Nexus Point

10

The Kadi bowed low, completing his morning prayer and releasing that tenuous yet vital hold on the thin spiritual line that reached out across the globe to holy Mecca. The qibla, an invisible line of direction that connected him to the very center of Islam, was a sacred meridian of the faithful, as sure and reliable as the lines that navigators used to navigate the oceans on their journeys. He took hold of that line five times each day, and this time he paused to visualize the great black-draped shine of the Ka’ba in his mind, and remember the holy black stone within that his lips had touched on during the last pilgrimage of the Hadj. The stone, it was said, fell from the heavens, a gift from Allah.

Now he sat with the sweet memories dancing in his mind, the chanting masses swirling about the squat shape of the shrine that had been built by the hand of Abraham himself. It was Jibra’el, the Angel of heaven, who had given instruction on its making. How fortunate that he had been able to fulfill his holy duty to visit that place as a young man. He was blessed by Allah, and grateful that he had been able to make the journey before the infirmities of age and time took hold of him. His experience of that moment remained a central pillar in his own life, and helped him to remain one of the rightly guided, true to the teachings of Islam.

The morning chill fingered the hem of his gown and he pulled it close, his mind drawn from the dream of the faithful to the matter that was now at hand. The Kadi was uncertain in his heart when he turned his thoughts to the man he would soon encounter. He was the third Walker that had fallen through the Well of Souls to reach this place, all predicted by the scrolls the Kadi had received from Egypt, all expected. Yet surely this was not the man intended. By all accounts and appearances, he was an unbeliever! How was it that an infidel should appear in their midst, and not the messenger he had been led to expect?

It was clear to him now that the Order was behind this. Somehow, by some means, they had uncovered yet another of the cherished hidden sanctuaries his people had long guarded. Perhaps the Sami was right to argue with him. That thought shook the Kadi more than the cold morning wind of the desert. If what the Sami said was true then the gateway in Wadi Rumm, the Valley of the Moon, had been breached! The Well of Souls had been defiled, and now an infidel was in their midst, or so it seemed. Was he an agent of the Order sent to this very place to work some mischief as the Sami argued? Where had he come from? Why was he here?

He lowered his head with the shame of his circumstance. Yet, Allah had placed this burden upon him, and he could not set it aside without just resolution. Could this be my great trial, he wondered as he stroked the long grey-white beard that fell upon his breast? He was not yet old, but he grew his beard long as the sign of his office—Kadi, the judge. It was his to preside over discernment, and make decree. A Walker was not to be dealt with lightly. He had conferred with the Sami long, throughout the night, and with some distress. The Sami was driven by his fear and hatred of the infidels. It was his to receive the initiates, to prepare the warriors of the faithful—the Fedayeen. His was the charge of the sharpened sword and the vial of poison. Therefore it was not surprising that death was on his lips from the very first when they met to consider the fate of this man.

“You say he is a Walker?’ the Sami’s face was still mirrored in the Kadi’s recollection, the ice of his eyes flaring like blue fire. “But he does not first walk in the manner of the rightly guided!”

“Yes, he is an infidel,” the Kadi had returned, “By his own admission. Jabr Ali S’ad is very skillful. He has loosened the man’s tongue. Still, we are not the only ones who walk the unseen paths.”

“Then he is of the Order, I tell you. All the more reason to slay the man now, before he rests here in harmony. Why is he pampered? Why is he sent fine linen, and the hospitality of our table? No doubt he is an enemy, perhaps even a Templar; I warn you here and now! He should be chained in cold iron, and collared with the Lightstone. You know this. Why must I argue?”

“A Templar? I do not think so. He certainly did not shun the attention that was lavished upon him by the maids. No Templar will treat with women. Besides, his coming was written!” The Kadi remembered how he had extended the rolled scroll so the light from the lamp would illuminate the thinly traced script for the eyes of the Sami. “This was late received from Egypt. You have not seen it, and so how can you know the torment of my heart in this?”

The Sami eyed the parchment with disdain. “Written? How can the coming of a heathen be written? Do you inscribe such when you throw the scraps from your table to the dogs beyond the castle gate? How, then, would this be written in the tomb of the ancients? I tell you he is not the messenger you were told to expect. He bore no scroll, and his effects were strange to behold. He should be tortured until he speaks his charge. Perhaps he killed the one you waited for, and came here in his place. Ask him, and if he remains silent then his life should be forfeit.”

