bag and left the room.

           
Slowly,
Ella lifted her head. She looked at Halima who hadn’t moved.

           
“The
Shah
?”

           
Halima
cleared her throat. “He is a very great sultan,” she said. “He is revered and
respected by his people.”

           
“I
am being sold to him?”
 

           
Halima
took in a long breath. “When the child is born.”
 

           
“And
the baby?” Ella climbed off the examination table and wrenched her robe tightly
around her.

           
Halima
looked at her with a face full of pain.

           
“Tell
me, Halima,” Ella said. Her stomach was roiling in fear and anticipation.

           
Halima
took Ella’s hand and led her back to the bed. There, she sat down with her but
she looked out the window as she spoke. “After you deliver, you will be taken
to the Shah. If your child is a girl, she will become his property, but she will
stay here until she turns seven. Then she will be sold.”

           
Ella
began to tremble. “And if it’s a boy?”

           
“He
will be castrated or killed immediately.”

           
“How
long have you known this?”

           
“Always
it has been this way.”

           
“Do
you know anything else you haven’t told me?”

           
Halima
turned to look sadly at Ella. “I know you carry a son, dear one.”

Chapter
Twenty-Two

           
“All
I’m saying is that
someone
knew we
were going to the bazaar.” Rowan and Marvel sat on the terrace of the
Shepheard’s Hotel. Marvel was wearing a beautiful hand-tatted blouse buttoned
up to her chin.

           
“Who
would know we were going?” she asked. “My maid, I guess. The doorman …my
driver. But who would care?”

           
“Well,
that asshole Digby would care. He knows I’m trying to find Ella and when I do I’ll
find out what happened to his wife too. If he
did
kill her—or set things up so she got lost in the
dessert—the last thing he’d want is for me to find out the truth.”

           
“You
really think he had something to do with Lady Digby’s death?”

           
Rowan
frowned at her. “You mean because he’s an opportunistic fortune hunter and his
bride disappeared in the desert under mysterious circumstances?”

 
          
“So
you think he
hired
those men to kill
you?”

           
 
“It was definitely an ambush. With you as
bait.”

           
 
“But Rowan, if Digby did hire those men,
we’ll never know. And it still doesn’t tell us
how
they knew we were going there. I hate thinking there’s someone working
for me I can’t trust.”

           
“Yeah,
well, short of firing everyone and hiring new people who would be just as
susceptible to being bribed, you probably can’t do anything.”

 
          
Marvel
sipped her lemonade and squinted at the perimeter of the garden where Ra waited
patiently for Rowan to join him. “I don’t like your boy,” she said.

           
“Who?
Ra? He’s okay.”

           
“He’s
shifty looking.”

           
“Did
I ever tell you how he sold me out for a handful of coins at Carter’s?”

           
“Well,
then I can see why you keep him.”

           
Rowan
laughed. He enjoyed Marvel’s sarcasm—her very American-ness. He would
tell her how much she reminded him of Ella but he knew she wouldn’t be
flattered. He knew she wanted something more between them—and had gone to
considerable lengths to make that happen. He was grateful that the close call
in the bazaar had cooled her jets somewhat. She knew very well that it was her
silly behavior that had nearly gotten them both killed. If he hadn’t seen her
dropped bag seconds before he was about to turn that corner, he would’ve walked
right into the trap.

           
“Ra
has practically killed himself to make it up to me. There’s nothing like guilt
and the desire to please to turn a job into a calling.”

           
Marvel
raised an eyebrow at him.

           
“Don’t
read anything into that,” Rowan said, shaking a finger at her and grinning.

           
“God
forbid. Did you see Digby at breakfast this morning?”

           
“You
know I did.”

           
“Well?
Were you not astounded that he’s openly courting Lady Bowerman? And his wife
not cold in her grave five months?”

           
“We
don’t know for sure that she
is
in
her grave,” Rowan reminded her.

           
“That’s
even worse, of course. But in any case, it’s a scandal. If I were Lady
Bowerman,” Marvel said, “I wouldn’t be feeling too sure of myself.”

           
“Don’t
forget that
her
husband also died
under mysterious circumstances.”

           
“You’re
right. Now that I think of it, it’s a match made in heaven. Maybe they’ll kill
each other.”

           
Not
for the first time, Rowan was struck by how twenty-first century Marvel was. She
seemed so ahead of her time. He decided she was an original in any age. He had
to admit he had developed strong feelings for her. He hoped very much that they
could continue to be good friends if and when he found Ella.

           
If
he found Ella.

           
That
was the first time he had faltered in his conviction that Ella was just out of
reach, just out of sight. He hadn’t had any more dreams about her since
arriving in Cairo. He didn’t know if that meant she was safe. Or not alive.

           
He
had been tempted to visit Olna again to see if he had waited long enough and could
put his search into hyperdrive somehow. But the two times he had gone looking
for her, she was nowhere to be found.
How
could he search without clues? How could he pick up Ella’s trail when he had no
idea where in history the trail was? If she were really pregnant, wouldn’t she go
back to 2013?
 

           
“Penny
for your thoughts, handsome?” Marvel wiped the condensation from her lemonade
glass and tossed down her napkin.

           
It
occurred to Rowan that Marvel was bored. She had left the States to come to
Luxor to be a part of Carter’s big discovery. It dawned on him that, thanks to
his need to be in Cairo waiting for word on Ella, Marvel was missing all the
fun.

