Struggling to her feet once more, she took a hesitant step and then halted, for she did not know which way to go. Frightened now, lest she be swept over the clifftop and hurled to her death on the rocks below, she stood shaking with indecision, and searching the howling blackness for some sign of the path ahead.
Lightning flashed and she saw, illumined by the naked glare, the figure of a man robed in white. The figure's back was to her and he was striding purposefully away. This she glimpsed in the brief light before darkness reclaimed the hilltop.
'Wait!' she cried, lurching forward. The resounding clash of thunder drowned her words, but she made for the place where she had seen the white figure. 'Wait! God help me,' she cried, 'please wait for me!'
The next lightning flash revealed that the man had paused a few dozen paces further on. What was more, he bore a distinct likeness to her father. Could it be? she wondered.
She moved towards him in the darkness, her heart quickening in anticipation. As she drew close, however, the white-robed figure moved on. 'Papa!' she cried, hurrying after.
Desperate now to catch him, she gathered her wet skirts and stumbled ahead. 'Papa, it is Cait! Please, Papa, wait for me.'
Another jagged flash lit up the sky and she saw in the briefly shimmering light that the figure had stopped again. She ran to him. As he made to turn and move on, she lunged and, reaching out, caught hold of the trailing edge of his sleeve.
The man halted and as the sky was torn by another flash, she saw his face at last. He was a young man-much younger than her father, she could see that now-but his youthful aspect was belied somewhat by his old-fashioned dress and the way he carried himself: carefully, as if he did not fully trust his weight to the ground. Still, his dark eyes were keen, and his gaze almost distressingly direct; his hair was dark and thick, and trimmed in the tonsure of a monk.
'Oh,' she gasped, 'it is you.'
'Greetings, Caitriona. Peace and grace be with you always,' the man said. At these words, the intensity of the storm seemed to lessen. The wind calmed and she could hear him plainly. 'Come now, there is nothing to fear.'
'Brother Andrew-oh, please, hurry. It is Thea.' She pointed back towards the precipitous edge of the cliff. 'She went down there and they took her away. We must find her.'
'Have no fear for Alethea,' the monk told her. 'They could not take her anywhere she did not wish to go.'
'But we must save her,' insisted Cait. 'She needs me.'
'Where Alethea has gone you cannot follow,' he said gently. 'She is at peace now.'
Cait stared at him, tears starting to her eyes. 'But I do not understand.'
'Listen to me, Caitriona. You have departed from the True Path. Evil crouches at your heels and only awaits a chance to drag you down. Beware, dear sister.'
She opened her mouth to protest, but the White Priest raised his hand. 'Time grows short. The end of the race is near; the prize awaits. Like your father and grandfather before you, my daughter, you must hold tight to the Holy Light. Cling to it, Caitriona. Put your faith and trust in it alone, and let it be your guide.'
At this, Brother Andrew made to step away. Cait reached out to take hold of him, but her hands closed on empty air and she was alone once more with rain and wind raging around her.
'Please,' she cried, 'do not leave me. Brother Andrew, help me. Help me!'
There came no answer-only the voiceless shriek of the gale and the pelting sting of the rain…
This was how she awoke: with the wild wind screaming over the broken crags, pounding the thick stone walls with tremendous, fist-like blows that boomed with the sound of thunder, rattling the heavy iron-barred shutters, and driving the rain through tiny cracks around the windows.
She could not tell when the storm arose, but knew that she had been hearing it in her sleep for some time. The candles had blown out, leaving her room in darkness deep as the tomb. She heard a sound beside her, and her dream came back to her in a rush. 'Brother Andrew,' she said aloud, reaching out, and praying the White Priest had not abandoned her.
Her fingers touched another outstretched hand; she gave a little cry and jerked her hand away. 'Ketmia?' came the timorous, quivering voice.
'Mahdi – is it you?'
The frightened maidservant slipped into bed beside her. Cait put her arm around the young woman's shivering shoulders and gathered her in. As she would have comforted Alethea, she consoled Mahdi, stroking her hair and telling her there was nothing to fear. Pila'i slept on, serenely unaware of the wind and lashing rain. So, Cait and Mahdi held vigil together, huddled in bed until it was light enough to get up.
The storm gave no sign of abating with the dawn. But as soon as it was light enough to find her way around, Cait rose and allowed her maids to dress her. Then, escorted from the women's quarters by Jubayar, she hurried to find Prince Hasan so the search for Alethea could begin anew.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Searching for the prince, she found Lord Rognvald instead. He was standing in the vestibule entrance with two fidgety porters, the door wide open, staring out into a bleak, wind-torn void of fog and sleet and swirling snow. He turned as she came to stand beside him, and greeted her with stiff, almost frozen formality, then observed, 'You are early risen, my lady-for one so late to bed.'
Cait returned his chilly greeting, and said, 'I could not sleep for the storm.' She looked out through the open door at the roiling grey mass and felt the cold bite of the wind on her skin. A memory stirred-of a dream, or the lingering impression of a dream: something about being lost in a raging gale. It passed through her with a shiver and then was gone. 'It must break soon, I should think,' she said hopefully.
'Pray that it does,' Rognvald told her, 'for until it spends itself somewhat, we cannot resume the search.'
Growing impatient at last, the porters intervened to close the doors and shut out the icy gale. Cait and Rognvald made their way to the reception hall where a fire had been lit and was now blazing with bright fury on the hearth. Two servants were adding firewood to the already towering stack under Prince Hasan's commanding gaze. At his visitors' approach, the prince beckoned them to come and warm themselves.
'It is the one regrettable verity of life atop a mountain,' he said. 'If the weather is bad in the valleys it is always worse here-especially in winter.'
'It is often like this?' wondered Cait, extending her hands towards the fire.
'Worse, Ketmia. Winter arrives with a fury, and leaves only with the greatest reluctance. We call it al-Zoba'a: the Ferocious One. But the palace walls are stout, my forests keep us well supplied with firewood, and the harvest of the valleys is always bountiful, so we do not often have cause to trouble Heaven with our complaints.'
'Lord Rognvald thinks the storm will prevent us from resuming the search,' Cait said, hoping for a better word.
'Then he is most prudent,' agreed Hasan cheerfully. 'It is unwise to tempt fate on a day like this.' At Cait's distraught expression, he said, 'Yet all is not lost, Ketmia.' He took her hand in both of his and pressed it comfortingly. 'For if the storm prevents us from searching, it also prevents Ali Waqqar from escaping to the south.'
'Do you think that is where they are going?'
'To be sure,' replied Hasan. 'Winter is mild in the south, and he will be able to sell to the slave traders.' Cait had never considered this possibility before, and it brought her up short; the prince immediately offered consolation. 'Have no fear, Ketmia, that will not happen. I will not allow it.'
Spreading his arms wide, he took both Cait and Rognvald in his stride and said, 'But come, my friends, this is a disagreeable business to discuss on an empty stomach. Let us break fast together, and I will tell you how I plan to catch this rogue who has abducted the fair Alethea. For I pondered this matter long last night and this morning Allah, Author of Eternal Justice, has blessed me with a scheme of such simplicity and cunning it could only come by way of divine inspiration.'
He led them through a door to a chamber behind the hearth. Dim light shone through tiny diamond-shaped windows of coloured glass, casting the room in shades of deep blue. One wall opened on to the hearth, so that
