Cybele's Secret

“Lights,” panted Duarte. “Ahead, see there….”

Stoyan halted. He put me down, and when I sagged against his chest, too dizzy to hold myself upright, he gripped my arms to steady me. His touch left smears of blood on my shirt. The rhythm of my heart was like the galloping of a warhorse.

“We’re out,” Duarte gasped. “Look, stars, the moon….”

“And lanterns,” I said, gazing along the tunnel to the place where a view of the outside world could be seen.

We walked forward. As we did, the mountain sent a last warning rumble after us, and I thought I could feel the ground shaking. We ran and did not stop until we came out into an open place, a bowllike depression high on the flank of the mountain, where an old, gnarled tree whose shape was familiar to me stood alone amongst rocks. A bonfire blazed in the open space before it. There were lanterns and torches and musicians playing long horns and drums and little cymbals. There was a crowd of people, young and old, clad in embroidered felt and sheepskin and fur and fringed leather: a whole village of folk dressed in their best, ready for a celebration. I saw masks and painted faces. Over on one side, people were beating on drums of many sizes and styles. A great shout greeted our appearance. But behind us, the mountain had fallen quiet. Cybele’s doors were closed. I could not forget the look on the crone’s face as she bade us farewell. I suspected the old woman had known, in that moment, that it would end this way—that Irene, Cybele’s so-called priestess, would never walk out of the mountain to see the goddess come home.

As we approached the assembled folk, beaming smiles broke out all around and the music rose to an exuberant climax. It looked as if they had been expecting us. It is foretold, the djinn had said.

Duarte stepped forward, a lean, handsome figure in his tattered clothing. Two old women in bright woolens came up to greet him with formal kisses on both cheeks. These two were not veiled. Indeed, none of these women were—some wore hats or little decorative kerchiefs, but most of them had their hair luxuriantly loose, flying about them in wild banners as they danced. Their dress was loose trousers under shift and caftan. The men’s outfits were similar, though more sober in color. The dancers formed long lines, hands held at shoulder level, bodies snaking and weaving as feet followed an intricate pattern. The drums made a shifting heartbeat in the spark-brightened air.

The old women were slipping a garland of leaves over Duarte’s head; others came forward to decorate Stoyan and me in the same way. Duarte had begun an explanation in Turkish. I picked up Mustafa, and Cybele, and bringing it home. At a certain point, he said, Paula and Stoyan, glancing toward us with a slight frown. I was leaning on Stoyan; he had his arm around my shoulders. I felt the uneven rise and fall of his chest, heard the wheezing catch in his breath.

“Stoyan, what did the old woman mean about an arrow? You’re badly hurt, aren’t you?”

Duarte was handing Cybele’s Gift to one of the elders, bowing, stepping back. A high ululation arose from the villagers, and out on the mountain, there was an echo that sounded like the voices of wolves.

“It’s nothing,” Stoyan murmured. “You’re shivering, Paula. Here.” Our packs had been left behind in the caves. Now he loosened his sash and set the priceless diadem on the ground. He took off the garland and slipped his tunic over his head. I saw him wince as he raised his arms. “Put this on,” he said, draping the garment around my shoulders. The touch of his hands filled me with warmth; I wanted him to leave them there. Then I saw a fresh bloodstain on his shirt, near the shoulder.

“You’re bleeding!”

“I told you, it’s nothing.”

“I don’t believe you. Show me—”

“It’s not important, Paula. It looks worse than it is. Sit down, here. You’re exhausted. Look, this woman is bringing you a blanket.”

I sat, and by signs I conveyed to the woman that Stoyan needed attention. With some reluctance, he let himself be persuaded to sit down on the rocks while she removed his shirt and tended to what appeared to be quite a nasty flesh wound. There was no shortage of volunteers to help her. Much to their patient’s embarrassment, as they performed the job, they kept up an animated commentary complete with gestures. It was evident that they thought him a magnificent example of manhood. They kept glancing at me.

“When did that happen?” I asked, trying not to meet Stoyan’s eye.

“It was before we entered the caves. The fight on the mountainside. An arrow at an inconvenient moment.”

“You said that was only a scratch. I believed you. How did you carry me on your shoulders with an injury like that?”

Stoyan stared into the distance as the women dabbed at the injury. “Your weight is light, Paula, and you balance like a bird.”

I said nothing. Despite my exhaustion, I was full of the need to touch Stoyan, to be close to him, to put into words the realization that had become stronger every moment as we made our perilous journey through the mountain. Every step of the way, he had been my rock, my guide, my protector, and my indispensable friend. Don’t lie to yourself, Paula. Not just a friend. His waiting arms had given me the courage to swing across that chasm. His had been the hand that was my grip on sanity, my guard against mindless terror, my lifeline. I had known, when he was squeezing himself through that impossibly narrow tunnel, that I could not bear it if I lost him. Stoyan was far more than a friend, and if I’d been brave enough to get through Cybele’s mountain, I could surely find the courage to tell him how I felt. So why was my heart thumping with trepidation?

I looked across the open space and saw Duarte now enveloped in a small, enthusiastic crowd, both men and women. He was listening hard as the elders who had welcomed him offered a lengthy explanation of something. I was too tired to make any sense of what little I could hear.

The women who were tending to Stoyan found him a clean shirt and a dolman of dark red wool. Folk brought us more blankets, cups of a steaming beverage, sheepskin hats. So high on the mountain, it was bitterly cold. And nighttime. The moon was high. Our progress through that underground place had taken many hours.

“What are they saying, Stoyan? Can you hear?”

“They say the statue has returned to the place of its origin,” he said. “That it was foretold. Everything—three travelers, a mariner, a warrior, and a scholar. That the mountain would roar when Cybele came home. That the secret path would be opened and then closed again. And…” He hesitated.

“What?” I asked, hugging the blanket around me and thinking I had never understood how wonderful it was to be warm until now.

“The tree,” Stoyan said. “Something about the tree…”

The moon was shining between the branches now, a perfect disk of silver. The crowd was suddenly hushed; the music died down. Every eye was turned toward the tree. It looked immensely old and so shriveled it must surely no longer hold any life within it. The little statue had been placed amongst the roots; the hollow eyes of Cybele gazed out at us, inscrutable and strange.

“It has borne neither leaves nor buds nor fruit in living memory,” said Stoyan. “But the old women said to Duarte that tonight it will be different. On the night of Cybele’s return, everything will change. The words will be spoken—the last wisdom of the goddess.”

Into the stillness, the two old women cried out together, chanting in a tongue unfamiliar to me. The firelight touched their faces as they raised both arms toward the rotund trunk and gnarled branches of Cybele’s tree. A swarm of insects arose, circling and dancing amongst the boughs. And on the tips of the twigs, where before had been only hard, dry wood, now sprouted the greenest of new growth, tiny leaves that uncurled under the darkness of night, hesitant and fresh. Amongst the tender shoots, a multitude of little bright birds hopped and fluttered and sang. There was no doubt about it: The goddess had come home.

“Don’t cry, Paula,” murmured Stoyan, and folded his arms around me.

But I put my hands up to my face and wept against his shoulder. The beauty of the moment was too much to take in. I heard the wild music start up again, felt the thud of many feet around me as the folk of the village danced around the fire, celebrating the return of their community’s heart. It was good. It was a rightful ending to Duarte’s quest. But this out-pouring of happiness, not to mention the sheer delight of being in Stoyan’s arms, did not outweigh the death of Pero, the terrible fates of Murat and Irene. Some of the responsibility for those deaths lay with me. If I had not wanted so badly to prove to Duarte that my father had a better claim to Cybele’s Gift, I would not be here now, and nor would Stoyan. If we had not been here, Irene and Murat could not have found their way into the mountain.

“Paula.” It was Duarte’s voice. I wiped my cheeks and moved away from Stoyan. Duarte was squatting in front of us, with several smiling villagers behind him. “No tears. This is a party. Mustafa’s people have expressed profound thanks to all of us for returning the statue here. It is their belief that in this time when other religious faiths are gaining strength in the world outside, Cybele should be sheltered here, where she will be safe from the destructive hands of those who do not understand her message.”

“We almost brought a pair of those destructive hands right to them,” I said. “What message?”

“They are singing the words now, this time in Turkish.”

“Words?” I asked stupidly.

“The words of the goddess, those written on her belly. First they were spoken by the elders in the old tongue, and now they are echoed by all. Eat of my deep earth, drink of my living streams, for I am your Mother. Your heart is my wild drum, your breath my eternal song. If you would live, dance with me! Somewhat obscure in meaning, but I’m told that’s an accurate translation. These people expected us tonight. Our arrival was foretold down to the exact hour.”

I nodded. After all the strange things that had happened today, a prophecy was not so difficult to accept. I was not sure I understood exactly what Cybele’s fabled last message meant. Perhaps I was simply too tired to understand.

“They honor the earth,” Stoyan said quietly, as if he could read my mind. “The earth that nurtures crops and gives them clay for their houses, the water that sustains life. In these words, Cybele bids us live in harmony with that which gave us birth. From that arises a mode of living that is simple and wise, one in which man and woman understand their part in the wholeness of things.”

I was without words. How was it he could understand so quickly, as if he had the answers stored somewhere deep inside him? That grandmother of his must have been an exceptional woman.

“These folk expect us to join them for dancing and feasting,” Duarte said. “They’ve asked me to bring my sweetheart—their word, not mine—out into the circle where they can see you properly. I know you’re tired and upset, Paula. But we owe it to them to try, at least.”

When he put it like that, there really was no choice. I got up and took off my blanket. One of the women brought me a shawl instead, dark blue with little mirrors sewn all over it, so that when I moved, I carried the moonlight with me. I put my hand in Duarte’s and we joined the dancing. Now that I had let it rest for a little, my body was protesting about the bruises and scratches it had sustained during our journey through the mountain, and I was surprised I could even walk, let alone perform any sort of capering. But the moment the music began again and the circle started to move—clapping, swaying, stamping—memories of the Other Kingdom and Ileana’s revels came flooding back to me, and the rhythm crept into my bones and my blood and made my feet light. So I danced, and with each dance I floated further away from my worldly cares, seeing an answering spark of joy on Duarte’s drawn features as we turned and stepped and moved as a pair. And after a while, this was the only place I wanted to be, my body’s surrender to the music the only thing that was keeping me from breaking apart. Even in the center of such celebration, I knew sadness was only a breath away.

The night wore on, dance following dance. Various men came up and asked shyly if they could partner me, but Duarte kept a firm grip on my hand, and one by one they withdrew. Later, a line of men in animal masks performed what looked like a stylized version of the trials and tests of Cybele’s mountain. Within the sequence of dancelike moves was a part where a man in a woman’s gown balanced on another’s shoulders and then a part where a blindfolded man made a dangerous progress between two rows of women using sharp-toothed puppets on sticks. There was mock combat, tumbling, and juggling. All the while, the drummers beat out their throbbing rhythm. Flasks of drink went around; whatever it was, it kindled fire in the belly, banishing the deep chill of the mountain night. I drank very little. The dancing had kept me warm, but I became too tired to take another step. Besides, I had not spoken to Stoyan yet, not properly, and I knew that, nervous as I felt, tonight was the time to do it. I had become more and more aware of his somber expression, his narrowed eyes fixed on me and Duarte as we navigated the steps of one dance after another. I had not expected Stoyan to join in, injured as he was, though I had been thinking how much nicer this would be if he were the one out here holding my hand. But the look on his face worried me. Caught up in the thrill of the revels, I had allowed myself to forget for a little that I had something important to say to him, something that was going to take all the courage I could find.

I gave my excuses to Duarte, pleading weariness, and walked out of the dancing throng.

“You like to dance,” Stoyan observed flatly as I went over to sit by him.

For a little I did not answer. Now that I had stopped moving, the bitter cold was creeping into my bones.

“Stoyan?” I ventured.

“Mmm?”

“I have so much to thank you for I don’t know where to begin. Without you, we wouldn’t be here, the three of us. And you saved my sister.” I still could hardly believe how cleverly he had done that. “How did you think of that, using the dog to help you?”

“I simply knew what to do, Paula. It was not such a great thing.”

