The Treasure

a monk from the abbey.” He turned to Selene. “Will you, at least, be sensible and go to your bed?”

“Presently.” She sat down in the chair across the table from Kadar. “I’ll stay awhile.”

Tarik’s gaze went from one to the other, and a faint smile curved his lips. “I should have known to argue would be of no avail. A sip is never enough when you have a great thirst, and you both have a voracious thirst for life.”

“And so do you,” Selene said.

“I once did. But I’ve drunk deep enough to quench my thirst.” He moved toward the door. “Well, I’m going to my bed. Don’t wake me. I won’t answer any questions until morning.”

As the door closed behind him, Kadar’s gaze eagerly fastened on the parchment.

Selene settled back in her chair, watching his face, waiting.

She was being carried up the stairs.

Selene opened drowsy eyes to see Kadar’s face above her. His expression held excitement and tension.

Were they going to the tower chamber?

No, this was different. No scent of hashish…

“Kadar, where-”

“Shh, you fell asleep at the table.” He was taking her to her chamber, laying her on the bed.

She had fallen asleep at a table? What a strange-the manuscript!

“What did it say?” She sat bolt upright in bed, wide awake. “What was in it?”

He sat down on the bed beside her. “Nothing to become excited about. I think the manuscript must be a jest of Tarik’s.”

“A jest?”

“It’s a troubadour’s tale. Le Conte du Graal by Chretien de Troyes. It’s the story of a king and a wandering knight named Perceval.”

“And it does not mention the box?” she asked, disappointed.

“No.”

She could barely see him in the moonlit dimness, but there was something in his tone. He was not telling her everything. “Or what’s in it?”

“I don’t think so.” He paused. “Unless it’s the grail.”

“Grail?”

“A goblet used by Christ at the Last Supper. A cup with special powers sought by the knights of King Arthur’s court.”

“Dear God,” she whispered.

“A troubadour’s tale. Though sometimes it does not read like a tale, and Chretien de Troyes tells of another document from which he took his story.”

“But it could be this grail that’s in the box in Tarik’s chamber?”

“Or what Nasim thinks is the true grail. He worships power. He would do anything to obtain a magical grail that would give the possessor Godlike powers.”

“He’s an evil, evil man. I cannot believe God would give him any more power than he has already.”

“But it’s not what you believe but what Nasim believes. To him, God is Allah, and Allah has always smiled on him.”

“It could not be. It has to be a troubadour’s tale, as you say.”

“Well, we cannot wake Tarik and ask him. He made it clear we’ll have to wait until morning.” He rose to his feet. “Go to sleep.”

Go to sleep when her mind was filled with coffers of gold and magical grails? “Will you?”

“Perhaps.” He leaned down, brushed a kiss on her forehead, and whispered, “I know a remedy that would make us both sleep deeply.”

She did not answer.

“No?” He sighed and then moved toward the door. “Then I fear our minds will get no more rest than our bodies this night.”

***

She was coming toward him, moving gracefully, rhythmically, her bare feet seeming to scarcely skim the stone floor.

Tarik waited.

She was almost there.

His heart was beating hard, he was sweating with anticipation.

She stopped before him. He could see the shimmering beauty of her dark eyes illuminating the impassive jackal face.

He took an eager step forward, reaching out to her.

She shook her head.

Agony shot through him. He could feel the pain twisting, tearing.

Why?

He could not see her mouth move but knew the word it formed.

Fool.

She was walking forward, past him.

No!

He had to follow her.

He couldn’t move. He was chained.

He watched, helpless, as she disappeared over the horizon.

Emptiness. Loneliness.

Come back.

But she would never come back.

Tears were running down Tarik’s cheeks when he opened his eyes.

He hadn’t had the dream in a long time, but he had known it would return. It always came back when his soul was in conflict. At other times he could block it, but not when the longing for freedom became this overpowering.

And was that longing so terrible? He had made his decision. Why was he hesitating when he had worked and planned for so long? Did he not deserve to be set free?

She would say he did.

She had called him a fool.

He turned over on his side and looked up at the tapestry Rosa had made for him.

Rosa had never called him a fool. Rosa had been kind and gentle and without a thorn. She had wanted only what was best for him. There had been neither torment nor crisis of conscience when she was by his side. He should be dreaming of Rosa.

But he never dreamed of Rosa.

When he dreamed, it was always of his love, his passion, his nemesis. The woman who moved with the exquisite grace of a dancer and who stared at him with scorn from that jackal’s face.

Selene and Kadar were sitting, waiting, when Tarik strode into the great hall the next morning.

“It’s almost noon,” Kadar said.

Tarik raised his brows. “Is this a sin? Selene made much of the fact of my advancing years. I decided a crippled old man needed his rest.”

“Or perhaps decided to torment us for pushing you to show us the manuscript,” Selene suggested.

“Were you in torment?” He smiled slyly as he dropped down in a chair and stretched out his legs before him. “What a pity.”

“Why does Nasim think you have the grail?” Kadar asked.

“Questions before I’ve even broken my fast?”

“Why?” Kadar repeated.

“There have been rumors about my pretty golden box for some time. You’re aware that Nasim knows