bridge. He was a clear and easy target. Murat sighted.
I had no time to think, no time to consider the monstrous betrayal that had taken place. I ran back out onto the bridge, heedless of falling. I saw the shock on Stoyan’s face, saw him open his mouth to shout at me, but all that mattered was to save him—somehow to save all of us. I reached Duarte, who was half up. Murat was holding fire. With me on the bridge as well, the thing was moving erratically, and he had been ordered to kill only one of three.
I reached up to Duarte’s pack, undid the strap, and lifted out a rolled bundle of cloth. Something beyond my own body seemed to be moving me—I do not know how I managed to work so quickly. I took a step back and yelled toward Irene: “You see what I’m holding? Harm Stoyan, harm any of us, and I’ll drop it. It’ll smash into a thousand pieces, and this will all be for nothing! You think I value a piece of broken pottery above the lives of my friends?”
She was staring at me, and I thought perhaps there was a little smile on her lips. “What, sacrifice Cybele’s Gift?” she called across the divide. “You couldn’t do it, Paula. Kill him, Murat.”
“You think I’m bluffing? Just watch me!” I shouted, and dangled the bundle out over the drop. It was only when I saw the horrified faces of the two men on the bridge next to me that I realized I had let go of the hand rope. I wobbled, arms outstretched, and my burden swung wildly, almost falling.
“Slowly over,” muttered Stoyan. “One step at a time. Stay close together.”
I did as he said, inching back with the two men following. I waited for a cry, the sound of another terrible descent, but there was nothing. It seemed Irene had at last believed me. In the balance, Cybele’s Gift meant more to her than the chance to pick off another of Duarte’s protectors.
When we set foot on solid ground, there was no time to speak of what had happened. Duarte was gray-faced, his hands visibly trembling. My legs felt like jelly and my head was whirling. The pursuer was not the Sheikh-ul- Islam but Irene of Volos, Irene, who had been so kind to me with her library and her hamam and her interest in seeing me reach my potential as an independent woman…. How could she do this? And why? Could Murat’s past connections with the Sultan’s household include some kind of link with the Sheikh-ul-Islam? Could Irene and her steward be here on the Mufti’s behalf? Not possible; an Islamic cleric would not use an infidel woman as his agent. The pursuit probably had nothing to do with the Mufti. Irene was wealthy. She could have paid for a ship and crew. Had she been using me all the time, cultivating my friendship so she could find out my father’s plans? I had been the one to invite her to Barsam’s supper, but she had offered her services as chaperone before I did so…. How could she have known Maria would be ill on the day? Surely she hadn’t had a hand in that? It didn’t bear thinking about. I felt cold with shock.
Stoyan took charge with quiet competence. “They will be over quickly,” he said. “They have killed the guards. No time to cut the bridge. You think the way is up there, Paula?”
I nodded.
“You must go first. Run ahead and find cover. We will hold them back. You have the artifact; get it to safety.”
I looked at Duarte. He eased off his pack, reached in, took out a wrapped bundle. I stuffed the rolled-up shirt I had been holding back in and took Cybele’s Gift from him.
“You mean—” Stoyan’s brows rose.
“It’s what people believe that matters, not what actually is,” I said. “They’re coming; there are three men on the bridge. Can’t we all run? What if—”
“Go, Paula,” Duarte said. “Forget about us. Run as fast as you can. Go with God, little
So, clutching Cybele’s Gift in both hands, I ran. I told myself that I would not look back, that I would carry the precious artifact safely all the way to the shelter of the bushes and not even think about who might have fallen and how many friends I might lose today. Behind me men shouted, arrows hissed, and swords clashed. The mist was freakish. It lay now in strands across the open ground, and when at last I looked behind me, I caught only glimpses of what was unfolding. I saw Stoyan with his sword drawn and three assailants around him. I saw Duarte with a knife in each hand, his eyes ferocious above a savage grin. In a fog of terror, I tried to count the opposition and failed, for the shreds of mist now concealed and now revealed five warriors, seven, ten, a whole small army. There were many. We were grossly outnumbered. Now Duarte and Stoyan were standing back to back, snarling and brandishing their weapons, a fearsome two-man fighting force. The crow shrieked in my ear. Unable to dash away my tears because my hands held the priceless burden Duarte had entrusted to me, I turned my back and headed for the cliffs.
The bird led me. Under cover of the bushes, in semidarkness, I paused to wipe my eyes. The crow’s harsh cawing hurried me on along the base of the cliff, following a snaking path between the myriad plants that grew thickly beside this rearing edifice of stone. I could no longer hear the sounds of battle on the hillside below. My mind refused to take in the possibility that it was all over, that my friends were lying in their blood out there while the enemy came on after me. Irene. I still couldn’t believe it. She had described Duarte to me as obsessive, a man who would do anything to get what he wanted. But she was the obsessive one. Not only had she exploited me and lied to me, but it seemed she was prepared to see innocent men die so she could get her hands on Cybele’s Gift. It made no sense at all. If she had the resources to mount this chase, why hadn’t she simply outbid Duarte? Why make such a secret of the fact that she wanted the artifact?
The crow had settled on a branch of a young pine, not far from the cliff face. I halted, my chest heaving.
“Is this the place?” I whispered, looking about me. The wind sighed in the trees; I could hear the trickling of a stream nearby. The breeze parted the bushes, and on the rock wall in front of me was revealed a brilliant display of color, gleaming white, blue, green, and a very particular red in the dim sunlight filtering through the leaves. Tiles. I blinked, stepping closer. Here in this unlikely spot, far from the mosques and palaces of the great cities, away from the well-traveled trade routes, someone had created a small masterpiece. The pattern seldom repeated itself but flowed along the rocks with its own life—vines, fruit, foliage, here and there the taller form of a tree. I tucked Cybele under one arm and reached out to touch the smooth surface, drawing my fingers across it and marveling that in such a wild corner of the country it seemed unscathed, not a crack or mark on it, only a glowing patina, as if its perfection had increased with the passing of time. What was it, a temple wall? The ruins of an ancient home of kings?
The bird croaked again, and I came back to myself. What to do? The tiles, the pattern, the tree…I was meant to make something of this. To find a way. I hurried along the wall, following the pattern to its end, where gleaming color gave way once more to bare stone. I went back; perhaps there had been an opening of some kind and I had missed it. But I found nothing, only that smooth unbroken fresco, the tiles stretching up twice a man’s height and running a good fifty paces along the cliff.