“My sisters are very dear to me. You probably know that already. But I didn’t realize how much I loved Tati until I saw her in trouble and couldn’t work out how to help her. Now maybe I will be able to see her again. There’s no way I can thank you for such a gift.”

He said what I expected him to say: “It is nothing, Paula.”

“I have something to ask you, Stoyan.”

“Ask, then.”

I drew a breath, ready to say the all-important words. But I couldn’t get them out. He looked so serious, almost disapproving. So I asked a different question. “You remember what happened at the swinging bridge, when those guards called you Your Excellency and let us across. Do you think…I mean, clearly they mistook you for somebody else. Did it occur to you—”

Stoyan stared down at his hands. “That perhaps I was mistaken for my brother?” he said quietly. “Yes, I thought of it. There have been many false hopes, Paula, many threads of information that frayed to nothing. I have taught myself to expect little.”

“But it could be,” I said. “If a devshirme boy proved clever and apt, it is possible, isn’t it, that even at the young age of eighteen he could be in a position of some power or authority in a region such as this? There cannot be many men who look like you, Stoyan.”

He turned his gaze on me. If I felt sick with tension, he looked worse. His jaw was tight, his eyes miserable. “It could be so,” he said. “I do not know if my brother grew up to resemble me. When they took him, he was only a child.”

“You must find out,” I said. “He could be somewhere really close, perhaps in that town farther along the coast. Some of these folk might know of him. You should look for him now, Stoyan.”

There was a little silence. Not far off, Duarte was dancing in a circle of admiring women, young girls, elderly matrons, and everything in between. On the tree above him, the leaf canopy was burgeoning into a shady mantle touched by the moonlight to uncanny silver-blue. A high chorus of birdsong rang forth from it.

“No,” Stoyan said.

“No? You can’t mean that, Stoyan. It’s your mission, your quest! It would be crazy not to pursue it when you may be so close.”

“I will take you back to Istanbul. Your father will be worried. You need to go home.”

“Duarte can take me. I’ll be fine.”

“You will travel on the Esperança, of course. But not without your guard. I must see you safely back to your father.”

A silence followed. This was the moment when I should speak, when I should be honest and tell him I could not face the prospect of being back in Istanbul and having to say goodbye to him. Maybe once we had been mistress and servant, but that had changed long ago, well before I had flippantly dismissed him from his position as bodyguard. He must know how his smile warmed me, how his touch awakened me. It had seemed to me, in the caves and before, that he felt the same. I was an adult woman, wasn’t I? So why was I trembling with nerves at the very thought of putting such feelings into words?

“Stoyan…I…”

He said nothing.

“I have something to say to you. Please hear me out.” My heart was pounding. “Stoyan…I know we are worlds apart, the two of us. When Father and I came to Istanbul, when we hired you, all we needed was someone who would be strong and reliable and keep trouble away. We never…I never…” This was going badly already. I cleared my throat and tried again. “We’ve become friends, you and I. Good friends. What just happened in the caves, that seemed to show…I mean, I do know there are enormous differences between us, education and background, language, profession, the fact that your home is in Bulgaria and mine far away in Transylvania. People—society, the world—would view anything between us as ridiculous, impossible. And there’s your quest for your brother. That means you’ll have to stay in the region well after Father and I have to leave. Any sensible person would tell us we should just say goodbye when we get back to Istanbul and enjoy the memory of what we’ve shared here, a remarkable, exceptional adventure….” Now I was going to cry. I ordered myself to get the most important words out, the ones I was leading up to, but my stupid tongue would not obey.

Stoyan’s features were transformed by the firelight into a mask of orange-gold, his scar a sharp slash across his cheek, his mouth particularly tight. That look was less than encouraging. It seemed to me that the more I blundered on, the further inside himself my friend was retreating. While I struggled to find the right words, the ones that would tell him what was in my heart, his grimness set a chill on me, making such honesty almost impossible. What had happened to the closeness we had felt in the mountain, the desperate clinging of our hands on our wild chase through the dark, the unspoken trust we had shared in the cave of the creatures? He had touched me with tenderness after I crossed that bridge. His eyes had spoken sweet words after we came across the lake. Now he was as silent as stone.

“What I’m trying to say is that despite all those things, despite the many reasons people would think it’s unsuitable, I…I don’t want to say goodbye when we get back to Istanbul. And I did wonder if…” I could hardly launch into a marriage proposal. Maybe I was not the most conventional of young women, but it seemed wrong to take the initiative in this most traditionally male of duties. “If there might be some way we could…we could be together.” That sounded even worse, as if I were proposing something quite improper. “I don’t mean…” I added hastily, then faltered to a halt. His face remained guarded and wary, even after that. It was quite obvious he was not going to come out with an expression of love. From an arm’s length away, I could tell that his whole body was strung up with tension.

“Are you finished, Paula?” he asked.

“Don’t worry,” I said, wrapping my arms around myself and looking at the ground. “It’s obvious you think it’s a silly idea, so just forget I ever suggested it.” There was hurt all through me, a pain I could never have believed possible. He didn’t need to say a single thing more for me to know I had messed this up completely. Yet I had been sure, almost sure, that he felt the same way I did.

“One cannot argue with this logic.” Stoyan’s voice cracked, and although my heart had gone cold, I reached out, intending to take his hand. He drew it away. “You say, let us be together despite this, despite that. If a man truly loves, Paula, such a word as this does not enter his mind. He does not consider the obstacles, the restrictions, the reasons why his choice may be flawed or impractical. He gives no heed to what others may think. His heart has no room for that, for it is filled to the brim with the unutterable truth of his feelings.”

“But—” I blurted out, desperate to make him understand that I did love him and that if I hadn’t been so tired and nervous, I would have said it much better.

“Hear me out, Paula, please. I cannot say this twice over. As you have reminded me in such a timely fashion, your future is one of wealth and opportunity, of scholarship and achievement. You will move in circles far beyond the reach of a man like me. If we imagine things might be otherwise, we entertain a delusion born of the strange adventures we have undertaken together. Were we to seek something further, and I cannot pretend the idea has never entered my mind, we would soon find ourselves at war. You would seek from me an erudition and cleverness I have no capacity to offer, and you would become bitter that you had tied yourself to a man of such limitations. I would…Never mind that. By the time we return to Istanbul, you will look back with gratitude that I answered you thus, Paula. You inhabit one world, the same world as Duarte, with its privileges and its possibilities. I exist in another entirely.”

It felt as if he’d hit me. With that well-phrased speech, he had effectively severed the bond between us, and it was like cutting off my supply of fresh air. I sat there, miserable and silent, with Stoyan close enough to touch but separated from me as completely as if there were a wall between us.

Duarte strode forth from the dancing, a hand extended toward me, a smile softening his features. He was flushed from the activity and from the fire, which crackled high, lighting up the night. “One more dance, come on! You too, Stoyan. We must show these folk we appreciate their welcome. After this, we’re invited to go back to their village for some sleep. Tomorrow they’ll take us down to another anchorage. A fishing boat can ferry us around to the Esperança. Home’s in sight, my friends!”

I got to my feet. One thing was certain—I could not remain here with Stoyan after that speech, or I would break apart.

“Come on, Stoyan,” Duarte said, grabbing his hand and hauling him to his feet. “Unless that arrow you stopped for me has winged you too badly.” He turned to me. “I imagine our friend here didn’t give you the full story; he’s never keen to draw attention to his own exploits. If he hadn’t pushed me out of its path, that barb would have taken me right in the chest. So just when I’ve finally repaid my debt to Mustafa, I’ve acquired another.”

“There is no obligation,” Stoyan said in a voice that sounded gray and drained. “It was a battle; in a battle one protects one’s comrades. Must I dance?”

“We all must,” I said grimly, since the alternative was to sit about feeling utterly wretched until it was time to go. We owed it to Cybele, I thought, to honor her with celebration. Our personal feelings played no part in that.

So we danced, the three of us, I in the middle, my friends on either side, part of a big circle of folk all with hands on each other’s shoulders, working through a complicated sequence of repeated steps as the music got gradually faster and faster. The pipe shrilled, the drums pounded, the horns bellowed in turn and then together, blasting a wild fanfare into the night. Duarte managed an exhausted smile. To these folk, he was a hero, his debt of honor paid at last. But he had lost a good friend on the way. Stoyan was pale, his expression forbidding, his hands still stained with Murat’s blood. He, in his borrowed clothes, looked tidier than Duarte or I did. But all of us showed the signs of our ordeal, our eyes shadowed with weariness and shock, our hair tangled, our bodies battered and sore. Still we danced, heads held high, in tribute to the mountain people who had held on to faith and hope for so long.

The moon crossed the sky; the tree rustled in a light breeze. Sparks from the great fire rose into the night air. And while my feet trod the intricate patterns of the dance and my mouth formed a smile, inside I was aching with sadness. Stoyan’s words had been like nails driven into my heart. I had thought what we had was strong enough to defy custom and expectation, to leap barriers of distance and difference. He had thrown my stumbling arguments back in my face. Tonight, this dance, was the last time I would be able to touch his strong shoulder, to feel his warm presence by my side, to glance up and know he would be there. Until the music ended, I could pretend we did not have to say goodbye.

We left the next morning. The villagers gave us warm clothing and an escort down a precipitous track, and a fisherman ferried us back to the Esperança. Plague had not yet touched the mountain village, but the people knew it was not far away, and they did not linger.

The mood on the ship was somber, the loss of Pero weighing heavily on Duarte and on his crewmen. Arrangements were changed. Stoyan asked to be a full member of the crew on the way back, and Duarte accepted his offer. That meant Stoyan slept with the other men and Duarte reoccupied his cabin, putting me in Pero’s. I was sure Stoyan had done this less from a wish to be useful than from a need to avoid talking to me. On the rare occasions when we crossed paths, he greeted me with courteous formality, just as any other crewman might, though the others generally gave me a smile. My blundering attempt to tell him what I felt for him appeared to have destroyed not only the future we might have shared but also the close friendship we already had. And yet the more I thought about it, the more I recognized the depth of my feelings for him, feelings that had been creeping up on me long before our passage through the mountain had awoken me to their true nature. I was so wounded by his attitude that I spent most of the time in my cabin, brooding. I tried to make sense of everything that had happened.

I thought a lot about Irene and what she had done at the end. I went back over what I had observed of her relationship with Murat, the wordless understanding that had shown itself in everything from the pouring of a perfect cup of coffee to the instant deployment of a murderous weapon. I had seen, in that moment of terrible grief as she cradled her dying steward in her arms, that she loved him. It had been clear that she had never considered he might fall in her service and that, for a little at least, the loss of him had far outweighed the value of Cybele’s Gift. Had she realized, in that moment, that she did not want to go on without him? Perhaps; she could have escaped with us, and she had chosen to stay behind. As for the nature of their love, that I would never know, and maybe it did not matter. Maybe it was enough to be aware that Irene had possessed the capacity for such feelings.

Stoyan’s behavior, to which he adhered with stern resolve throughout the voyage, meant I was thrown into Duarte’s company. He, at least, seemed happy to spend time with me. I heard about his family. They were wealthy; the Esperança was not the only vessel they owned. He told me about his early rebellion against his father’s expectations, his travels as a lowly crewman on various ships, how he had risen to be captain of his own vessel—not the Esperança, which had been a later acquisition, but a more modest one-master. He had indeed supplemented his income with acts of piracy in those early years and had garnered a reputation as ruthless and successful. The long debt of honor to Mustafa had gradually changed him. He said that he no longer employed the kind of tactics he once had, and I believed him, for our journey had convinced me he was a good man at heart. Indeed, he was now a wealthy man in his own right, with no need to engage in underhand practices. He was, in fact, the respectable trader his father had always wanted him to be—he had just taken a little longer to get there than his father would have liked.

I asked him what he would do now that his mission was over, and he said he would go home for a while. The crew was overdue for time off. And Pero’s wife must be told that she was a widow. She would be provided for, as would the fatherless children. There was a code amongst seafarers that required this.

It seemed to me that this account was not quite complete, that there was something on Duarte’s mind he was not telling me. I saw it in the quality of his smile and in the guarded eyes. I did not press it. We were all tired. But it seemed to me Duarte was somewhat adrift now, as a man might well be when his energies have gone for so long toward a single purpose and that purpose suddenly ceases to exist. He needed time to come to terms with the change, to work out what it meant. We read poetry together, drank wine, sometimes sat in companionable silence. It was pleasant, but it could not soothe the ache in my chest that never went away.