“That is not for me to judge,” the Kadi reminded his adversary. “Mine is for discernment here and now. Only the Sheikh may order the death of a Walker. You may read the scroll yourself, if you wish. You are initiated. You are rightly guided. Let your eyes read and see that I speak the truth in this. His coming was written. He arrived on the very day we were told to look for him. Do you still grasp the hilt of your dagger as the only greeting we can then make with this man? Perhaps it was necessary for him to assume this guise as a measure of protection. Do you not train the Fedayeen to walk among our enemies, eating as they do, and assuming their manner and speech? So do they become invisible in the enemy’s own tent, and our work is accomplished.”

The Sami folded his arms, unwilling to touch the scroll, let alone read it; resolved in his anger and resentment that the work of his servants, the Fedayeen, should not be his to fully command. “Then why would he hide his purpose now that he has awakened?”

“I do not know, and unless I have word from Egypt or the Sheikh comes, I must not judge harshly.”

“Egypt!” The Sami spat out the word, clearly displeased. “It is always the coming of the scroll that you heed and obey, yet your eyes are blinded to what is clearly before you. This man is a wolf! The infidels are a blight upon our sacred cities. They infest the rich valleys of Palestine like locusts and vermin, and you wait dutifully and receive the scrawl of unseen hands in Egypt. And another wolf is at large again, Arnot is on the prowl. Have you not heard?” The Sami took relish and strength from the uncertainty that arose in the Kadi’s eyes when he spoke of Arnot, the Wolf of Kerak.

“Yes,” he pressed on, “he has escaped the justice ordained for him, and somehow returned to Jerusalem unharmed! Twice now we have tried to kill the man, yet he escapes the knife as though charmed. Perhaps he, too, is a Walker—sent here by the Order to plague us.”

“You tempt fate,” the Kadi warned. “You may not have been so bold if the Sheikh had been here.”

“Oh? You think the Sheikh would not approve? You do not know all or decide every measure in the struggle against our enemies. It is said that only the hand that wields the sword may hold the scepter. Sometimes strong measures are required, not the soft hand. And I tell you that this stranger in the chamber of greeting is another wolf, here in our own fold. He should be tortured, or slain, but you will not accede. You send the maids to him instead.”

“Yes, I do not accede. The Sheikh is not here to rule on the matter and we swore that nothing of consequence should be done unless we are both of equal mind. Act without sanction, and the weave of events will come undone. The harmony will fail, and we will have only the song of bereavement for solace. Will you answer those who mourn when that happens?”

The Sami looked away, annoyed and headstrong to the last. “You are not the only one who receives instruction here.”

The Kadi remembered how he met the Sami’s gaze just then, and how they struggled with one another, each seeking to impose his will on the other. What did he mean by that? Was he, too, receiving guidance from without—from Egypt, from the wandering Sheikh, from Alamut?

“No matter,” he said at last, unwilling to try and charm that snake just now. The matter before him was burden enough. He had to assure himself that the Sami would not act rashly. “Your intentions and motives I have already discerned. You have been told not to interfere!” He had pointed a hard finger at the Sami when he spoke, and even now he regretted his manners, in spite of the anger he still felt heating the back of his neck. “And now you advise me to kill a man I have been told to greet with warmth and welcome. He is a Walker. His coming was written.”

“He is an enemy, I tell you—or he is in the pay of the infidels” The Sami was adamant. “You allow him to eat from our table like an honored guest. What might he be planning, even now, while we quibble here?”

“He is watched.”

“Watched? By Whom? The harlot’s maid?”

“I have appointed Mukasir in this matter, as I have said. He is watched by one who speaks the Saxon tongue—Jabr Ali S’ad.”

“Yes, I have heard that he called out in his fever—with words of the heathen tongue upon his lips. He condemns himself with his own speech!”

“You judge too quickly. Could it be that you are blinded by your own hatred and fear?”

“Speak for yourself and leave the verdict of my heart in peace.”

“I have done so, yet you persist in straying from the appointed path. I am Amir al Hakeem: Kadi General of Massiaf!” The Kadi was not pleased that he had to remind the Sami of that fact yet again. He had been forced to speak his name and title more than once in the last year. The Sami remained unwilling to heed the demands made of him, and it was very troublesome. Yet, in spite of his office, the Kadi knew in his heart that they were equals. Only one other could pass binding judgment on either man—the nameless one, the Sheikh.

“As you wish,” he said with reluctance. “The Sheikh will decide what we can not agree upon here. I have pigeons at the ready, and they will take wing for the Sea of Ravens and Alamut.” He waited on the Sami now, testing his resolve.

“I have sent as well to Alamut.” The Sami folded his arms. In truth, neither wished to tempt the judgment of the Sheikh, for it might be harsh, and unexpectedly cruel for them both.

