was a child in Gwynedd, which sometimes proved useful here. The messenger wore the shape of a small bright bird, one of many that flittered among the branches of the orange grove; but this one wore a crown of fire and spoke to her in Arabic.“Lady, if you would come, my lord will begin to keep his bargain.”
She suppressed the urge to leap up and run where the bird led. That would not set a proper precedent. She finished the row of feathers that gave the arrow its wings, and put her tools away, tidily, while the bird hovered, singing to itself. She had gambled and won: the creature would wait.
She considered putting on clothes that would be suitable for a royal audience, but that would put her in too much of a flutter. He of all people would be accustomed to the sight of a woman in Turkish trousers with a veil over her hair, though she had no intention of covering her face as Muslim women did. If that caused him to reckon her wanton, then so be it.
The bird led her through the orchards and past a vineyard stripped of its grapes. There was a house beyond the vineyard, small but well kept, with a neat kitchen garden—miraculously untouched by the marauding armies—and an arbor of roses. It had a wall, but it seemed more fit to keep cattle away from the roses than to keep soldiers from attacking the house.
As she drew closer, she began to understand how it could stand intact where the Frankish armies had been and gone. The light was subtly different there, the air imperceptibly altered. If this house had been here even as early as this morning, she would have been amazed.
The bird delivered her to the rose arbor, loosed a trill of pure breathtaking sound, and vanished in a blur of jeweled light. For a long while there was no response. The house was still; no one stirred inside it. She debated going in to be certain, but the air was soft and the scent of roses ineffably sweet. She sat under the arbor and let herself simply be.
C HAPTER S EVEN
A hmad had not meant to keep the king’s sister waiting. When he called forth the bird of his spirit and sent it to find her, he had every intention of being in the summerhouse before her. But as soon as the bird had flown, a messenger came with a matter that could not wait; then when he had seen to that, the Frankish king summoned him for a council that, though brief as such things went, was still tediously long.
It was late in the day before Ahmad could escape the press of duties. The spell held: the summerhouse was still where he had set it, invisible to any but those who were meant to see it. The sweet air of Damascus wafted over him as he passed the boundary between worlds; he paused to breathe it in.
She was still there, which was rather miraculous. He could trace her by the memory of her passing: how she had lingered for a long while under the rose arbor, then wandered through the garden and the courtyard, pausing by the fountain, then exploring the house. He found her in the room that was his favorite of them all, the gallery of light in which he kept thechests and cases of his books. They were not all that he owned, nor the greatest treasures—those were kept safe in his house in Cairo—but some of them were rather interesting.
She had curled like a cat on the divan under the dome, basking in light, with a heap of books about her. She was deeply absorbed in them; even as strong as her magic was, she did not know he was there.
That was a Frank, he thought. They had a remarkable innocence about them, a conviction that nothing in the world could truly harm them. And yet they were strong fighters, with a crazy courage that put even Bedouin raiders to shame.
Not that she looked like the common vision of a Frank. She bore some resemblance to the women of his own people: thick blue-black hair, cream-pale skin, sweetly rounded features. She wore no paint or kohl, and her trousers must have been purchased in a bazaar; they were serviceable but hardly elegant. There was
She suppressed the urge to leap up and run where the bird led. That would not set a proper precedent. She finished the row of feathers that gave the arrow its wings, and put her tools away, tidily, while the bird hovered, singing to itself. She had gambled and won: the creature would wait.
She considered putting on clothes that would be suitable for a royal audience, but that would put her in too much of a flutter. He of all people would be accustomed to the sight of a woman in Turkish trousers with a veil over her hair, though she had no intention of covering her face as Muslim women did. If that caused him to reckon her wanton, then so be it.
The bird led her through the orchards and past a vineyard stripped of its grapes. There was a house beyond the vineyard, small but well kept, with a neat kitchen garden—miraculously untouched by the marauding armies—and an arbor of roses. It had a wall, but it seemed more fit to keep cattle away from the roses than to keep soldiers from attacking the house.
As she drew closer, she began to understand how it could stand intact where the Frankish armies had been and gone. The light was subtly different there, the air imperceptibly altered. If this house had been here even as early as this morning, she would have been amazed.
The bird delivered her to the rose arbor, loosed a trill of pure breathtaking sound, and vanished in a blur of jeweled light. For a long while there was no response. The house was still; no one stirred inside it. She debated going in to be certain, but the air was soft and the scent of roses ineffably sweet. She sat under the arbor and let herself simply be.
C HAPTER S EVEN
A hmad had not meant to keep the king’s sister waiting. When he called forth the bird of his spirit and sent it to find her, he had every intention of being in the summerhouse before her. But as soon as the bird had flown, a messenger came with a matter that could not wait; then when he had seen to that, the Frankish king summoned him for a council that, though brief as such things went, was still tediously long.
It was late in the day before Ahmad could escape the press of duties. The spell held: the summerhouse was still where he had set it, invisible to any but those who were meant to see it. The sweet air of Damascus wafted over him as he passed the boundary between worlds; he paused to breathe it in.
She was still there, which was rather miraculous. He could trace her by the memory of her passing: how she had lingered for a long while under the rose arbor, then wandered through the garden and the courtyard, pausing by the fountain, then exploring the house. He found her in the room that was his favorite of them all, the gallery of light in which he kept thechests and cases of his books. They were not all that he owned, nor the greatest treasures—those were kept safe in his house in Cairo—but some of them were rather interesting.
She had curled like a cat on the divan under the dome, basking in light, with a heap of books about her. She was deeply absorbed in them; even as strong as her magic was, she did not know he was there.
That was a Frank, he thought. They had a remarkable innocence about them, a conviction that nothing in the world could truly harm them. And yet they were strong fighters, with a crazy courage that put even Bedouin raiders to shame.
Not that she looked like the common vision of a Frank. She bore some resemblance to the women of his own people: thick blue-black hair, cream-pale skin, sweetly rounded features. She wore no paint or kohl, and her trousers must have been purchased in a bazaar; they were serviceable but hardly elegant. There was
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