We did not encounter the red-sailed ship. Perhaps it was still moored in that little bay, waiting for Irene and Murat to return. Without her orders, I did not suppose the crew would bother pursuing us. I wondered if I would have to report her death and Murat’s to the authorities in Istanbul. I was much relieved when Duarte told me he would take care of this. He would, he said, give a version of our story that could not lead the authorities to Mustafa’s village or expose Irene’s secret to the world. If there was evidence of the cult in her house, something that would reveal the truth to her husband, there was very little we could do about it.

And so fifteen days after our departure, we sailed back into the Golden Horn. The moment the Esperança was tied up at the dock, Duarte got a boy to run up to the Genoese han to advise my father that I was back safe and well and would be there shortly. Stoyan took my little bundle, which contained Tati’s embroidery and the clothing I had been wearing, an Anatolian countrywoman’s outfit given to me in the mountain village to replace my shredded sailor’s clothes. I wore the Greek-style dress that Irene had given me the last time I was in her hamam, the day when Stoyan burst in on us. I could not believe that was less than three weeks ago.

Duarte gave me a book—the Odyssey—and kissed me on the lips at the top of the gangway to a chorus of whistles and amiable catcalls from the crew. As Stoyan and I walked down, their voices rang out behind us: Paula, de brancura singela… I was close to tears and annoyed with myself for being so upset. We had all known it could not last forever.

Father did not utter a single word of reproach but simply gathered me in his arms and thanked God that I was safe. I told him the bare bones of the story but omitted quite a bit of detail, knowing how upset he would be to hear of the physical hardships and danger Tati and I had faced. He listened quietly, as he had six years ago when we had been obliged to explain to him that his eldest daughter had gone to the Other Kingdom and that he would never see her again. When I was finished, Father asked a couple of questions: Was Tati looking well? Had I been injured at all? And lastly, was I happy with the final fate of Cybele’s Gift? If so, Father said, he would draw a line under that matter and we would simply move on. I assured him that what we had done was for the best, even though it meant his voyage had been a commercial failure. It was not an easy conversation.

Stoyan was silent and tense, though when Father embraced him and thanked him for bringing me back safely, he thawed a little. We would be leaving on the Stea de Mare in a few days’ time, and there was much still to be done. If we had not returned when we had, Father would have stayed in Istanbul and kept on searching for us. Because of that uncertainty, he had not finalized the accounts or completed packing the goods we had purchased to take back to Transylvania. He would need me to help with the former and Stoyan for the latter.

I was so tired I could hardly stay on my feet. I greeted Giacomo and Maria and thanked them for their help. They had not only nursed my father back to health but had also put a great deal of effort into assisting him with the search. Father scrutinized me as I swayed and yawned, then told me the accounts could wait until tomorrow. I went to bed and slept for fourteen hours. I got up, washed, and ate breakfast, then went back to bed, promising Father I would do the work in the afternoon. He and Stoyan were busy in the downstairs chamber we were using for our goods, packing up silks.

I did not wake until the midday call to prayer rang out over the Genoese mahalle. I found Father out on the gallery drinking tea. He had sent Stoyan to the docks with a cartload of items to be stowed on the ship.

“I’ve had a visitor,” Father said. “Sit down, Paula. You still look exhausted.” He stood and gestured to the tea vendor down in the courtyard.

“A visitor?” I queried, subsiding onto a chair. “Who?”

“Your friend Duarte Aguiar. He paid me a formal call.”

“I’m sorry I missed him.” It was unsurprising. Duarte would have felt obliged to give some explanation, I imagined, for what must appear to the outside world as a kind of abduction. “When is Stoyan coming back, Father?”

“In time for supper, I imagine.” Father was looking at me quizzically. “Why do you ask?”

“No special reason.” I couldn’t bear that we should leave with things the way they were between Stoyan and me. But he had made it clear that he didn’t want to entertain my suggestion. On all sorts of levels, this was perfectly logical. We were completely different. Our homes were many miles apart. I was a scholarly girl of prosperous merchant stock, he an uneducated farmer from a remote village. He had sworn to find his brother and take the news to his mother, and I was on my way back home. It could be years before I traveled this way again. I might never come. What chance of success could a partnership between us possibly have?

“Mmm-hmm,” murmured Father. “Have you two argued? I’ve noticed quite a frosty atmosphere between you. And Stoyan seems…” He hesitated, searching for the right word. “He seems disturbed.”

“We had a disagreement. Don’t trouble yourself with it.” Oh, how I wished one of my sisters were here, Jena in particular, so I could unburden my sadness and confusion to her and seek some practical advice. This wasn’t something I could tell Father.

After I’d been scowling into the middle distance for a while, Father said, “Aren’t you going to ask me what Aguiar wanted?”

“Wanted? Wasn’t he here to apologize to you?”

The tea vendor’s boy had come up with a laden tray. I helped myself to a glass and sipped gratefully.

“He asked for your hand in marriage.” Father sounded mildly amused as he delivered this thunderbolt.

“He…what?”

“Made a formal proposal of marriage, accompanied by all the information a father expects at such a time. It sounds as if the fellow is quite wealthy, Paula. And the family is well thought of by the rulers of that country, if Aguiar is to be believed. All this, of course, weighed against his dubious personal reputation. He spoke highly of you. You’ve clearly made an impression.”

I was almost speechless. “Why didn’t he say anything to me?” Never in my wildest flight of imagination had I foreseen this. I struggled to make sense of how I felt. Confused and unsettled, certainly. But pleased as well. After Stoyan’s rebuff, this made me feel just a little better about myself. Duarte did have a lot to offer, far more than my father could learn from a quick interview. “What did you tell him?” I asked.

“I said no, of course.” Father was calm, his gaze fixed on me.

“You said no? Just like that? Without even asking me?” I was outraged. Perhaps this was what run-of-the-mill fathers did, fathers of the kind who did not view their daughters as intelligent, independent human beings with opinions of their own. But not my father.

“You needed your sleep. Don’t be upset, Paula. A man who gives up after a single refusal is not worth considering as a son-in-law, in my view. I expect he’ll be back. Are you saying you actually want to marry the fellow?”

I felt a blush rising to my cheeks. “I’m not saying that at all, Father. Only that I would like to be consulted before such a decision is made. It is the rest of my life, after all.”

“Portugal is a long way off.” He looked suddenly desolate. I got up and went to put my arms around him.

“He might not come back anyway,” I said. “Don’t worry, Father. Now where are these accounts?”

Stoyan returned briefly, procured supper for the three of us, then asked my father if he might absent himself until tomorrow morning. He was still trying to avoid me, I knew it. There were questions in my eyes, perhaps—questions whose answers would be too painful to speak aloud.

As we ate in awkward silence, it came to me that I did not need to look at Stoyan to make an inventory of all the things that pleased me about him: his imposing height and broad shoulders, his muscular arms, the cascade of thick dark hair, the amber eyes that could be as gentle as a dove’s or as fierce as a wolf’s. The pale intensity of his complexion, marked by the jagged scar whose trajectory I would like to trace with my fingers. The strong bones of cheeks and jaw. Most of all, his rare wisdom, an inner stillness and understanding that went far beyond such surface cleverness as a capacity to read and write or a facility with numbers. There was so little time left. His silence troubled me, and so did the forbidding look on his face. I knew how strong-minded he was. The shield he had set up around himself was almost perfect. But tonight, for the first time since the voyage home, I thought I could see through that barrier to the pain it concealed. In Stoyan’s guarded eyes, I glimpsed a perfect reflection of what was in my own heart, and a tiny flame of hope flared inside me. Perhaps, after all, it was not too late. I must talk to him again, and this time I must get it right. When he came back tomorrow morning, I would do it.

Father gave Stoyan leave of absence, and we spent the evening quietly packing our personal items. There was only one load of goods to go to the ship now. We would be sailing the day after tomorrow. We talked a little more about Cybele’s Gift and what its true importance was. So many folk had wanted to track it down for so many different reasons. Irene and Murat had been prepared to kill for it. So had the Sheikh-ul-Islam, if it was true that the Mufti had ordered Salem’s death for, as he saw it, encouraging pagan practices within the city.

“The leaders of the Other Kingdom back home always intend good for human folk provided we can learn our lessons,” I told Father. “I’m sure their counterparts here, like the crone we met in the caves, are exactly the same, though their methods are more brutal. They wanted Cybele’s Gift to go back to Mustafa’s village. It’s more than just another primitive artifact; it’s a recognition of old, good ways. It’s the same lesson they tried to teach Cezar when he intended to chop down our forest rather than harbor Ileana’s people. Respect for…for Mother Earth, I suppose you could say.”

“I had heard,” Father said as he tightened a cord around a box and knotted it, “that Cybele’s rites were somewhat violent and bloody. That does not seem entirely apt for this message you set out.”

“Maybe they once were. What we saw was stylized: people in masks, men in women’s clothing, and so on. No bloodletting, just dancing, games, and music. Irene set herself up as a priestess of Cybele. But I think she got things wrong when she restricted her rites to women only, with Murat, as a eunuch, the only exception. Up in that mountain village, men and women mingled freely and seemed equal, though it was the old women who led the ritual.”

“And what of the inscription?” Father asked. “Did you discover its meaning?”

“It’s not a key to instant good fortune. That legend must have grown up around Cybele’s Gift over the years it couldn’t be found. The inscription is just simple advice on how to live our lives well. Cybele tells her followers that if they live in harmony with the earth, respecting what she provides, she will continue to nurture them. And she tells them to celebrate the lives they have. That’s a message for everyone, men and women both. The villagers seemed to think the world was going through a time when that wisdom might not be understood. They said Cybele’s Gift, and her words, needed to be hidden away for a while, kept safe.”

“With folk like Irene of Volos in the world, as well as the Sheikh-ul-Islam, no doubt that is wise,” Father said. “Christian leaders in Istanbul would be equally determined to stamp out any evidence of idolatry, as they would see it. As for me, I am somewhat stunned by the whole sequence of events. I do not believe I will be trading in religious artifacts for some time. I’m certain you are not giving me the whole story, Paula. You think to spare a frail old man, perhaps.” There was a twinkle in his eye.

“You, frail?” I said. “You’re an exceptional parent, Father. I’ve always known that.” It was true. How many fathers would be so ready to accept what I had told him? How many would have allowed a daughter to come on the voyage in the first place, let alone forgiven so quickly the impetuous and crazy act that had seen her spirited away on a pirate ship?

Morning came, and with it not Stoyan but Duarte da Costa Aguiar, striding into the courtyard at an hour perhaps a little too early for a social visit but not too early for my father and me. We had been up since the morning call to prayer, getting the last of the goods ready for Stoyan to take down to the docks when he arrived. I was wearing my plainest gown and had my hair pinned tightly back under a scarf.

Father saw Duarte coming and said to me, “Choose wisely, Paula. You’re a fine girl, full of spirit and intelligence. I may not like this man very much, but I can see that in many ways he’s ideal for you. You and he have a great deal in common. I suggest you take him up to the gallery and leave me to get on with this.”

I wiped clammy hands on my skirt, suddenly overcome with nerves. I would have liked a chance to wash, to brush my hair, to put on a better outfit, perhaps the plum-colored silk and the lovely veil Duarte had given me.

“You look fine, Paula,” Father said, setting his hands on my shoulders and kissing me gently on the cheek. “Go on now.”

Well, Duarte had seen me grimy and sweaty with my clothing in rags, so perhaps it didn’t matter. Now he greeted me with a smile, exchanged courteous words with my father, then followed me up the steps to the gallery, where we seated ourselves at the little table. I wished I had brought something to occupy my hands. I clutched them together in my lap and cleared my throat.

“Father told me about yesterday,” I said awkwardly. “I was…surprised. Very surprised.”

Duarte had dressed for the occasion. His shirt was of pristine linen, his tunic and trousers of finest wool in the light blue-gray he seemed to favor. His boots were buffed to a shine. Around his neck he wore my red scarf. I considered the aristocratic features, the mischievous dark eyes, the glossy black hair caught neatly back with a ribbon. The upright, athletic body. I tried to imagine being his wife. “To be honest,” I added, “you’ve never struck me as the marrying kind of man.”