As if realizing that their argument would lead them nowhere, the two men lapsed into silence while the Kadi poured spiced tea into a porcelain cup and passed it to the dour figure at his side. The Sami looked at the cup, then reached out to receive it. “I will drink with you again on this.” He had spoken the words with some reluctance. The Kadi watched how he raised the cup to his lips and drained it in one quick swallow, and seemingly with little satisfaction. While three cups were customary, he took only one and stood up abruptly.

“Yes,” he whispered, “you are Kadi General of Castle Massiaf, and I am the Sami here. So I will drink your tea on this, but one cup only. And you should remember the day you sat naked in my presence and drank another cup—do you recall it?” The Sami was referring to the initiation rite that had first brought the Kadi into the clan, many years ago. It was an all too obvious insult, and the Sami made it plain that he considered himself the elder, and therefore the wiser in all things, in spite of the title that had been conferred on the Kadi. “Do what you wish with this man, then. But remember that I will be watching from the shadows, even as I was watching you that day when you sat with me and drank your first cup. And remember also what was spoken to you on that morning—was it so long ago that you have forgotten?” He looked at the scroll when he spoke. “Nothing is written,” he whispered. “And everything is permitted.”

The Kadi heaved a disconsolate sigh, as if to shrug off the burden the meeting with the Sami had placed upon his shoulders. Now he must speak with the stranger, and the time of judgment was at hand. His able servant of the watch, Jabr Ali Sa’d, had reported that the visitor was well, and ready to pass the discernment of his eye. Jabr was Mukasir, the breaker, charged to greet the unbeliever and begin the long process that would break his attachment to heathen ways. He had made a warm greeting with the man, and opened his voice. Yet there was still so much left to discern and time was short.

He stood up now, and his servants, sensing his movement from the adjoining room, rushed at once to his side to see to his needs. He told them to prepare the conference room, and set out fine pillows, food and drink. “And send to Jabr Ali S’ad,” he said. “Tell him we will see our guest in an hour’s time.”

11

Paul sat in the quiet warmth of his bed chamber, surrounded by silken pillows and soft linen. Until moments ago, the sensuous maid, Samirah, had been curled at his side, her warm body pressed close to him while he slept. There was certainly something to be said of Arab hospitality, he thought, yet he wondered at the treatment that was lavished upon him. This did not seem like the austere and oppressive manner he had been told to expect on his trip to Jordan.

He knew that Westerners, particularly Americans, were not liked in the Middle East these days. It was dangerous to travel there after the long simmering unrest that grew from the US invasion and occupation of Iraq in 2003. Yet, here he was, smothered with scented oil, dressed in fine Arabic robes, plied with sweet wines, food, wonderful coffee and, to his great surprise and delight, visited by this quiet beauty each night! It was the fifth day since he had fallen into the sinkhole, and the long hours of pampered rest had restored him.

God only knows what happened to Nordhausen, he mused, but if he knew about this hidden warren in the desert he would probably have jumped in himself. Where was he?

Paul threaded through the vague recollections of his coming to this place—the fall, the water, the struggle to save himself in the wild underground stream. He came up against a blank, and his memories became tattered and disjointed, until they coalesced again in the sensation of soft warm hands on his body, and the smell of incense and spiced coffee.

His host, Jabr Ali S’ad, had been cautious at first, but grew more open and genuinely warm as they spoke together. In his conversations with Jabr, Paul had come to the conclusion that he was no longer in a subterranean vault beneath Wadi Rumm. Yes, he could still hear the constant flowing of water, but Jabr’s references to rooms and battlements and walls and gates led him to believe that he had been rescued from the stream and then taken off, unconscious, to some nearby outpost. Could he be in Akaba? Wherever he was, he had not seen daylight once in all the time he was awake. Apparently he was still being kept in a hidden room, on the lower, underground level of some greater complex. Sounds came to him in the night—strange ghostly horn calls, the whispered passing of feet on smooth stone, sonorous chants that echoed in the halls above and an occasional hard grate of metal on rock, resounding sharply in the distance.

It occurred to him that he may have been taken hostage by some rogue group that used Wadi Rumm as a base of operations. Perhaps the underground stream he fell into had carried him some ways to the shore of their hidden outpost. It was all he could determine for the moment. Still, there were other things that seemed oddly out of place here. If he was hostage, why was he being treated like a prince? His expectation would be more of blindfolds and harsh treatment; rough interrogation and abuse. Yet, in spite of the fact that he did feel that Jabr was quietly trying to extract information from him, he was coddled and comforted by his captors, if they could be called such. It did not make sense.

