his justice in our cells for four years, Everard. And he was never a willing traitor. Rook forced him to steal the Book of the Grail. It wasn’t his fault.”
“How you can forgive that wretch for what he did astonishes me.” Everard fixed Will with a provocative stare. “It wasn’t too long ago that you wanted to see him hang.”
Will tried not to rise to the bait, but stagnant memories he had tried to bury seeped into his mind at the comment. Everard was right; it wasn’t so long ago that he had wanted his former best friend dead.
When Will had joined the Temple in London, aged eleven, Garin de Lyons had been assigned as his partner-in-training. For two years, they were inseperable, sharing triumphs and torments, Will struggling through his father’s departure to the Holy Land, Garin suffering at the hands of his abusive uncle. Then, on a mission to escort the English crown jewels to France, everything changed. Their company was attacked by mercenaries and Will’s master was killed, along with Garin’s uncle. When Will was apprenticed to Everard in Paris and Garin returned to London alone, their friendship faded. Years later, reunited, they found themselves enemies when Garin became involved in a plot to steal the Book of the Grail. Eventually, he was imprisoned, but although he paid for his crimes against the Brethren, his betrayal of Will had cut much deeper and, for that, he had never been charged.
But this, Will reminded himself, was all in the past. He had forgiven Garin for what had happened in Paris. He shouldn’t dwell. Ignoring Everard’s shrewd stare, he spoke. “Garin knows about the Brethren and that Edward is our guardian. He can help us. Wasn’t the reason you released him so that he could prove himself useful?”
“If Edward has done nothing to help the Anima Templi, then I cannot see what use de Lyons has been at all,” growled Everard.
“Then let him start now. I’ll write and ask him about Edward. I don’t have to mention our suspicions. Just let me get a gauge of things there.”
As Everard was deciding, a bell began to clang. He frowned. “It cannot be Vespers yet surely?”
“It isn’t Vespers,” said Will, rising.
Hearing voices and footsteps in the passage outside, Will opened the door to see several knights hurrying past. Others were opening doors, looking out in confusion.
“What’s happening?” Will called to one of the passing knights.
“The grand master’s ship has been sighted in the bay,” responded the knight, his eyes shining. “He has come at last!”
THE CITADEL, CAIRO, 17 JANUARY A.D. 1276
Baraka Khan leaned against the cool marble wall of the passage and wiped his nose with the sleeve of his wedding robe. He could hear music and laughter continuing in the grand hall without him, as if his absence hadn’t even been noticed. He knew Aisha would soon go to his private room that had been readied for their wedding night. But the thought of entering the place made him feel sick. Although she had been promised to him five years ago, he had never grown accustomed to the idea, or to her. She had teased him in their younger years and had ignored him since early adolescence. Aisha made Baraka uncomfortable: her quickness; her girlishness; those mystifying giggles and scornful looks. He felt tongue-tied and awkward around her, and for all the bravado he had displayed to his friends, the idea of spending a night with her secretly terrified him.
His father’s words echoed back to him, distorted with a cruelty that had not been there when uttered, but which now seeped through the memory, wounding him. All day, he had felt so powerful. Everyone’s attention had been focused on him and he had basked in their flattery. For the first time in his life, he had felt like the son of a sovereign, had felt like a man. But with a few words, his father had wiped all that away and now he just felt like a scolded child.
Baraka pushed himself from the wall and paced the
“How you can forgive that wretch for what he did astonishes me.” Everard fixed Will with a provocative stare. “It wasn’t too long ago that you wanted to see him hang.”
Will tried not to rise to the bait, but stagnant memories he had tried to bury seeped into his mind at the comment. Everard was right; it wasn’t so long ago that he had wanted his former best friend dead.
When Will had joined the Temple in London, aged eleven, Garin de Lyons had been assigned as his partner-in-training. For two years, they were inseperable, sharing triumphs and torments, Will struggling through his father’s departure to the Holy Land, Garin suffering at the hands of his abusive uncle. Then, on a mission to escort the English crown jewels to France, everything changed. Their company was attacked by mercenaries and Will’s master was killed, along with Garin’s uncle. When Will was apprenticed to Everard in Paris and Garin returned to London alone, their friendship faded. Years later, reunited, they found themselves enemies when Garin became involved in a plot to steal the Book of the Grail. Eventually, he was imprisoned, but although he paid for his crimes against the Brethren, his betrayal of Will had cut much deeper and, for that, he had never been charged.
But this, Will reminded himself, was all in the past. He had forgiven Garin for what had happened in Paris. He shouldn’t dwell. Ignoring Everard’s shrewd stare, he spoke. “Garin knows about the Brethren and that Edward is our guardian. He can help us. Wasn’t the reason you released him so that he could prove himself useful?”
“If Edward has done nothing to help the Anima Templi, then I cannot see what use de Lyons has been at all,” growled Everard.
“Then let him start now. I’ll write and ask him about Edward. I don’t have to mention our suspicions. Just let me get a gauge of things there.”
As Everard was deciding, a bell began to clang. He frowned. “It cannot be Vespers yet surely?”
“It isn’t Vespers,” said Will, rising.
Hearing voices and footsteps in the passage outside, Will opened the door to see several knights hurrying past. Others were opening doors, looking out in confusion.
“What’s happening?” Will called to one of the passing knights.
“The grand master’s ship has been sighted in the bay,” responded the knight, his eyes shining. “He has come at last!”
THE CITADEL, CAIRO, 17 JANUARY A.D. 1276
Baraka Khan leaned against the cool marble wall of the passage and wiped his nose with the sleeve of his wedding robe. He could hear music and laughter continuing in the grand hall without him, as if his absence hadn’t even been noticed. He knew Aisha would soon go to his private room that had been readied for their wedding night. But the thought of entering the place made him feel sick. Although she had been promised to him five years ago, he had never grown accustomed to the idea, or to her. She had teased him in their younger years and had ignored him since early adolescence. Aisha made Baraka uncomfortable: her quickness; her girlishness; those mystifying giggles and scornful looks. He felt tongue-tied and awkward around her, and for all the bravado he had displayed to his friends, the idea of spending a night with her secretly terrified him.
His father’s words echoed back to him, distorted with a cruelty that had not been there when uttered, but which now seeped through the memory, wounding him. All day, he had felt so powerful. Everyone’s attention had been focused on him and he had basked in their flattery. For the first time in his life, he had felt like the son of a sovereign, had felt like a man. But with a few words, his father had wiped all that away and now he just felt like a scolded child.
Baraka pushed himself from the wall and paced the
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