“Up until recently, I was not,” he said, and I heard the slight tremor in his voice. He was nervous, too. “Our recent journey, the pleasure we took in each other’s company, the way the whole ship came to life while we had you on board…these things have changed my mind on the issue. The fulfillment of my debt of honor has caused me to reassess the future. Master Teodor will have told you, no doubt, that I gave him an inventory of my personal resources and those of my family. I want you to know that I did so not because I believe the final decision will be made on the basis of my wealth but so that your father will be reassured that I can offer you a secure future.”

“I see,” I said, wondering if I should tell him there was no need to set such details out for me.

“Paula, you know what kind of man I am. My past conduct has not always been entirely ethical. My life is one of constant movement and change. The success of this mission will not alter that. I love the sea. I love the adventure of it, the opportunities it offers, the surprises and challenges.” He had risen to his feet now and was standing by the railing with his back to me, tapping his fingers against his leg.

“Duarte,” I said, “why don’t you sit down? We are friends, aren’t we?”

He seated himself on the very edge of a chair.

“Good,” I said. “I’ve got a question for you. That life you just described, the life of a seafarer—it doesn’t sound like a life that has much room in it for wives. I could never be the sort of woman who tended the hearth and kept everything in place for a husband who dropped in once or twice a year when he felt like it. That seems to me quite pointless; one might as well stay single and live one’s own life.”

Duarte smiled. I liked that smile; it reminded me of our conversations on the Esperança, the way we sparked each other off with lively banter, each seeking to outwit the other in our debates on every topic under the sun. I had enjoyed those times. Father was right; Duarte was my intellectual equal, a partner such as I might have great difficulty in finding within my limited circle back home in Transylvania. He was clever, witty, possessed of a quirky sense of humor. He was also courageous, strong, and resourceful, not to speak of his physical charms and his considerable wealth. Not so long ago, I would have considered him completely unsuitable to be my husband or indeed anyone else’s. But he had proven himself to be a different man from the unscrupulous pirate I had once believed him.

“That wasn’t what I had in mind,” Duarte said quietly. “Nobody could imagine that a woman like you would be satisfied with that role, the stay-at-home wife waiting patiently while her husband goes off on adventures at a whim. It was for that reason I decided, long ago, that I would not marry. Such a partnership would be too uneven, and the kind of woman who wanted it would not be the kind of woman to interest me.”

I could not work out where he was heading. Down in the courtyard, near the area where Father was working, I glimpsed a tall, dark-haired figure in a dolman, with knives stuck in his sash. Suddenly every nerve in my body was on edge.

“Of course, when I made that decision, I had not met you, Paula,” Duarte said. “And I confess, during our earlier encounters, I had very mixed feelings about you. But I have entirely reassessed those feelings. I found it difficult to say farewell to you down at the docks. Then it came to me—I thought, perhaps I need not do this. Why should we not go forward together, side by side, companions in an even greater adventure? I believe we would continue to surprise and delight each other and add spice and sweetness to each other’s life.”

Down in the courtyard, Stoyan was moving in and out of the storage room, talking to Father. He looked as if he hadn’t slept a wink. My heart did a strange kind of flip-flop, as if to remind me to be honest with myself.

“You know I admire you, Duarte,” I managed. “I have greatly enjoyed your company. The voyage, your determination to fulfill your debt of honor, the way you conducted yourself…I can’t fail to hold you in high regard after that.” I drew a deep breath, struggling to keep calm. It wouldn’t be fair to cut him off short; he was a friend, and I owed him respect. “You still haven’t really answered my question. If I accepted you, where would I fit into the future you have said you want, the future of voyages and adventures and discoveries?”

“I was hoping,” he said, coming closer and dropping to one knee beside me, “that you would share it with me, Paula. Be my partner on the Esperança, travel with me, share my adventures. We would make an invincible team. Together, we could achieve anything. And think what enjoyment we would have doing so. Paula, I don’t think I am wrong in interpreting your willingness to spend time in my company as perhaps indicating you feel more than friendship toward me. I know your father intends to sail for home tomorrow. We don’t have much time. Can you give me an answer?”

The han seemed suddenly hushed. My answer trembled on my lips, reluctant to become sound, for I valued Duarte’s friendship and I respected the honesty with which he had presented his proposal—while it had scarcely been romantic in nature, he had said it in plain words, not masked by empty compliments. I rose to my feet, moving to stand at the railing. “Please don’t kneel like that,” I said, feeling tears somewhere close. “You’re making me feel awkward. Come over here, take my hand.”

He knew, then, that I was going to say no. I saw it on his face as he moved closer and put his hands around mine.

“I can’t,” I said bluntly. “I have a high regard for you, Duarte, and if the circumstances were different, I would accept your offer gladly. But I can’t.”

“Just like that you refuse me? Will you not at least take a little time to consider this? We could…” His words trailed off as he met my gaze. “You mean it,” he said simply. “You won’t change your mind.”

“I’m sorry, Duarte.” Cheeks flaming, I tried not to glance down to the courtyard. “You’re a fine man, and it hurts me to cause you pain. But I know I could never love you the way I should.”

He shrugged, lifting his brows and giving me that sardonic little smile. It made me want to cry.

“Ah, well,” he said, “I can see it’s back to a life of piracy for me. So much for redemption through the love of a good woman. It’s time I was off. But first…” And before I could so much as draw breath, he swept me into his arms and kissed me full on the lips, not the cheeky, joking kind of kiss he had given me as I left the Esperança but a proper kiss of a sort I had never before experienced. It was lovely: passionate, tender, a little frightening. It was a kiss that said, This is what you’re giving up. This is what we might have had. He did not release me for a while. When at last he did so, it was to turn abruptly on his heel and head off down the steps without another word.

I watched him cross the courtyard and vanish out the arched entry. As I turned back, I found myself looking directly at Stoyan, who was standing motionless in the open doorway of the storage room where he and Father had been working, gazing up at me. If he had appeared tired and dispirited before, now he looked like a man betrayed. There was no guard on his expression: The amber eyes were blazing with hurt, the lips twisted in furious outrage. If I had thought his feelings less strong than mine, I’d been wrong. I opened my mouth to call out, to offer some explanation, but he turned and disappeared inside. He must have seen us, Duarte and me. He had probably seen everything.

I was in no state to run down and explain myself, especially not in Father’s presence. I retreated to my closet, where I sat on the pallet and stared at the wall. Tati’s embroidery was spread across my pillow. I ran my fingers over the dancing figures, longing for my sisters to be here. Stela would give me a comforting hug; Jena would provide wise advice. Iulia would make a joke about men and how impossible they were. But my sisters were far away, and I felt utterly alone. The thrilling peril of the journey, the tragedy and triumph and the bond of friendship I had shared with these two men, each so lovely, each so different, seemed further away than ever. I had managed to wound both of them and to make myself utterly miserable.

A little later, after washing away the tearstains, I went down to the storage area. If I had to, I would ask Father if I could speak to Stoyan alone. I would tell Stoyan that I wanted to spend my life with him, no matter what. If there were obstacles, surely the two of us together had the strength to deal with them. We’d proved that on our journey through the mountain, hadn’t we? It sounded logical, but I was trembling with nerves as I went down the steps. How brave are you, Paula? I asked myself. Brave enough to put your heart on a chopping block and invite your dearest friend to cut it up?

The storage room was empty. Father and Stoyan had taken the last of our goods to the waterfront. I borrowed a millet broom and gave the chamber a vigorous sweeping. Under the rhythmic swishing sound, words came to me, a verse I had come close to forgetting in the turmoil that my life had become since our passage through the mountain. Water and stone, flesh and bone. Night and morn, rose and thorn…. I had not taken one gift out of Cybele’s treasure cave but two. How could I forget something as important as a riddle? At the time, it had seemed no more than nonsense pairs of contrasting words. Tree and wind, heart and mind.

Now, abruptly, I knew exactly why the crone had given it to me. I imagined strong stone supporting and aiding the passage of fluid water; a delicate flower protected by its sharp thorn, the two interdependent, contrasting parts of the same whole. I pictured a gale shivering through the trees, seeds spiraling downward to start a new forest. I considered how day followed night in inevitable sequence, each giving meaning to the other. The perfect team could be two people who were as unlike as rock and stream, high peak and west wind, bare earth and green shoot. They could complement and enhance each other’s strengths and make up for each other’s weaknesses. They could be so close it was as if they shared flesh and bone, heart and mind. That was how it had felt with Stoyan and me as we traversed the cave of the lake. We had worked together as if we were two parts of the same self. And that was how it felt now. I knew that if I lost him, something inside me would break beyond mending. There was no need to present him with logical arguments to support my case. There was no need for despite. All I needed to say was I love you.

The sweeping finished, I paced up and down the courtyard until Maria called me up to her quarters, saying she couldn’t bear to watch me any longer, and plied me with coffee and little honeyed pastries. I could tell she had seen me talking to Duarte, but I offered no explanations, and she was not quite prepared to ask what had occurred between us. I did wonder what damage my reputation had suffered after the journey and how much impact that might have on Father’s continuing success in these parts as a trader. Once we sailed back home, the stories would all die down, I thought. People would forget as soon as some new scandal took their interest.

“I think your father’s back, Paula,” Maria said, looking down toward the courtyard. We had been standing by the railing, finishing a second glass of tea and enjoying the warmth of the day while the activity of the han went on below us. She was smiling; it was clear she knew my mind was far away.

Father had come in through the arched entrance and was heading for the steps to the gallery. There was no sign of Stoyan.

“Thank you for the tea,” I said. “I’m sorry if I seem a little out of sorts. I’m still tired and there’s so much to do before we leave….”

“No trouble, Paula. Let me know if there’s anything more Giacomo and I can do to help.”

When I reached our apartment, Father was taking off his hat and cloak. He looked unusually somber.

“Father, is something wrong? You were gone a long time. Was there a problem with the goods?”

He shook his head. “No, Paula, everything is loaded and the Stea de Mare’s captain is confident of leaving on time tomorrow morning. I can hardly believe we’re headed home at last. It’s felt like a lifetime.”

“I’m sorry—”

He hushed me with an uncharacteristically sharp gesture. “No, no. Let’s not have that. What’s happened has happened, and you acted with the best intentions. You are safe, and I have come through my experience undamaged, if somewhat prematurely aged, so no more need be said on that score. I suppose I should ask what answer you gave Senhor Aguiar.”

“I refused him, Father. I like Duarte very much, but we are not suited as life companions. He accepted my answer, though I could see he was upset. Father, where is Stoyan?”

He did not answer immediately but looked at me with a little frown, as if he had some news he was unwilling to tell me.

“What, Father? You’re worrying me. What is it?” I put my hand on his sleeve.

“You won’t like this at all.”

I waited, heart suddenly racing.

“Stoyan’s gone,” Father told me flatly. “Once we’d seen the goods safely loaded onto the Stea de Mare, he announced that as we were to sail tomorrow, his duties for us were effectively at an end. He requested to be released forthwith. I had already paid him what he was owed and a little more for service beyond the call of duty. I did protest. I told him you’d be most upset if you couldn’t say goodbye, but he wouldn’t change his mind. On the face of it, his request was entirely reasonable. I had no choice but to let him go.”

I felt as if my insides had plummeted to the ground. Stoyan couldn’t do this! He couldn’t! I clutched Father’s arm. “Father, I have to see him! I have to go down to the docks. He might still be there! We must go right now—”

“Shh, shh, Paula, take a deep breath. It’s much too late for that, I’m afraid. The goods are already loaded; Stoyan could be anywhere. You know what that crowd is like—”

“I can’t let him go like this, Father, I just can’t. I never told him…And then he saw us, me and Duarte, and…I can go by myself. I’ll run all the way—” I heard what I was saying and came to a shuddering, tearful halt. “Please, Father,” I said, struggling to sound calm. “Can we try?”

“Oh, dear,” Father observed mildly, getting back to his feet. “I suppose Giacomo might be prevailed on to lend us a cart. Come, then. Please don’t get your hopes up, Paula. I have no idea where he was headed, and this city is a very easy place to get lost in.”