Jabr told him he was chosen to greet him because he spoke the Saxon tongue. He obviously meant English, but Paul found that his host often used archaic expressions, and made references to things that were wholly bewildering to Paul. He spoke in metaphor, and took a manner that assumed Paul was privy to every nuance and image he used—as if his language was secretly understood by them both. He called the sink hole the ‘Well of Souls,’ and referred to Paul as a fellow ‘Walker.’ Could he mean that he was a tourist, or perhaps a pilgrim? The old pilgrim’s road did traverse the region of Wadi Rumm, just one stage on the long journey to Mecca in days of old.

That thought gathered prominence in his mind. He had the distinct feeling that these people were living out some fantasy from the tales of the Arabian Knights. Jabr was amiable, and chatted with him over each meal before leaving him in the care of the maid he called Samirah. Yet every time Paul had tried to question his host about his status and whereabouts, there was only a polite smile, and artful nod of the head. “These things in time,” Jabr told him. “All things in time. Tomorrow you will meet with the Kadi. He does not speak your tongue, and so I will be honored to accompany you as translator, if you will permit me.”

This was the morning set for the meeting. Samirah had caressed him to wakefulness, and then brought him fresh baked bread and minty spiced tea. Paul knew that Jabr would soon be at his side again, smiling, watching, quietly probing at him in their conversation, as he had for the last two days now. Paul still puzzled at the riddle of the man’s speech, and wondered how he would fare when trying to communicate with this Kadi, as Jabr called him. It was difficult enough sorting through Jabr’s odd statements. Trying to span the cultural chasm and language barrier with the Kadi might prove a frustrating and difficult experience.

Jabr was very punctual. Samirah withdrew, trailing the sweet scent of perfume and roses, and Jabr made his entrance a moment later. He shuffled to Paul’s side, bowing cordially with his greeting.

“The Peace of Allah be upon you.” He waited, somewhat hopefully, and Paul recalled how Jabr had labored to teach him the etiquette of the formal Arabic greeting the night before.

“And with you, peace.”

“Morning of goodness, morning of light,” Jabr rejoined.

“God grant you long life.”

“Our family, our gardens, be yours.” Jabr’s dark eyes brightened, his thin brown cheeks stretching in a broad smile. “Very good!” Then he added: “You are not offended to speak of Allah in this manner?”

“Offended?”

“I know you are not of the rightly guided—not an adherent of Islam.”

“You mean you know that I am an infidel.”

There was a blush of embarrassment on Jabr’s face. “I do not call the unbelievers such. It is only my hope to touch the heart of one who has not known the bliss of Islam, and make greeting, in the name of Allah, the Merciful, the Compassionate. In this light, no man is an infidel, and all are subject to the will of Allah. You were born to another way, that is all. Yet you do not seem hard of heart. Your mind is open, yes? Are you willing to learn our ways, and hear the wisdom we might share with you without harsh judgment?”

“Certainly,” said Paul. “You have been a gracious host, Jabr, and I am much in your debt.”

“Then even in spite of our long enmity, you wish to find accord with us? This is not trickery or deceit?”

“Trickery? I’m not sure what you mean. To be honest, Jabr, I’m a bit lost with all of this, but very grateful for the care and courtesy you have shown me. Perhaps our meeting with this Kadi will clear everything up for us both. In any case, I don’t know what you mean with this business about our long enmity—we have only just met.”

Jabr smiled. “If only the men of the West would think as you do in this, then perhaps we could live in peace instead of vying with the sword.”

“Do we go to the Kadi now?”

“If you are willing,” said Jabr.

Paul rose, stretching his long legs as he did so and gesturing to the shadowed, wooden lattice where he knew there must be a door. Jabr cautioned him briefly before he led the way.

“We will be escorted, you understand.” He seemed to be apologizing, and Paul soon saw that he was referring to two burly guards standing in the shadows just beyond the low arch that opened to a long corridor. They were bare chested, with loose fitting, billowy trousers and white turbans on their heads. Each man held a drawn sword, which caused Paul some hesitation. Perhaps the hospitality will take a darker turn now, he thought.

Jabr seemed to sense his discomfort as he eyed the guards, and took his arm, gently guiding him on. “Have no fear,” he assured him. “Forgive me, but this is merely a precaution. The Kadi is a very important man.”

“I understand,” said Paul. But he did not understand men with swords drawn at the ready just outside his door. Kalashnikov assault rifles he expected… but swords? Who was this Kadi—some Osama Bin Ladin in charge of this group? He certainly had a flair for the dramatic. Paul watched, with a half smile, while one guard took the van and the other waited to follow behind them.

