The Mystic Rose (38 page)

Thus prepared for the night, the rest of the party retired to their tents to sleep—except Cait, who noticed the way the tall knight had begun favoring his arm as he ate his supper. “A moment, my lord,” she said as he came into the light of the fire, “I would examine your wound.”

“A scratch,” he insisted, “is scarcely a wound.”

Not to be put off, she stepped before him. “Then it will scarcely matter if I have a look at it.” She took his arm, and led him to the fire where she had prepared a bowl of hot water and some strips of clean cloth. “Sit you down, and remove your shirt.”

“Lady, it is cold. I will certainly freeze.”

“Listen to you now,” she chided, undoing the laces at his throat. “And you, a True Son of the North, crying about a little cold.”

“God preserve us,” he sighed. Shrugging off his cloak, he pulled open his shirt, and drew it over his head.

It was the first time she had seen him without his shirt and the broad sweep of his muscled shoulders and the pale curly hair on his chest pleased her. She found herself gazing raptly at him in the wavering glow of the fire.

“Well?” he said, stirring her to action. “Get on with it then.”

Kneeling beside Rognvald, Cait took his arm, lifted it and stretched it out. The errant blade had caught him on the back of the arm, poked a hole through his shirt and produced a small ragged-looking gash. The edges of the cut were puck
ered and inflamed; there had not been much bleeding, but some of the fabric of the shirt had been driven into the wound. She could see several discolored threads sticking out, but all in all, it was as Rognvald maintained, little more than a nasty scratch.

Cait set to work, dampening a square of cloth in the bowl and applying it to the wound. She put the hot cloth against the cut and held it there to soften the dried blood. Rognvald, adopting the pained expression of a man who is being made to endure humiliation at the hands of an inscrutable higher power, stared at the fire, avoiding Cait's eyes.

After a while, she asked, “How long do you think Alethea could survive out here—alone in the cold?”

“It is difficult to say,” Rognvald replied. “Water is good and abundant. The days are not so cold in the valleys, and there is shelter to be found. If she kept her wits about her, she would not be much worse off than she was before.”

“What about the wolves?”

He shook his head. “Yngvar thinks
every
forest abounds with wolves. Have you heard any wolves since coming to these mountains? Have you seen even so much as a wolfish footprint in the mud or snow?”

“No, but—”

“If there were any wolves hereabouts, we would have known about them long since.”

She accepted his judgment, and continued dabbing at the cut, washing it gently. When she had cleaned it, she turned his arm toward the firelight, and proceeded to pull the embedded shreds of his shirt from the wound. The first threads came free dragging clots of blood, and drawing a wince from Rognvald.

“Am I hurting you?”

“No,” he said. “It is just a little cold, that's all.”

“Here.” She picked up his cloak and made to pull it up around his shoulders. As she did so she saw that his back was a lumpen mass of welted scars, poorly healed, and livid still. The sight caught her by surprise. “Your back!” she gasped. “What happened to you?”

“The Saracens,” he muttered.

“In battle?”

“After,” he told her, pulling the cloak around him. “They thought I might tell them the strength of the garrison at Tripoli—” he paused, “—among other things.”

“But you refused to tell them so they tortured you,” she guessed.

He looked at her sideways, and then shook his head with reluctant resignation.

“You
told
them?” said Cait, mildly appalled by this revelation.

“Aye,” he confessed, “I told them. I am not proud of it, mind. But it was no secret anyway. The city was not under siege; travelers came and went as freely as birds. The next merchant through the gates would have told them if I did not—they had only to ask.”

“Then why did they torture you?”

“Because,” he replied, as if the subject wearied him, “Prince Mujir ed-Din had just come to the throne, and the wazir hoped to impress him with his skill in dealing with Christian prisoners. When I answered him outright, I made the wazir look foolish. So, he had me beaten in revenge.”

“I see,” replied Cait. Pulling two more scraps of cloth from the wound, she flipped the bloody threads into the fire, then washed the cut again before binding it with strips of clean linen cloth. “Had I a little unguent,” she said when she finished, “it would heal more quickly.”