We made good progress, Father driving the horse himself, I seated beside him with my veil up over my nose, trying to scan the crowd in all directions for a very tall man with dark hair, a pale, scarred face, and a wounded look in his eyes. Deep inside, I was muttering a silent prayer to whomever would listen, to bring him back to me just long enough for me to tell him I loved him, even if he heard it and chose to walk away again. Why hadn’t I got those words out the night of Cybele’s return? Why had I left it so long that he had seen me in Duarte’s arms and probably leaped to all sorts of conclusions? Why, oh, why had I forgotten the riddle? He had chosen to step back, on the voyage home, and give me and Duarte time alone together. He’d probably made a decision that the pirate, with his wealth, status, education, and ready wit, was better suited to me than he was. In the eyes of the world, perhaps this was so. But not in mine. And if I told him how I felt, if I was brave enough to come right out with it, maybe not in Stoyan’s either. If a man truly loves…he gives no heed to what others may think. His heart has no room for that, for it is filled to the brim with the unutterable truth of his feelings. That hadn’t been a speech about me and my pathetic attempt to express myself or he would have said, If a woman truly loves. Those had been the words of his own heart. And I’d missed it; I’d missed it. I’d been so stupid, and now, if we didn’t hurry up, I was going to lose him forever….

Halfway down the last road to the docks, a cart had lost a wheel and was blocking the way completely. A group of men stood around it arguing while a boy worked to unharness the two horses.

“Oh, please, oh, please,” I breathed as Father used skills I had not realized he possessed to turn our vehicle and head off down a side way. We went through a maze of smaller streets. A dog that had been sleeping outside a doorway fled at our approach. I found myself wishing Tati were still here to guide us safely to the waterfront, but there were no eerie presences about today, only obstacles in the form of crates and barrels, fruit vendors’ little stalls, porters bearing bundles, stray cats streaking across our path.

“Breathe, Paula,” my father advised as he turned the cart onto the dockside and we were enveloped in a press of folk. “You’re wound as tight as a spring. Stay on the cart or you’ll be trampled. I’ll drive along to the Stea de Mare, but if you can’t see him anywhere on the docks, there’s nothing more I can do.”

I bit my nails to the quick as we made a painfully gradual progress along the busy waterfront to the place where our vessel was moored, her decks shipshape, the last of her cargo being neatly stowed as we watched. Farther along, the Esperança was at anchor. I looked ahead, behind, into the mass of dockworkers and trading folk, visiting dignitaries and port officials, anonymous robed travelers and sweating slaves. I looked until my vision blurred, until my neck was stiff, until an aching flood of unshed tears had built behind my eyes. At the Stea de Mare, despite Father’s warning, I got down from the cart—he followed quickly, motioning a crewman to come and hold the reins for him—and went on board to question the crew about Stoyan. Nobody had seen anything of him since he and Father had brought the last load down. I came back down the plank and stood very still by the cart a moment. Then I climbed up to the seat and put my head in my hands.

“I’m sorry, Paula,” Father said as he got up beside me. “Truly sorry. But the fact is, if he doesn’t want to be found, there will be no finding him. This will fade in time, my dear. Once we’re at sea and on our way home, things may not seem so desperate.”

I said nothing as he flicked the reins and the horse headed back toward the han.

Are you brave enough, Paula? I asked myself as the tears began to fall. Are you brave enough to live with a broken heart? And I could not dismiss his words because, after my mother had died, that was exactly what my father had done.

“Tell us about going across the swinging bridge! No, tell us about balancing on that man’s shoulders and collecting the animals!”

It was spring, almost a year since Father and I had left Istanbul, and Stela was still thirsty for the story, no matter how many times I told it. My younger sister found the tale of desperate pursuit at sea, deeds of courage and magical trials, a devious Greek scholar and a charming pirate captain utterly thrilling. The pirate, especially. As for the news of Tati, all my sisters had greeted that with mixed feelings when I told them. They were happy that she was well, impressed by her bravery, and sad that she was missing us so badly. Iulia and Stela were also, I suspected, a little jealous that I had been the one chosen for an Other Kingdom quest. For the first few months, we had expected Tati to turn up one day, out of the blue, ready for the visit she had earned. But so far there had been no sign.

“Tell us about the time Duarte gave you the shell scarf,” Stela urged now, glancing at our other sisters, who were seated with us on a rug. It was a beautiful day, the warm air heady with the scent of hawthorn and wood smoke. The charcoal burners were busy farther down the valley.

It was unusual for the whole family to be here at Piscul Dracului. Iulia and her husband, Rǎzvan, were visiting Jena and Costi, who lived on the estate next door to ours, and today all of them, with the children, had come down through the woods to see Father, Stela, and me. The narrow stairways and crooked passages of the old castle where we lived had been full of shouts and laughter and running feet. Now the sun had drawn us outside with a basket of provisions. We were in a field not far from the house, just below the spot where grazing land met wildwood. On a stretch of level ground a little farther down the hill, Rǎzvan and Costi were energetically teaching four-year-old Nicolae the best way to kick a ball into an improvised goal. Father was on the sidelines offering expert advice and keeping an eye on Iulia’s son, Gavril, who had a tendency to wander out into the middle of it all with no warning. His self-confidence was admirable but, at two, a little perilous.

“Father seems happy,” observed Jena. “I haven’t seen him looking so well since you came home, Paula.”

“Of course,” put in Iulia, who was busy spooning a glutinous substance into the gaping mouth of her daughter, Mirela, “it must have helped that you and Costi scored such a coup in Vienna. That’s set the business on its feet for another five years at least. It’s entirely made up for Father’s disappointment over the failure of his deal in Istanbul.”

She was partly right. A lucrative long-term agreement had been struck by Costi and Jena with a trading house in the great northern city, and the profits from that would remove our financial worries for the foreseeable future. Thank heavens for that. Despite his avowal to put the whole episode of Cybele’s Gift behind him, his perceived failure had left Father feeling low, and he still wasn’t back to his old self. He did remind me quite frequently that he, too, had learned a vital lesson during that time: He knew now that no trading deal, however advantageous, meant anything at all beside the life and safety of a loved one. All the same, the events of last spring had saddened him, and I was glad to see him today with a smile on his face and a sparkle in his eyes.

“Come on, Paula, tell the story.” Stela wasn’t going to give up. She reached into the basket, helped herself to a bread roll, and began to munch, fixing expectant blue eyes on me. At twelve, she still had the enthusiasms and energies of a child, but she was hovering on the edge of womanhood. Her figure was rounding out, her features gaining a bloom that hinted at future beauty. She would be like Tati: the kind of woman men’s eyes were drawn to despite themselves. “Please, Paula.”

“Not today,” I said, leaning back on my elbows and narrowing my eyes against the sun. “Everyone’s heard it a hundred times before. And it’s over; all I want to do now is forget.”

In the silence that ensued, I felt Jena’s eyes on me. I knew that she, of all the family, understood how much the season of Cybele’s Gift had changed me.

“Stela,” said Iulia, “will you go down to the kitchen and ask Florica for another bottle of her elderberry wine? And maybe some more cheese…Rǎzvan’s sure to be starving when they finish running around.”

Stela’s expression told me she knew this was a ploy to get her out of the way, but she went without question, dark hair streaming behind her as she ran across the hillside to the stile. The grass under her feet was dotted with wildflowers, blue, purple, yellow, pink. Down the hill, I could see a cart coming up the track to the castle. The red tassels on the horse’s bridle swung as it moved. On the driver’s seat was Dorin, our man of all work. He and Petru had a big job on hand, something to do with drains. The cart would be loaded with building supplies.

“Paula,” said Jena in a big-sisterly voice, “we’re worried about you.”

“You’re not yourself,” added Iulia. “Florica says you’re only picking at your food these days, and you can’t afford to lose weight. You’re skin and bone already.” She herself was a shapely woman, the delight of her husband’s eye, and had been telling me for years I was too thin.

“Worse than that,” put in Jena, “Father says you haven’t even been reading much lately. Or at least not the way you used to, as if you could never get enough of books and learning. If I didn’t know you better, I would say you’re exhibiting all the signs of having been unlucky in love.”

“You should come and stay with Rǎzvan and me,” Iulia suggested, reaching out to grab Mirela’s smock before the child could grasp a bee that had caught her interest. “It would take your mind off things.”

“What things?” I could hear the growl in my voice. I did not want to talk about it, not even to my sisters. I’d been doing my best to forget, to pick up the threads of my old life, helping Father, teaching Stela, making myself useful around house and farm. It was just unfortunate that I wasn’t better at hiding how unhappy I was.

“Come on, Paula,” Jena said. “We’re your sisters. We’re here to help. There’s a part of this story you’ve held back, Iulia and I are certain of it. You need to talk about it sometime, get it off your chest.”

“I’m fine,” I muttered. “Anyway, it’s much too late now.”

Down the hill, Dorin had driven into the courtyard, and Petru’s farm dogs were going crazy. The frenzy of barking went far beyond the greeting they usually provided when someone came home.

“Paula.” Jena’s tone was stern. “You can’t fool us. Before you went to Istanbul, you were bubbling with plans for the future. You were so confident and hopeful. You convinced all of us that you’d achieve your dream one day. That’s all changed since you came back. You seem…adrift. Not simply unhappy, but unsure of yourself. And yet you had such adventures during that trip. You were tested to the limit. That was terrifying, I know, but wonderful, too. To go back to the Other Kingdom, to see Tati again…” I could hear the longing in my sister’s voice. “And to be given such an important task, a quest of your own…You’ve told the story pretty modestly, I suspect. It sounds as if you had to call upon all your reserves of courage and intelligence to get through it. I can’t understand how you’ve lost faith in yourself.”

“Unrequited love,” said Iulia. “It’s written all over you. Come and spend the summer at our place, and we’ll introduce you to any number of suitable men. In a pinch, I may even find one or two who like books.”

The noise from below had not abated. I was trying to think of a reply when Stela came sprinting back across the field, babbling something that did not become clear until she arrived in our midst. “Paula! There’s something for you! Dorin brought it, a…a delivery. Come now! You have to see this!”

“A delivery?” I tried to remember if I had ordered anything, books maybe or some household supplies that might have been packaged under my name rather than Father’s. “Can’t Dorin deal with it? I’ll come down later.”

“No!” Stela was beside herself with excitement. “You have to come!” She grabbed my arm and hauled me up, tugging me after her in the general direction of the house. With a grimace at my elder sisters, I followed.

In the courtyard, Dorin was unloading the supplies. The farm dogs were clustered around the front door, barking hysterically.

“What’s wrong?” I shouted.

“In there,” Dorin yelled, pointing to the doorway.

The dogs did not follow me inside; they were well trained. Their raucous challenge died down behind me as I walked along the red-tiled passageway to the kitchen. I went in to find a crate in the middle of the floor and our farmer, Petru, crouched down beside it, peering through a narrow opening in the top. His wife, our housekeeper, Florica, stood by the stove, lips pursed, eyes thoughtful.

“Apparently it’s for you,” she said dryly, glancing at me.

“Look, Paula!” Stela was already by Petru’s side, poking her fingers between the slats of the crate. “Petru, can we take the top off? He’s probably been in there all day, the poor thing….”

The flood of words abated as I moved closer, and Petru edged aside to make room for me. I peered into the crate. Through the opening, a pair of soft, expressive eyes gazed up at me. There was a low growling, a sound I interpreted as a token challenge. My heart was doing a dance. I had never really believed in tears of joy, but those were what seemed to be welling in my eyes right now.

“Open that and the creature’ll take your finger off,” said Florica. “It’s huge. That’s the last thing I’d be expecting you to want, Paula. A crate of books, now, or a box of paper and pens, but not a dog.”

“It’s a gift,” Stela said importantly. “Not something Paula ordered for herself, something someone’s sent her. Open it up, Paula. Maybe it’s from that pirate. He sounded as if he liked you. Perhaps he’s right here in the valley!”

Her words flowed over me as I borrowed Petru’s knife and prized off the side slats of the crate. The dog emerged, at first not entirely steady on his legs. He sniffed at my skirt, looked around, then ambled over to relieve himself against the wall. “I’ll clean up,” I said hastily.