           
“Why
don’t we take the
dahabiya
to Luxor?”
he asked. “Get you out of town for a change of scenery.”

           
“What’s
the point? Carter won’t let me anywhere near his precious dig site. And you’ve
seen all the American journalists lining up to get first crack at him. We’d
never get near enough to see a royal toenail being discovered.”

           
“Carter
owes me.”

           
She
raised her eyebrows. “I’m listening,” she said, the coquettish smile back once
more.

*
                                 
*
                                             
*
                                             
*

           
“I’m
told it’s all in the breathing,” Ella said, shifting uncomfortably in her
cross-legged position in front of Halima. “That and, of course, timing the
epidural.”

           
“Yes,
breathing is very important,” Halima said, massaging Ella’s back. “When the
pains come, it will be important to breathe through them so that the child’s
spirit can be born.”
  

           
“He
kicks so much I think the world can do with a little less of his spirit and a
little more pain relief for his mama. Whoa! Hold on there, Tater! Did you see
that? I actually saw his foot that time!”

           
“You
have named your baby?”

           
“Not
really. Rowan called him
Tater Tot
in
one of my dreams. Now that I know it’s a boy, I like it. Makes me feel that
Rowan is close.”

           
“Of
course. And I am sure you are missing your mother at a time like this.”

           
“I
never knew my mother. She died when I was young.”

           
“I
am so sorry, Ella.”

           
“You
know, sooner or later we are gonna have to talk about what I need to do.”

           
“What
can
you do?”

           
“Okay,
see, right there shows the difference between us, Halima. I know it looks bad
but there is no way I’m giving my baby away.”

           
“I
understand how you feel, Ella, but just as birth is a natural act for all
women, bowing to what must be is your only recourse.”

           
“Excuse
me, but that is total bull crap. Personally, I think the more you
bow to what must be,
the more angry and
messed up you get inside.”

           
“But
what can you do? You are guarded every moment. Horus would like nothing more
than for you to attempt to escape. I do not know his physical capabilities but
I am sure he will try to mount you if he catches you outside the palace. Look
at yourself, my friend! You can barely waddle to the bath unaided! How are you
to avoid your fate?”

           
It
was true. Ella did not know how she could prevent the terrible future that
awaited her once she was delivered of her child. She
did
know she couldn’t let it get that far. She hadn’t told Halima
yet, but she knew she must escape before the baby was born.
 

           
Sometimes,
when Halima left Ella alone, she would sit in her bed, one hand on her swollen
belly and stare at the beautiful tattoo of symbols Halima had inked on the
inside of her arm. She could make out a lamb and what looked like a crèche. She
would trace the cryptic drawings with her finger and wonder if they really held
magic. She wondered if they could help her find Rowan.

           
Rowan.

           
When
she thought of him she was filled with both hope and despair. The mere thought
of his dear face, laughing, confident, and sexy, lifted her spirits only to have
them crash down on top of her when she realized how far away he must be.

           
Would
she ever see him again?

           
What
she loved to do the most during these quiet times was place both hands on her
stomach to feel little Tater kick and squirm and think of Rowan at the same
time. For just a moment, it made her feel like they were all together. A
family. And when she focused on her love for the two of them and her intense
desire to be with them, she felt a strength of purpose that made her believe
she could really make it happen.

           
Whatever
it took.

*
                                 
*
                                 
*

           
Julia
sat in her tent—the one she had shared with Ella—and, for the first
time since coming to live with the Bedouins, she smelled a sour mustiness in
the canvas. She tossed down the piece of goatskin she had been attempting to
mend with a long, thick needle and moved to stand in the flap opening of the
tent. Standing there she could see the other women standing around the center
cook fire, gossiping, cooking and tending to the children. The little band had
moved continually since Ella’s escape, never staying longer than two days in
one spot. She lifted a hand to her hair and wondered when the last time was
that she had seen her reflection. Her ran her tongue over her chapped lips.

           
The
men had gone out. After the first few times of bringing her with him, Ammon
seemed to have tired of the novelty. Or maybe he was concerned about the
attention she inevitably drew to their raids when she accompanied him. She
hated being left behind. The other women wouldn’t speak to her unless it was
absolutely necessary. Even the children had picked up on her role as outsider
and stayed away.

           
Now
that Ella was gone, she only had Ammon.

           
Julia
returned to the interior of her tent and found herself looking at it as if
seeing it for the first time. It took her breath away to think that she had
been living like this for so many weeks.
Was
it really months
? She didn’t know how long she had been with the desert
people. Her bed was a collection of not very clean rags that sat directly on
the sand. Regardless of whether the wind blew or not, she always woke up with
sand in her hair, on her lashes, and a light dusting in her nostrils.

           
She
no longer felt like Ammon’s prisoner, she realized. But neither did she feel
like his wife.
If he lost interest in
her, what would become of her? She would not be able to join the sisterhood by
the cook fire. They wouldn’t have her. Would he return her to her own people?

           
Her own people
.
Who were they?
she wondered, as she looked down at her worn and tanned
hands. If he lost interest in her, she would have nowhere to go. Just imagining
her father
welcoming
her back after
her failed marriage to Digby and two months of living with a desert tribe was
laughable. She would be disowned.
And if
the truth ever came out that she hadn’t been forced to submit to the desert
renegade chief?
She shivered to think of it although she knew that, willing
or not, she was ruined in the eyes of her family—indeed her whole stratum
of society.