“All the same, I am much obliged, my lady,” Rognvald said, flexing his bandaged arm. “I thank you.”

He drew his shirt back on and sat for a moment, regarding her in the firelight. He lifted his hand as if to touch her, hesitated, then stood abruptly. “If you have no further need of me, I will sleep a little before I take my watch.”

Cait bade him good night and watched him walk away, then went to her own tent, but found she could not sleep for thinking about Alethea. The thought of the young woman—unprepared in so many ways—wandering lost and alone in the high mountain wilderness kept her awake long into the night. She kept seeing her sister struggling through the snow, shivering, freezing, gasping out her last breath on a lonely mountainside, her pitiful cries for help unheard and unheeded.

Pangs of guilty remorse assailed her. She stared into the dwindling fire and heard again her father's dying words:
Promise you will not avenge me…Let it end here.

T
HE SUN ROSE
as a pale red blot in a darkly ominous sky, and Cait rose, too. A servant brought her a bowl of warm water, and she washed, then held the basin for a time letting the heat seep into her fingers. The rest of the camp was stirring and she heard the voices of the knights as they commenced the morning ritual of feeding, watering, and grooming the horses.

She sat clutching the bowl and listening to the knights, and her heart quailed within her. Dread, thick as the wintry mist shrouding the mountainside, swept over her. Closing her eyes, she bit her lip to keep from crying out, all the while telling herself that her distress was born of agitation and frustration, and that her spirits would improve as soon as they were on the trail once more. But, as her thoughts turned to renewing the search, she remembered those they would be leaving behind, and the stifling black desolation of the previous day descended upon her once more.

This day, she thought hopelessly, would be no different from any that had gone before: beginning in futility, ending in despair, with nothing but bone-cold monotony in between. She held little confidence that they would be able to find the place Abu had tried to describe, and even if they did, it would not make the slightest difference: Alethea would not be
found and the search would go on. Indeed, the search would go on—and on and on and on forever more without end.

She dragged herself from her tent and stood for a moment, looking up at the dark, unsettled sky. Clouds swirled on a swift east wind, but the tall pines around the camp remained untouched. The air was heavy. There would be rain or snow before day's end; she could already feel the relentless numbing cold of the trail and her sense of aching dread increased.

Rognvald appeared silently beside her. “Caitríona.” She jumped as he spoke. “I did not mean to startle you. I was just telling the men we should strike camp and move on. We can breakfast on the trail, but I fear it would be unwise to remain at Ali Waqqar's doorstep any longer.”

“What about Paulo? Is it safe to move him?”

“Perhaps not,” allowed the lord, “but we cannot leave him here.”

“Very well.”

He heard the defeat in her voice and said, “Come, my lady, we must appear confident for the men.”

She looked at him and wondered at the source of his fortitude. “Why?”

“Because,” he told her, “they are trusting in us.”

He moved away; as she made to follow, Halhuli called to her from across the camp. He was standing before Prince Hasan's tent wearing an expression she had not seen before. She hurried to him. “What is wrong, Halhuli?”

“The prince is not well,” he replied. “When he did not rise this morning, I went in to wake him. I roused him with the greatest difficulty, and gave him a drink. I thought he would get up, but I went in just now to find he has fallen asleep again.”

Cait frowned. “That is worrying.” She stooped to the entrance of the low, round tent. “Fetch Lord Rognvald.”

The overseer hurried away, and Cait pulled back the tent flap, tied it, and stepped in. The prince was lying on his back with his head on a cushion, one arm across his chest, the other outflung. He was dressed in a loose robe, and his tur
ban lay to one side, a small heap of winding cloth. His mouth was open, his breathing rapid and shallow.

She knelt beside him and touched her hand to his forehead—the skin was hot with fever. She took him by the shoulder and shook him gently. There was no response. She shook him again, harder this time, and called his name. The prince slept on.

She was shaking him a third time, and calling his name, when Rognvald arrived. He ducked in, regarded the sleeping prince, and said, “Here, let us carry him outside where we can look at him properly.”