I could see the message on Florica’s face: No dogs inside the house. Before she could say a word, Petru snapped his fingers to bring the animal close—I noticed how ready it was to obey—then ran his gnarled hands over its noble head, its straight, strong back, its extremely large feet.

“A handsome creature,” he observed. “Only half grown; I’d say he’s six months at the most. He’s going to be a fine big dog.” The animal was already larger than our adult herding dogs. “Unusual gift for a young lady.” Petru glanced at me, eyes shrewd. “I’ve never seen this breed before. Foreign, is it?”

“It’s called a Bugarski Goran,” I said absently as I hunted inside the crate for a note or message. “A special kind of mountain dog known for its strength, heart, and loyalty. Generally they’re treated as members of the family. That’s after they’re trained, I suppose,” I added hastily, feeling Florica’s skeptical gaze on me.

“So, is it from him?” Stela asked, giving the very big puppy a hug and receiving a slobbery kiss in return. “From your pirate? It is, isn’t it? I bet I’m right!”

“Wasn’t there some kind of note?” I asked, still searching. The inside of the crate held nothing but rather damp wood shavings.

“Oh, yes,” Florica said belatedly. “There’s this.” She handed me a folded piece of paper that she had put in her apron pocket.

“Tell us what it says,” Stela demanded. “Is it from him? Paula, why are you crying?”

My tears dripped onto the scrap of paper on which a single word was written in shaky Greek letters: PAULA. I felt the curious sensation of my heart warming, sending a rush of happiness all through my body. “It’s not from Duarte,” I said.

“Whoever it’s from,” said Florica, “take it outside and show it where to do its business.” As I grasped the dog’s collar in one hand and headed for the door, she added, “I’ve got some mutton bones put aside for a soup. I’ll fetch one out for you, and a water bowl. Best feed that one in here, give Petru’s dogs time to get used to it.”

“I expect he’ll hold his own,” I said with a shaky smile. “Stela, let’s take him outside, shall we? I need to talk to Dorin.”

That night I couldn’t get to sleep, even after Stela stopped bombarding me with questions I wasn’t prepared to answer and surrendered to exhaustion. The moon rose beyond the colored glass of our bedchamber windows, painting a wash of red and green and violet and gold across the stone walls and onto the embroidery that lay on my bedside table, five girls dancing in a line. A thousand feelings tumbled about inside me. A thousand memories jostled for space in my head.

Dorin had told me the dog was sent by a foreigner who was lodged not in our village but in the next one, a few miles along the valley. A big fellow, not the sort you’d want to get into a dispute with. The stranger didn’t speak our language, but he could say Piscul Dracului plain enough, and Master Teodor, and Paula of Braşov.

I’d begged for more information, but Dorin had none. The crate had come with a carter, who couldn’t say how long the foreigner was staying in these parts. This carter would still be in our village, Dorin had told me, as he needed to load up for a return trip. If I wanted to send a message, perhaps a thank-you, I might be able to catch him before he left.

So I’d dispatched Stela back up to the family picnic to say I would be a little while, left the dog in Petru’s care, and run all the way down to the village. No time to write a note; anyway, if I did that and it turned out the recipient was unable to read it, his pride would be wounded and he might decide to walk away as he’d done before. I had to make my message simple and honest, as well as suitable to be conveyed publicly by a complete stranger. In the end, I’d told the carter to go straight to the sender of the dog and tell him Paula conveyed her heartfelt thanks and would very much like to see him as soon as possible.

Now I lay in the darkness and imagined Stoyan’s hand brushing the hair back from my temple; I felt his gentle touch on my ankle, tending to the hurt he had unwittingly inflicted. I saw him with a twig between his fingers, making careful letters in the sand tray. I saw him fighting off twenty men, a miracle of strength and skill. I stood on his shoulders as we traversed a lake full of menacing shapes. I clutched his hand as we fled along dark underground ways. I remembered his arms around me, his lips against my hair as he murmured words of comfort that I could not understand. I heard myself botching the job of telling him how I felt. I saw the expression on his face that last day at the han after he watched Duarte kiss me: the look of a man whose heart has been twisted apart.

“You have one last chance to get this right, Paula,” I muttered to myself, hugging the quilt around me. “Don’t mess it up this time.”

Just before dawn, I did sleep for a little, and I dreamed of Tati. She was not clad in the swathing black garments of the quest but wore a delicate gown of white, gossamer sheer over a silk undershift. She sat on the bed that she and Jena used to share when we were younger, her dark hair making a rippling shawl over her shoulders and her big violet-blue eyes fixed on me solemnly. She was not alone. Others hovered half visible behind her in the darkness: Sorrow with his pale face and shadowy eyes; a taller form crowned with a crest of feathers; a tiny one with long silver hair and ferocious pointed teeth. My scholar friends were there in their eccentric hats, nodding and smiling their greetings. I knew I was dreaming, and at the same time I knew it was real, like all the manifestations of the Other Kingdom. They existed on a different plane from our everyday world of trading and farming, of marriages and children, of struggle and achievement. But they were always with us, guiding us along, helping us to be brave and good and wise.

“Good luck, Paula,” Tati said. She touched her fingers to her lips and blew me a kiss. “I’ll see you soon. Very soon, I hope.” But when I tried to return the gesture and to ask when and how Ileana would let her come to us, the vision faded, and I sank into a dreamless slumber from which I was awoken by Stela ordering me to get up because that man might be coming to see me today and I had to make sure I was looking my best.

The morning seemed endless. I hung about indoors, not wanting to be away from the house when he came—if he came—but quite unable to settle to anything. The dog got underfoot and chewed one of Petru’s slippers. Stela kept nagging me about what I was wearing and how I had done my hair and a thousand other things until I snapped at her and sent her sulking off to our bedchamber. I went up and apologized, and we played a game of chess in which she almost beat me, a sure sign that my concentration was at a very low ebb. I made her promise that if Stoyan did come, she would stay out of the way while I talked to him.

Father had seemed genuinely delighted to hear that Stoyan was in the district and that I had invited him to come up to Piscul Dracului. He made no comment on the dog, save to say that it would be a useful addition to the household. He said nothing at all about the circumstances of our departure from Istanbul. He would be in the workroom for the day, he told us, but we must call him when Stoyan arrived. His restraint was remarkable; I could not have wished for a more understanding parent.

Around midday, Florica bundled me off outdoors, saying the dog needed exercise and so did I. As I went out, I heard her say, “Now, Stela, I’ve a mind to make those walnut pastries just in case we have guests. I’ll need your help with chopping the nuts; it’s too much for my old hands these days….”

I hadn’t intended to go far, but it was another lovely day and the dog’s enthusiasm was hard to resist. I took a ball up to the top field and tried to teach him to fetch. He was good at the chasing and catching part, taking off like an arrow, seizing the ball and shaking it to and fro as if he planned to kill it on the spot. Then he would drop it at his own feet and stand watching me expectantly. Having never trained a dog before, I had trouble conveying to him exactly what he was supposed to do. We worked on it together. I became tired; the dog was keen to go on forever. I slipped and got grass stains on my skirt; the dog rolled in something interesting. At least the activity had distracted me from my anxieties for a little, I thought as I sat down for a breather and he took up a relaxed guard position next to me, tongue lolling. But Stoyan had never been far from my thoughts. What if he didn’t come? What if he turned up and I found myself lost for words? What if all he had in mind was a polite visit? Just because I was feeling like this, as if I wanted to laugh and cry and sing and dance all at once, did not mean he would be feeling the same. A year might have cured him entirely of those feelings that had made him look so drained the day we parted. Best stay calm. Best think out carefully what I would say, word by word….

The dog went from a lying pose to a hurtling run in an instant, barking wildly. I started, then rose slowly to my feet. A familiar figure was climbing over the stile at the bottom of the field, a big, pale-skinned figure with thick dark hair and a scar on his cheek. He was not in his Turkish-style dolman now but wore a linen shirt, a plain waistcoat, close-fitting trousers, and serviceable boots. The dog reached him and jumped up ecstatically. Stoyan made a firm gesture, and the creature dropped obediently to sit. He bent to scratch the dog behind the ears, then straightened, shading his eyes with a hand, gazing up toward me.

I realized the dog had the right idea. The best words for such a moment were no words at all. I ran down the hill through the grass and the bright spring flowers, not even thinking about the stains on my skirt or my untidy hair or anything but the fact that Stoyan was here at last and that in an instant we would be together again. At ten paces away, he opened his arms, and when I reached him, I threw myself into them and was picked up and whirled around as if I were a little child. When he stopped turning, he brought me slowly down, my body against his all the way, until my feet were on the bottom step of the stile. His arms folded around me like a barrier against all the ills of the world; his cheek was wet against mine. I was crying, too, crying and laughing and wondering how it was possible to have such tumultuous, thrilling sensations coursing through me and at the same time feel utterly safe.

“Paula,” Stoyan murmured. “Oh, Paula….”

“I thought I’d never see you again,” I whispered, my arms around his neck, my lips against his cheek. “You didn’t even say goodbye—”

Stoyan stopped my words with a kiss. And if Duarte’s kiss had been nice, enjoyable, a little exciting, this one eclipsed it in every way. I drowned in it, my body melting with delight. For a precious few moments, there was more magic here than in all the realms of the Other Kingdom. When we broke apart, we were both breathless.

“Stoyan,” I said, “any moment now my little sister’s going to come running up here to tell me you’ve arrived; she’s beside herself with curiosity. I have to say something before she gets here, just in case you…” It no longer seemed possible that he would turn me down. His kiss had told me eloquently that he felt the same as I did. “I love you, Stoyan,” I said, feeling suddenly shy. “I was working up to telling you that night after we came out of the cave, but I got it all wrong, and then you were so grim and forbidding, and…”

“Shall we sit down on the grass here?” Stoyan said gently, drawing me down beside him. “If we are below the line of the wall, perhaps this sister may not see us until we have said what we must say.” He settled himself against the stone wall, placing me between his knees, my back against his chest. In this position he could wrap his arms around me from behind, which I found I liked very much. The dog flopped down beside us. “I hope you like my gift,” he went on. “I know our wager was canceled, but I was not quite brave enough to come here in person until I knew you would receive me. I made an error of judgment, Paula, a grievous one. I ran away. I could not bring myself to say goodbye to you. I have caused you pain; myself as well.”

“Did you actually think I would marry Duarte? Couldn’t you see how I felt about you?”

There was a lengthy pause, and then Stoyan said, “Your father had told me of Duarte’s visit and offer of marriage. Not knowing the depth of my feelings for you, he saw no harm in sharing that news. And when Duarte returned, you kissed him. He held you as a lover does. You gave him your lips as if you…as if you felt more than friendship for him. It seemed plain to me that you had accepted his offer. I knew Duarte could give you what you wanted, what you needed. Our journey had shown me that he was a good man beneath the surface and that he cared for you. I could protect you. I could be brave. I could be a friend of sorts. But I could never be your equal in learning, in conversation, in skills of the mind. He was your equal. He could offer a life rich with possibilities. I had my brother to find, my mother waiting at home for news. I had a path to follow that must take me far from you.”

“So you stepped back. After all the trials we had been through together, after we had become so close, you believed I would accept Duarte?” I brought his palm to my lips and heard his indrawn breath.

“It had seemed to me thus ever since I watched the two of you dancing on the night of the celebration,” Stoyan said. “Your list of reasons why we were ill matched wounded me even as I recognized its truth. I took it to mean your feelings were less strong than my own. I believed that to say yes to you would end in heartbreak for both of us, Paula. I am ashamed that I misjudged you so. At the time, to step away seemed the honorable choice. Indeed, I was angry with myself for being such a fool as to dream that you might love me as I did you, deeply, truly, with an intensity that crowded out all arguments to the contrary. So I went my own way, hoping the memory would fade in time.”

“What brought you back? Stoyan, what about Taidjut? Did you find him?”

