“I don’t know exactly. Somewhere up north, I guess. She’s guarding the rest of our passengers until she can get them out of the country.”
“Up north? In the Espani winter?” Shifrah laughed. “She’s got stones, I’ll give her that. No, give me a warm beach and a clear sky any day.”
He grinned and suddenly looked five years younger. “Yeah, me too.”
Kenan led the way to a small house at the top of the beach. Looking back, Shifrah saw they were more than two miles from the city center and there was no sign of the fire anymore except for a dirty haze in the air.
The fisherman was waiting for them with a curvaceous little pipe clenched in his teeth. He gave them all a brief glance and led the way down to the water. “Good timing. Tide’s just turning now. Weather looks as fine as I could ask, considering. Not expecting any rain for another few days, says the almanac, if you believe in that sort of thing. Come along.”
At first Shifrah thought he was leading them toward a rotting, collapsing dinghy on the beach, but the fisherman turned to the right and led them onto a floating dock made of old planks lashed over old barrels that bobbed and shook when she stepped on them. The floating dock reached out some thirty yards into the harbor, and while the first few boats moored there all seemed to be more hopeless dinghies, out at the end she saw a half dozen little yachts, their naked masts pointing at the stars.
The fisherman waved them onto a narrow sailboat no more than twenty feet long. Shifrah moved cautiously in the dark, clutching at ghostly ropes and rails to keep her feet under her, and sat down on a hard, cold wooden seat just behind the mast. Kenan sat beside her and Syfax sat beside Nicola across from them. For the next few minutes they sat in silence as the fisherman went about loosing the moorings and freeing the sails, winding his winches and lashing his lines to the cleats. The old canvas sheet snapped back and forth as the night wind raced across the harbor, and the boom swung violently back and forth just above their heads.
Finally, the fisherman grabbed a pole, planted it on the neighboring boat, and shoved them away from the floating dock. The little yacht glided back into the free waters, the breeze caught the sail, and suddenly they were away with the wind whipping their exposed skin with a freezing salt spray. The fisherman sat on a high seat in the stern, one hand on the tiller, one foot on a cleat, and his pipe clenched in his teeth.
“So how long to Tingis?” Syfax asked.
The fisherman shrugged. “Depends on the wind.”
Shifrah huddled down against the hard seat, which she suddenly realized to be a small trunk with a hinged lid, no doubt full of unwashed fishing tackle judging from the smell. The wet chill invaded her furs and the thick coil of her hair, and she shivered.
A weight fell on her shoulders and she opened her eye. It was Kenan’s arm.
She smiled. Boys.
Day Eight
Chapter 22. Lorenzo
They rode all day from long before dawn until long after dusk. Zaragoza vanished behind them not long after they stopped to eat breakfast, but the mining town of Yesero did not appear until the night sky appeared in full starry bloom. When they dismounted at the little wayhouse, Lorenzo had to grit his teeth against the raging soreness in his legs and back. After a thousand hours of fencing, my arm grows stronger and surer, but after a thousand hours of riding why do I just want to lie down and die?
The grizzled old man at the wayhouse barely glanced at them as he collected Lorenzo’s money and pointed them to a modestly sized room with three modestly sized beds standing side by side. Three beds.
Lorenzo sighed. “Alonso and I will sleep on the floor. You three can have the beds.”
“No,” Taziri yawned. “Shahera and I will share this one. Dante and Alonso can share the second. You take the third. You need the rest if your arm is going to heal properly.”
The hidalgo glanced down at his right arm as though he’d completely forgotten that he owned it. “All right. Thank you, captain.”
“ Taziri is fine.” She smiled.
He kicked off his boots, fell into bed, prayed for Qhora’s safety, and slept.
“Lorenzo?”
The hidalgo jerked awake, cracking his head on the headboard. As he rubbed his new welt, he squinted through the darkness at the misty figure standing in the corner beside his bed. Behind him, he heard the others snoring and breathing deeply. “Sister?”
“You’re almost there,” the dead nun whispered. “I’m sorry I cannot go with you, that I will not be there to see the stone when you first see it. But it will be reward enough to see it when you return.”
“Why can’t you go with us?” Lorenzo lay very still. His back and legs were too stiff to manage sitting up. “I don’t think you need to worry about an errant heat wave tomorrow.”
“It’s the wind.” Sister Ariel gestured to the window and the mountain ridge beyond. “Over the years, I’ve tried countless times to walk these mountain passes, to search for the stone by myself. But the winds are too fierce. They scatter the aether even as the cold gathers it together.”
Lorenzo nodded. “I’m sorry to hear that. You should be there when we find it.” He frowned. “Speaking of which, how did you find me so quickly? You always seem to be just a step behind me.”
“It’s difficult to describe what it’s like to be a walking ghost,” she said. “Sometimes my feet carry me where I want to go. And sometimes I simply close my eyes and I’m there already. A church in Ejido, a graveyard in Tartessos, a jeweler’s shop in Toledo. But those are all just places, though they seem a bit random. You are the only person I can find, it seems.”
“You mean you can find me, and only me, anywhere in the world? Like you did in Zaragoza and in Marrakesh?”
The nun nodded.
“Ever since I came back from the New World,” he muttered. “Was my soul so in need of saving that God tied a string around my finger to guide you back to me again and again?”
“Perhaps. Although I’ve often wondered if it isn’t something simpler. We first met in Tartessos, didn’t we? Just after you returned from Cartagena. Hm. Prince Valero gave you several gifts when you returned from the New World, I believe. What did he give you?”
Lorenzo sat up slightly. “My sword. He gave me this sword.” He reached down and picked up the antique espada lying wrapped in his coat on the floor.
The nun only glanced at it. “I doubt I have any connection to that.”
“He also gave me this.” Lorenzo pulled the holy medallion from his shirt and held it dangling from its slender chain. The three interwoven links of the triquetra gleamed dimly in the starlight.
Ariel swept closer, her smoky outlines wavering as she moved. “Look closely at it. Is there a discolored patch of gold on the lower edge?”
Lorenzo didn’t have to look. He’d stared at the strange dark gold countless times, wondering if the medallion had once been mended with bronze. “Yes. Do you know it?”
“It was mine,” she said. “The one I wore in life. I’d always thought it was buried with me, but it would seem some poor soul saw the need to pocket it before I was interred. And then it found its way into the Prince’s coffers. Maybe the abbess gave it to the tax collector the year I died. Did you know they taxed the abbeys in my day?”
“No.” He stared at the little patch of dark gold, rubbing it gently. “Are you drawn to anything else you knew in life?”
“No, not even the nunnery where I was buried. You would think I would have a stronger connection to my own bones than that medallion.” She smiled. “Well, mystery solved, I suppose, though it doesn’t explain why I can travel to those other places so easily. Rest now. You have a long day ahead of you.”
The hidalgo laid his head back down on the cold pillow. “Good night, sister.”
When Lorenzo awoke, he prayed that Qhora had slept as well as he, and got up. He found the common room bustling with the morning rush. Half a dozen middle-aged men sat at the trestle table, quietly eating their porridge