“A moment, my lord,” suggested Halhuli. He gestured to the two servants standing with him. Taking the lower edge of the tent, they unfastened the stays from the pegs and peeled back the heavy fabric, rolling it up and over the hoops. When they had finished, he ordered them to make up the fire so the prince would not grow cold.

“Open his robe,” said Cait.

Rognvald knelt beside Cait and parted the prince's robe to reveal a small red puncture in the fleshy part of the upper chest. The skin was raised and discolored around the cut. “He was struck by an arrow,” she said. “I saw him brush it off.”

Rognvald pressed his fingers lightly to the wound and examined it closely. “There was little issue of blood,” he said, sitting back on his heels. “I have seen men endure much more and fight all the harder the next day.”

“Do you think the arrow was poisoned?” said Yngvar. He and the other knights had gathered around the stricken prince.

“Do they do such things?” wondered Cait.

“We have seen it at Bosra,” Svein assured her. “In Homs they did this also.”

“The dogs,” spat Dag.

“Alas,” confirmed Halhuli, “it has been known.” He placed a hand on the prince's chest. “The skin is hot and inflamed. I think we must suspect poison.”

“The wound is not so deep,” Rognvald pointed out. “Per
haps the poison is not of sufficient strength to kill. Could we get him back to the palace, do you think?”

Halhuli, worried, his face ashen, gazed at his lord. “It is as Allah wills. If he is to die, then it will be. If he is to recover, then that, also, will be. Allah, the Merciful, bends all purposes to his own.”

“What do you want to do, Halhuli?” asked Cait. “Do you want us to take him home?”

He nodded. “I should like to try.”

“We can make a litter for him,” volunteered Yngvar.

“And drag the poor man over mountain and valley?” said Svein, outraged at the idea.

“It might be carried between two horses,” suggested Dag, “but a sling would be better.”

“Aye,” said Svein, “a sling would be better.” He turned up his nose at Yngvar. “A litter! Tch!”

“Cut two stout branches,” Rognvald ordered, “and lash them to the cantles of the saddles. We will fashion a sling.”

The knights attended to this, and the others set about striking camp. In the midst of their activity, Prince Hasan awoke. Cait turned her back on him for a moment, and when she turned around he was sitting up, taking in the bustle around him with a slightly bewildered expression. “Are we attacked?” he asked.

“No,” replied Cait. “You have been asleep. We could not wake you, so we are preparing to return to Al-Jelál.”

“There is no need,” replied Hasan. “I am perfectly able to ride. We must not abandon the search on my account.”

Cait regarded him doubtfully. “You have been wounded,” she explained. “I do think it best to return to the palace.”

“Nonsense!” he scoffed, and made to rise.

The effort made him dizzy; he lurched forward and Caitríona caught him. “Sit down,” she told him. “Rest a moment.”

The prince collapsed on his bed once more. “Ah, perhaps you are right,” he said. He closed his eyes, pressing a hand to the side of his head.

“Here, drink a little,” she said, pouring water into his horn
cup; his hand shook so much as he lifted it to his mouth, that she had to steady his arm.

“Allah, the Merciful, be praised!” exclaimed Halhuli, rushing up. “You are awake, my lord.”

“Bring me my clothes. We are going home.”

“At once, my lord,” he said, and hurried away.

Cait called for Rognvald, who returned a moment later to find Prince Hasan drawing on the clothes Halhuli held out for him. “He tells us he feels well enough to ride,” Cait said. “Do you think it wise?”

Rognvald squatted down and regarded the prince. “I have no wisdom in the matter,” he answered at last. “If a man feels he is able to ride, who can say otherwise?”

“Precisely,” agreed the prince. Indicating the wounded Paulo's tent, he said, “Your man needs warmth and care, which he will not receive on the trail. If we leave now, we can reach the palace before dark.”

“That would be best in any case,” Rognvald conceded. “We will make the journey as easy as possible.” He stood and called to the knights to prepare the sling for Paulo and ready the prince's horse. “Those of us who are ready will leave at once—the rest can come after and catch up on the way.”