His tone became somber. “He lives. Your theory was correct; he carries a position of some authority, the second in charge to a provincial governor. After making some further inquiries, I went back to the region of our adventure. The plague had passed. Many were lost, but they are strong folk in those parts, and my brother and his superior had taken steps to limit the spread of the disease. He agreed to see me, not in public but in a carefully controlled setting where his privacy was strictly guarded. He seemed content. He spoke like a Turkish nobleman. He asked me to convey his respects to our mother but made it clear he wishes no further contact with his family. For him, that life is over, forgotten. Taidjut has a new religion, a new culture, a new responsibility. He wishes to obliterate from his mind what he was before the devshirme. To do otherwise would be to negate the years of learning, to reduce to nothing the sacrifices he has made. So he believes. There was no choice for me but to accept that.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said, deciding I would not ask if Taidjut was a eunuch or had been left a whole man. “I’m very sad for you and your mother. But at least he is well and has a good life.”

“I came back through Istanbul, intending to bear the news home to my mother. To my surprise, I saw the Esperança in port. I had expected you and Duarte to sail back to Portugal when your father departed. Not long after my arrival, I met Duarte at a coffeehouse. It was then that I learned you had refused him, Paula, and from that moment my heart began to mend. I questioned him closely. Duarte assured me that your feelings for him were those of a dear friend only. This, he said, you had made very plain when you refused his offer. He added that it was quite apparent to him that your reasons for turning him down related to me. He urged me to seek you out and speak boldly of my love for you.”

“Go on,” I said, hoping very much that I would hear all of this before Stela made an appearance.

“I could not come to you straightaway. I had to travel home to see my mother. The news of Taidjut was difficult for her. I felt obliged to stay awhile and help her on the farm. At the same time, I undertook some studies with the priest and gave consideration to the future. Eventually, my mother told me quite firmly that it was time to sort things out with you. I was somewhat fearful. I did not know yet that you truly returned my feelings. When you came running toward me with your hair flying, when you threw your arms around me, that was the best moment of my life. And now, I have something for you.” He fished in a leather bag he had slung over his shoulder.

“Another gift? The dog is plenty.”

“The dog is part of the future,” he said solemnly, drawing a kidskin pouch out of the bag and setting it in my hand. It was heavy. “This is another part. Open it, Paula.”

I loosened the strings and looked inside, and my breath stopped in my throat. The pouch was stuffed with gold coins. By the weight, I knew it was a small fortune, more money than I had ever seen at one time before.

“Proceeds from the sale of my reward, the one the old woman said I might take from Cybele’s treasure trove,” he told me quietly. “I purchased this dog and another, a female, so we will have a breeding pair. I gave my mother enough to have some improvements made to the farm. But the remainder, the bulk of the funds, was always intended for you. I chose what to take away from the cave with a particular purpose in mind. The money is to help you start your bookselling business. When I thought you would marry Duarte, I could not bring myself to speak to you of this plan, for it made me seem foolish, deluded.”

“I’m sorry,” I murmured, imagining how awful that had been for him and wishing he had told me straightaway. “It makes sense now—what the old woman said about three rewards. The diadem and the gold it brought was the first. Finding Taidjut was the long-sought second. And…”

“And you are the deeply desired third,” Stoyan said. He was blushing. “I know how proud you are, Paula. I know you will not ask your father for funds to realize your own dream. I hope you will take this from me, for we earned it together, you and I, and together we can make that dream reality. Paula, will you marry me? I cannot read very well yet, but I am learning, and you can teach me more. Booksellers need guards; they need folk who can load and unload carts, carry heavy boxes, protect expensive cargoes….”

“Yes,” I said.

“I studied as well as I could,” Stoyan went on. “It was not easy; there were few books in the village—”

“Stoyan, I said yes, I will marry you. I’d marry you if you couldn’t read a word. I would if you hadn’t a single copper coin to your name.” I wrapped my arms around his neck, spilling the coins into the grass. We let go of each other and gathered them as, at last, Stela could be seen coming up from the castle, face flushed from her cooking activities and from excitement. “I’m sure we can find a place for our business close to a town, but with enough room for dogs. And near Piscul Dracului, of course. I want to be able to visit Father and Stela and Jena and Costi…. But, Stoyan, what about your family? The farm, your mother…?”

“Paula!” Stela had arrived. She clambered over the stile, then was unaccountably stricken by shyness as she examined the large and somewhat intimidating figure of Stoyan. It was clear to me that he was not at all what she had expected.

“This is Stoyan,” I said in Greek. “Stoyan, this is my youngest sister, Stela. Stela, you’ll need to use your Greek; that’s the only language the two of you have in common. It will be good practice for you.”

After a couple of false starts, Stela asked Stoyan, “Is it true you fought off twenty armed men single-handed? And walked into a Turkish bath when Paula was only wearing a sort of sheet?”

I felt my cheeks grow hot. I had forgotten the night I had told my sister this particular story.

“Entirely true,” Stoyan said gravely. “Indeed, I was about to tell Paula that the occurrence at the hamam is one of the matters on which Senhor Duarte quizzed me when I met him not long ago. It had been mentioned in passing and had been exercising his imagination. I am happy to make your acquaintance, Kyria Stela.”

Stela grinned, captivated by his courtesy as indeed I had been the very first time I met him. Then she remembered something. “Paula, there’s a lady down at the castle. In the kitchen. She doesn’t seem to speak any language we know, so I think you need to come.”

“A lady?” I looked at Stoyan.

He seemed a little abashed. “My mother,” he said. “I was going to explain. It is true, she has no Greek. She sent me to find you. She insisted she did not need my help.”

I began to feel quite worried. “We’d best go down right away,” I said. “You’re saying your mother has traveled all the way from Bulgaria with you?”

“That is correct, Paula.” He helped me over the stile, then extended his hand to Stela. The dog went over the wall in a leap. “A cousin is looking after our farm. Depending on what is decided, my mother may remain in Transylvania with us. She wishes to…” The words trailed away awkwardly.

“She wants to inspect you,” Stela said. “To see if you’re suitable for her son. I’m right, aren’t I?” she added, glancing at Stoyan in a way that if she had been slightly older, would have been flirtatious.

“She knows that Taidjut will never come home,” Stoyan said. “It is natural that she wishes me to be happy. You should not worry about this, Paula. The decision is not hers, but ours, and is already made. Besides, she cannot do anything but love you on first sight, as I did.”

Stela grinned with pure delight. I was glad she decided not to comment.

“On first sight?” I queried. “When I was trying to be a real merchant and putting on my sternest manner?”

“The moment I saw you, Paula,” he said, putting his arm around my waist. “The first instant. Later, I will tell you all the reasons. For now, I think we must face the challenge of this family visit. There is nothing to fear. You have your dog, you have your sister, and you have me. Even the most alarming of mothers cannot prevail against such a show of strength.”

It must have been a daunting journey for Stoyan’s mother—all the way from Bulgaria by cart or on horseback, with not a word of our language or of any other that was common currency in this northern land. She was surely not equipped for such an adventure at her age. I made a picture of her in my mind as we walked down to the castle and indoors; I imagined her as frail, weary, and lost. It would be hard to make her feel at home when we had no common tongue. Holding Stoyan’s hand tightly, I opened the kitchen door.

The kettle was steaming on the stove, and the room was full of a tempting smell of baking. Several pieces of Florica’s best weaving were spread out across the well-scrubbed table. Our housekeeper was explaining that the flower border was based on a pattern her mother had taught her and that she had invented the dye for the gentian blue herself. As she spoke, her hands were busy illustrating her meaning.

Seated at the table admiring the weaving was an extremely imposing woman. She was younger than I had expected—a good ten years my father’s junior, I thought. Her hair was as dark as Stoyan’s, the braids pinned in a no-nonsense style atop her head. She was a big woman, tall and solidly built, and she sat bolt upright. I felt she was the kind of person who would tap me on the shoulder and correct me if I did not hold myself well. Her jacket was of black felt covered with multicolored embroidery, an intricate pattern of flower and leaf, vine and fruit. Under it she was clad in a linen blouse, a practical riding skirt with a slit up the side, and good though mud-spattered boots.

As we came in, she turned, then rose to her feet, looking me up and down. Her gaze was not unfriendly, but she was definitely assessing me. Perhaps she was deciding my hips were too narrow for childbearing. Perhaps she was thinking that if Stoyan was going to drag her all the way to Transylvania, he could at least have chosen a beauty. I swallowed nervously, then said in Greek, so that Stoyan, at least, could understand, “Welcome. I am very happy to meet you.”

Stoyan said something with Paula in it, a translation, an introduction, and I stepped forward nervously to kiss my future mother-in-law on either cheek. She took my hands in hers, looked me in the eye, and said something to Stoyan in Bulgarian.

“For pity’s sake, Paula, let the poor lady sit down,” Florica said. “Stela, will you run and call your father again? And get that dog out of here. I’m not putting my pastries on the table while he’s within range.”

We sat. Stoyan’s mother spoke again, nodding in my direction.

“My mother says she did not expect me to choose such a slight girl,” Stoyan said apologetically. “She is a farmer, you understand; the women in our part of the world are of robust build. She says you remind her of the mountain flowers, small and pale but strong. She bids you welcome to our family.” A flush rose to his cheeks. “She adds, she hopes you are aware of what a fine man you are getting. I think mothers are fond of making such remarks.”

“Please tell your mother I know I’m getting the best man in the world,” I said. “She must be very proud of you. Now perhaps I’d better make the tea, just to show reading and writing are not my only skills.”

After that, the kitchen filled up with folk. First was my father, who threw his arms around Stoyan and was embraced in return. He engaged Stoyan’s mother in conversation, with her son as interpreter, while I brewed tea and Florica set out the walnut pastries, cheese, little spiced sausages, and bread rolls, as well as a jug of fresh milk from our cow. Then Petru came in, taciturn as ever in company but clearly unable to curb his curiosity. The smell of Florica’s baking drew in Dorin as well and then Father’s secretary, Gabriel. Stoyan and his mother, whose name was Nadezhda, did not seem at all overwhelmed by this crowd, despite the constant need for everything to be rendered into Greek and then into Bulgarian and back again.

At a certain point, when fresh tea was being prepared and the pastries were almost finished, Stoyan spoke quietly to Father and the two of them went out together. They were gone awhile; long enough for me to begin to worry. Not that I believed it likely Father would refuse Stoyan permission to marry me, but I thought he might set conditions. He might want us to wait awhile so we would be sure we were making the right decision. Or perhaps he would think we should find our house and land first. My stomach churned. We’d waited a whole year already, a year in which both of us had been lonely and miserable. Now that Stoyan was here, I didn’t want to let him out of my sight.

The door opened. Not Stoyan, not Father, but Jena and Costi with little Nicolae.

“We’re on our way down to the village—” Jena began, then saw we had an unusual visitor. “Oh, I didn’t realize—Paula, will you introduce us?”

I did my best without language. Stoyan’s mother stood, bowed, kissed Jena and Costi on both cheeks. Then, her strong features softened by a smile, she crouched down to Nicolae’s level and spoke to him quietly, asking him about the toy he was carrying, a little wooden cart. Not much later, she had him sitting on her knee and was sharing her pastry with him. And I had a flash of foresight, or something similar. I saw her with a different child in her arms, a child who would be not my nephew as Nicolae was but my son, mine and Stoyan’s. I could not see him clearly, only that he was big and strong with a fine head of dark hair and that his grandmother held him with a fierce pride. In my vision of the future, there had not been much room for children, but I saw in this moment that we owed her that. And I found, to my surprise, that I quite warmed to the idea myself. With this formidable lady as part of our family, Stoyan and I would juggle running a book business and breeding dogs and raising children quite capably. For we were a perfect team. I had known that in the caves of Cybele. I was even more sure of it now.

“He’s a fine big man, your Stoyan,” murmured Florica in my ear as I went to the stove for more hot water.

“I know,” I said.

“You look after him, now,” she added. “He’ll need good feeding and plenty of love. Don’t get so caught up in your books that you forget that.”

“I love him, Florica,” I said. “I won’t forget.”

At that moment, Stoyan and Father came into the kitchen, Stoyan looking as if he might laugh or cry at any moment, Father smiling broadly.

“A celebration is in order,” Father said in Greek. “I’m gaining another son-in-law. It just goes to show my theory is correct, Paula. A man of true mettle is not deterred by a single refusal. I always believed Stoyan would come back eventually.”

“He didn’t get a refusal,” I felt obliged to point out, as the rest of the household stood about listening with great interest. Stela was providing a running translation for Florica, Petru, and Dorin, none of whom understood Greek; I was proud of her. “Until today, he never asked.”

