in horror into the burning room. Was Duraid in there? She started
forward, but the heat was like a solid wall and it stopped her dead. At
that moment the roof collapsed, sending a roaring column of sparks and
flames high into the night sky. She backed away from it, shielding her
face with a raised arm.
Duraid tried to call to her, but no sound issued from his smoke-scorched
throat. Royan turned away and started down the steps. He realized that
she must be going to call for help. Duraid made a supreme effort and a
crow-like croak came out between his black and blistered lips.
Royan spun round and stared at him, and then she screamed. His head was
not human. His hair was gone, frizzled away, and his skin hung in
tatters from his cheeks and chin. Patches of raw meat showed through the
black crusted mask. She backed away from him as though he were some
hideous monster.
'Royan,' he croaked, and his voice was just recognizable. He lifted one
hand towards her in appeal, and she ran to the pond and seized the
outstretched hand.
'In the name of the Virgin, what have they done to you?' she sobbed, but
when she tried to pull him from the pond the skin of his hand came away
in hers in a single piece, like some horrible surgical rubber glove,
leaving the bleeding claw naked and raw.
Royan fell on her knees beside the coping and leaned over the pond to
take him in her arms. She knew that she did not have the strength to
lift him out without doing him further dreadful injury. All she could do
was hold him and try to comfort him. She realized that he was dying no
man could survive such fearsome injury.
'They will come soon to help us,' she whispered to him in Arabic.
'Someone must see the flames. Be brave, my husband, help will come very
soon.'
He was twitching and convulsing in her arms, tortured by his mortal
injuries and racked by the effort to speak.
'The scroll?' His voice was barely intelligible. Royan looked up at the
holocaust that enveloped their home, and she shook her head.
'It's gone,' she said. 'Burned or stolen.'
'Don't give it up,' he mumbled. 'All our work-'
'It's gone,' she repeated. 'No one will believe us without-'
'No!' His voice was faint but fierce. 'For me, my last---2 'Don't say
that,' she pleaded. 'You will be all right.'
'Promise,' he demanded. 'Promise me!'
'We have no sponsor. I am alone. I cannot do it alone.'
'Harper!' he said. Royan leaned closer so that her ear touched his
fire-ravaged lips. 'Harper,' he repeated. 'Strong hard - clever man-'
and she understood then. Harper, Of course, was the fourth and last name
on the list of sponsors that he had drawn up. Although he was the last
on the list, somehow she had always known that Duraid's order of
preference was inverted. Nicholas Quenton Harper was his first choice.
He had spoken so often of this man with respect and warmth, and
sometimes even with awe.
'But what do I tell him? He does not know me. How will I convince him?