“No, my friend,” Hasan objected. “Your destination is within sight. I will not allow you to abandon the search now. Halhuli and my servants will attend me. The rest of you must go on.”

Cait hesitated. While she had no great hankering to resume the search, the thought of going back to Al-Jelál only to take up the trail another day filled her with an even greater dread. “But what if something should happen on the way?” she protested mildly.

“Listen to me, Ketmia,” the prince replied. “At all events, we would be forced to return to the palace in a day or two for supplies. Take the provisions and go on ahead.”

“He is right,” Rognvald concluded. “If Abu was not mis
taken, we are closer now than ever before. We dare not allow this chance to slip away—we may not get another.”

“Paulo and I will rejoin you in a few days when we have rested and our wounds have healed.”

“Unless we find Alethea first,” Rognvald put in.

“Of course!” declared Hasan. “You see? Find Alethea and bring her to the palace.”

“Very well,” Cait relented.

Thus it was agreed. The final preparations were quickly made; despite his feeble protests, Paulo was placed in the sling, and the prince, holding himself like a man who feared one false step would shatter his legs, walked to his mount. With Rognvald on one side and his faithful katib on the other, Hasan climbed into the saddle. “I will see you in a few days,” he called as they started off. “Farewell, my friends.”

Cait and the others watched until the prince and his entourage were out of sight. “Do not worry, my lady,” said Yngvar, trying to comfort her. “They will reach the palace, never fear.”

“Aye,” said Svein, “providing they do not meet up with any of your wolves.”

The wind grew colder as the day wore on. They spent much of the morning skirting Ali Waqqar's valley lair, and stopped to breakfast once they had put the valley behind them. While they were eating, it began to snow. The mountain Abu had indicated lay directly ahead—no more than a half-day's ride by their best estimation—so they pressed on.

The snow persisted through the day, drifting down through the tall pines in great, silent feathery clumps, concealing both the path and the mountain before them in a soft layer of white, and covering the heads and shoulders of the knights, and the rumps of their horses. But they rode on, climbing higher and higher into the gently swirling curtain of flakes.

Yngvar was leading the way when Cait saw him stop at the crest of the hill. She lifted the reins and urged her mount to a trot, and came abreast of him. The slope of the hill dropped away to form the rim of a bowl-shaped valley. There below them, in the center of the bowl, lay a lake, its
surface smooth and dark as polished jet. At the far side of the valley rose the mountain, not golden now, but brooding and dark, its top obscured by the clouds, its lower slopes covered with a dense forest of pine—each bough of every tree now bending beneath the heavy weight of snow.

“This is the place,” said Cait, hardly daring to speak aloud for fear that it would vanish mysteriously, leaving them no closer than before.

“Maybe we will not have to sleep in tents tonight,” Yngvar said, pointing away across the valley to the far side of the lake.

Cait looked where he indicated and saw a cluster of buildings and a few enclosures for cattle—little more than a smoke-gray smudge in a field of white. She turned and called behind her to Rognvald and the others who were just coming up to the crest of the hill. “There is a settlement!”

Without waiting for the others, Cait started down into the valley, keeping her eye on the tiny village which was already fading into the gloom of twilight. She had reached the side of the lake and started around when Rognvald caught her. “Do you think Alethea is there?”

“I pray she is,” Cait replied. “But I hardly dare believe it might be true.”

“Then I will believe it for both of us,” replied Rognvald.

“Do you never grow tired?” she asked.

“Tired of the trail?”

“Tired of the search—the endless riding and riding, always searching, never finding. The futility of it all…I am weary to the bone with it and I would to God it were over. One way or another, I wish it would just end.” She looked at his face, a pale softness in the winter gloaming, unmoved by her sudden outpouring of despair. “I suppose now you despise me for being a weak and flighty woman.”

“My lady,” he said, his voice low. He did not turn his eyes from the snow-covered trail ahead. “You are the most stalwart woman I know.”

That was all he said, and they spoke no more. But it gave Cait a warm feeling that lasted long into the night.