“All the same, a refusal was what he sensed,” Father said. “I am happy the two of you have sorted things out at last. It’s been a little like having a brooding storm cloud in the house. Stoyan, we must explain all this to your mother.”

Nadezhda appeared delighted with the news. When it was suggested she might come and stay at Piscul Dracului awhile, she was quick to accept. The hostelry where she and Stoyan were lodged was at some distance down the valley. Since he had talked of nothing but me since the day she prized the reason for his unhappiness out of him, she imagined that now he had found me, he would not wish to be too far away. She seemed quite taken by Father, who did indeed have a charming manner developed over years of dealing with fellow merchants and their wives.

Stoyan translated busily. I brought him tea, then sat beside him so I could lean against his shoulder and hold his hand, letting the talk flow around me.

The afternoon passed and faded into evening, and although Dorin, Gabriel, and Petru went back to their work, the rest of us sat on together talking. It had become easier for Stoyan with the arrival of Costi, who was fluent in Greek, and Jena, who knew enough to get by. As for Nadezhda, she did not say much, but her eyes were often on her son and on me, and I saw a quiet contentment in her face that warmed my heart.

Everyone would have to stay the night. Costi and Jena would not walk home in the dark with Nicolae, who was falling asleep on Jena’s knee. Stoyan and his mother had come on horseback. Petru had settled the horses in the barn already, and it was too dark to ride down the valley safely anyway. We sisters offered to prepare bedchambers for our guests and went off upstairs while Florica made a start on supper. Nadezhda had rolled up her sleeves, donned a borrowed apron, and begun to chop vegetables with the casual assurance of a woman who is confident even in another’s kitchen. I had a feeling I might not be called upon very often to prepare those large meals Florica thought Stoyan needed.

When we had made up beds for Costi and Jena, Nicolae, Stoyan, and his mother, we gathered for a moment in our own old bedchamber, the one where all five sisters had once slept and which would soon have only Stela left as its tenant.

“I wish Iulia had come down with us today,” Jena said, flopping onto the bed that had been hers and Tati’s. “I can’t wait to tell her in the morning. She was so certain that if you ever married, you’d choose a weedy little scholar twice your age. You can expect her and Rǎzvan here sometime tomorrow. She won’t be able to resist casting her eye over Stoyan at the first possible opportunity. He seems lovely, Paula.”

“He is lovely,” I said. As I had smoothed the sheet on the bed where Stoyan was to sleep tonight, I had not been able to avoid imagining what it would be like to share it with him.

Stela was over by the indentation in the wall, the place where, long ago, we had found our secret portal. She had set her candle on the table nearby and was making shadow patterns with her fingers across the stones. “I wonder if I’ll ever get a turn?” she mused. “I mean, Tati told Paula her quest was to earn the right for her to visit us or for one of us to go across. It should be me next. You found your true love because of the Other Kingdom, Jena, and so did Tati. And now Paula’s got Stoyan. And it can’t be Iulia next, because she’s already married Rǎzvan. So it’s my turn. Not that I want a true love especially; I just want to go back. I want to so much sometimes I feel as if I could burst.”

I had not yet told my sisters about last night’s dream. Now did not seem the right time to break the news to Stela that it had sounded as if Tati would be visiting us, not the other way around.

“You can’t apply logic to the workings of the Other Kingdom, Stela,” Jena said. “We already know it has its own rules, and they’re not like ours. Ileana and her kind do set tests for lovers; one of the lessons we’ve all learned is how difficult love is and how hard we have to keep on working at it. But there are other lessons built into these journeys. Hard ones. Ones that make us strong.”

“It’s not fair.” Stela did not really seem to want a sensible answer. She was in a strange mood. After her excitement at Stoyan’s arrival, she had become subdued and thoughtful. Perhaps it was the specter of impending change. Even with Jena living next door and the rest of us within a few days’ journey, it would be lonely for her as the last sister left at home.

“There could be more in store for all of us,” Jena said, her gaze traveling to the embroidery, where we five sisters danced hand in hand. “Just wait, that’s my advice. And don’t worry about it too much; worrying doesn’t make things happen any faster. Paula, why don’t you wear that lovely plum-colored outfit tonight and the veil with the little shells?”

“That wouldn’t be suitable,” I said. “I’ll wear the green.”

On the way downstairs, we met Stoyan coming up to tell us supper was almost ready. His eyes met mine.

Jena seized Stela by the arm. “We’ll see you down in the kitchen,” she announced, heading off without a backward glance and pulling Stela along with her.

The two of us were alone on a landing, outside the chamber where I had made the bed so carefully and set a handful of wildflowers in a little jug by the window.

“That’s your room in there,” I said as we stood with our arms around each other and the rest of the world fast receding. “I wish we were already married, Stoyan.”

“I too, heart’s dearest,” whispered Stoyan against my hair. “Your father said we need not wait long. But I think it will seem long.”

“Mmm,” I murmured, then thought of something. “Stoyan, you know when we were in the cave and the old woman asked me what I’d learned? She never asked you that question. I wonder why?”

“I had not quite achieved my learning, Paula. It took a very long time. I almost lost sight of it. It is interesting that Duarte, whom I blamed for stealing it away, was the one to give it back to me. I should have listened more carefully to your riddles, the third especially.”

“Hope,” I breathed as it all fell into place. “You’d begun to lose hope—hope of finding your brother, hope of making a good future, and hope of…”

“And hope that my dearest might love me as I loved her; that is correct, Paula. There were times when it was almost within my grasp. Those nights we spent together at the han, each such a precious gift…I remember every word you spoke to me. I remember every touch. And when we came across the cavern of the lake, my hope was almost strong enough to let me speak the words of my heart to you. But then, at the dancing, it fled away again and I sank into despair. It was odd that Duarte was the one to lift it. This was a hard lesson, but a good one. I will never forget it. Do you think we should go down to supper?”

“Just one thing first—” I stood on tiptoe, slipped my arms up around his neck, and kissed him.

Time passed: a kind of lost time in which we were in another world, just the two of us alone with the thousand sensations drawn out by the touch of our lips and the beating of our hearts and the warmth of our bodies against each other. It was only Costi’s voice from the foot of the steps that brought us back to Transylvania, and Piscul Dracului, and the landing where we stood folded in each other’s arms.

“Suppertime!” called Costi. His mobile mouth was curved in a droll smile. “Even in this labyrinth of a house, nobody can escape the eagle eye of family. Florica expects everyone to taste Petru’s best plum brandy.”

I unwrapped my arms from around Stoyan’s neck and clasped his hand instead. “Costi’s right,” I said. “There’s no getting away from family. And now there’s a wedding to plan. We’d best go downstairs and fortify ourselves. We’re going to be busy.”

Author’s Note

Cybele’s Secret is set mainly in the Istanbul of the early Ottoman period. While I undertook substantial research, it should be remembered that this is a work of historical fantasy. In some parts of the book, I have taken liberties with time and place in the interests of better storytelling. I received expert advice from several people whom I mention in the Acknowledgments. However, any errors of fact that may occur in the novel are entirely my own responsibility. In particular, if I have offended anyone with my depiction of Islamic culture or religious practice, I offer a sincere apology.

When I visited Turkey, I tried to see through Paula’s eyes. Despite the many changes that have taken place since her time, it was easy for me to imagine the days when Istanbul was the hub of trade for the entire region. Everywhere in the city one can see its rich and complex history. Mosques and other public buildings are decorated with Iznik tiles like those Paula finds on the wall outside Cybele’s cave, their colors rich and glowing. The covered markets provided me with a shopping experience not unlike Paula’s frustrating attempt to haggle for silks. Farther afield, in Edirne I stayed in a converted han with the same layout as the Genoese trading center where Paula and her father are accommodated. I was able to view ancient manuscripts in various Turkish museums, and my description of the items Paula finds in Irene’s library are based on these. At the Sadberk Hanim Museum in Büyükdere, I found an ancient earthenware jug in the shape of a rotund woman, and that was the inspiration for the form Cybele’s Gift finally took in the story.

Readers may be interested to learn that the Turkish Van cat is known not only for its apparent enthusiasm for swimming but also for its unmatched eyes, one blue, one yellow. The Bugarski Goran, or Bulgarian shepherd, is a recognized breed of herding dog.

Dealing with languages in the book presented a challenge. The Istanbul of Paula’s time was home to folk of many origins, and within the city there were several discrete communities in which particular languages were probably spoken almost exclusively. However, the city had been Greek before it was Turkish, and Greek remained a common tongue for traders after the Ottomans took control. I hope I have not stretched credibility too far by allowing most of the major characters fluency in this useful language. With few if any Romanian speakers in the city, Teodor would have needed to be fluent in Greek or Turkish, probably both, to conduct his trading business. Paula, a born scholar, would have learned Greek and Latin early so she could read the classics.

Glossary of non-English words

Bektaşi

beck-tuh-shee; dervish order in which women have equality in worship

Bugarski Goran

Bulgarian shepherd (breed of dog)

caïque

ka-eek; shallow-drafted vessel, powered by banks of oars

camekan

ja-muh-kahn; rest and refreshment area at the hamam

çarşi

char-shee; market comprising small streets lined with shops

dervish

an Islamic mystic

destur

make way

djinn

pronounced like the English word gin; genie, spirit

dolman

long robe opening in front, with narrow sleeves

hamam

ha-mahm; Turkish bathhouse

han

traders’ building incorporating market area, storage for goods, and merchants’ accommodation

haremlik

women’s quarters

imam

ee-mahm; Islamic prayer leader

kyria

kee-ree-a; polite Greek form of address for a woman

mahalle

ma-hahl-luh; district or quarter

medrese

muh-dra-suh; Muslim religious school, usually associated with and situated near a mosque

muezzin

mweh-zin; person who gives the call to prayer

Mufti

moof-tee; authority on Islamic religious law. The Sheikh-ul-Islam was Mufti of Istanbul and the Sultan’s principal authority on matters of religion and religious law

peri

Turkish fairy woman

peştamal

pesh-tuh-mahl; cloth used to cover the body while at the hamam

tulum

traditional musical instrument, similar to a bagpipe

Stea de Mare

steh-uh duh mah-reh; starfish (sea star)

Esperança

Eh-spuh-rahn-tsa; hope

Places

Aya Sofia

eye-uh so-fee-uh; Istanbul’s most famous monument, a church built by the emperor Justinian and converted under Ottoman rulers to a mosque

Bosphorus

strait linking the Black Sea with the Sea of Marmara, separates Istanbul into western (European) and eastern (Asian) parts

Braşov

bra-shove; major trading town in Transylvania

Constana

kahn-stahn-tsa; trading port on the west coast of the Black Sea; loading point for overland travel through Transylvania

Galata

district of Istanbul, situated on the eastern side of the Golden Horn and populated mostly by foreign merchants

Golden Horn

broad horn-shaped inlet separating western Istanbul into two sections; main docks located here

Rumeli Hisari

roo-muh-luh hih-sa-ruh; fortress built by Mehmet the Conqueror at the narrowest point of the Bosphorus

Samarkand

city on the caravan route from Anatolia to the East

Tabriz

city on the caravan route from Anatolia to the East

Topkapi Palace

tahp-ka-puh; main residence of the Sultan’s household in Istanbul

THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2008 by Juliet Marillier

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Marillier, Juliet.

Cybele’s secret/Juliet Marillier.—1st ed.

p. cm.

Summary: Scholarly eighteen-year-old Paula and her merchant father journey from Transylvania to Istanbul to buy an ancient pagan artifact rumored to be charmed, but others, including a handsome Portuguese pirate and an envoy from the magical Wildwood, want to acquire the item as well.

eISBN: 978-0-375-89143-4

[1. Antiquities—Fiction. 2. Fathers and daughters—Fiction. 3. Merchants—Fiction. 4. Pirates—Fiction. 5. Supernatural—Fiction. 6. Magic—Fiction. 7. Cults—Fiction. 8. Sisters—Fiction. 9. Istanbul (Turkey)—History—Fiction. 10. Turkey—History—Fiction.] I. Title.

PZ7.M33856Cyb 2008

[Fic]—dc22

2008004758

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