They passed the long corridor of gray stone and came to a steep, winding stair that seemed to go on forever. Paul counted five separate landings, each one continuing up to yet another flight of rough-hewn stairs of stone. He was a bit winded when they finally turned right at the top of a landing and approached a wide oaken door beneath an arch of artfully carved stone bricks. Each brick was inlaid with Arabic script, and Jabr gestured warmly as they approached the door.

“The council chamber of the Kadi General,” he said, his voice hushed with reverence. “Remember the words of greeting I taught you?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“In Arabic?”

“I will do my best.”

“Good then. I will be at your side at all times. There will be three cushions set before the chair of the Kadi. Take the centermost one and be comfortable. I will sit on your right. When the Kadi speaks I will translate in your ear. You may simply utter your response in the Saxon tongue, and I will be your voice.”

The leading guard knocked once upon the door, clanging a thick, wrought iron oval. It was answered by more men, dressed in the same fashion as their escorts, only with a threaded line of gold along the sides of their trousers. Jabr bowed, and gestured for Paul to enter. As he did so he took in the high, vaulted ceiling, supported by two rows of thick pillars with ornate capitals. The stonework was well crafted, and the pillars flanked a long hall with richly colored carpets. The far end of the room opened on lofty colonnades and arched windows above a flight of wide steps. There, on a dais lit by torches, beneath a wonderfully carved Arabic arch, sat a man in simple white robes. He wore a jeweled turban upon his head, and his eyes seemed weary and strained above his cinder beard. As Paul advanced, he soon made out the man’s features—tawny skin, aged yet not withered; a prominent nose above thick purplish lips. The man regarded him with a steady gaze, and Paul seemed to catch a hint of surprise in his eyes as he watched the visitors take their places on the silken cushions.

Jabr looked at him, nodding. Paul soon realized that he was being prompted to greet the Kadi, and he flushed, a bit embarrassed that he had been gawking at the architecture and forgetting his manners. He bowed low and rose, speaking the words Jabr taught him in Arabic.

The Kadi responded warmly, obviously pleased, and Paul completed the brief litany before seating himself again. There was a moment of quiet regard and the Kadi seemed to be deliberating something in his own mind. Then he spoke again, and Jabr translated quietly in Paul’s right ear.

“I trust you are comforted here and it is my hope that your health and life are well protected.”

“I had a harrowing fall,” said Paul, “but your hospitality has restored me to good health. Please accept my thanks and gratitude.”

“It is graciously given, as the welcome of Castle Massiaf. We were told to expect you on the night of the full moon, and we hope your journey was not arduous.”

Castle Massiaf—that was the first inkling Paul had of his whereabouts, but the name did not mean anything to him. He hesitated wondering what the man meant with that last remark. “Forgive me, but how could you anticipate my coming?”

The Kadi waited briefly. “It was written. Sent to us by the messenger before you, but we did not expect that you would be Saxon.” The look on Paul’s face spoke across the language barrier without any need for translation. The Kadi seemed suddenly infected by Paul’s bewildered expression. “Are you not the Walker in the Valley of the Moon—that we call Wadi Rumm?”

“Wadi Rumm? Yes, I was in that place, seeking shelter from the sun and fresh water. Yet I came there by chance. My fall was not intended—“

“Not intended?” The Kadi seemed perplexed by this revelation. “Yet you came by the Well of Souls. You came in on the river, just as we were forewarned.” Jabr was translating quickly, and Paul looked from him to his questioner on the dais.

“I’m very sorry,” he said, “but my fall was an accident. I can only be thankful that your people were close at hand to render assistance.”

The Kadi seemed more and more perturbed with each word Paul spoke. He ran his hand over his thick beard, considering.

“Then you did not jump willingly? How strange.” The man leaned in to study Paul’s face more clearly. “Do you mean to say that the Dawa was not revealed to you? You were not prepared? You are here simply because Allah wills it?” He cocked his head to one side. “Or do you say these things to avoid discernment here?”

Paul’s confusion redoubled. More riddles and metaphors. “What is meant by Dawa?” he asked.

“By that we mean the divine intent of your journey—the summons that calls you to become a pilgrim. You are a Gray Walker on the eternal Hajj, and all who walk that road are called and prepared. That is your Dawa: your mission. Could it be you have forgotten? Was your fall a grievous one—or are you simply unwilling to speak freely?”

“Well,” he began, “I’m still not entirely sure what you mean by all that. You may call my coming the will of Allah, but I assure you, he did not take the time to confer with me before I took that headlong fall.”

The Kadi allowed himself a thin smile. “Do you play with words here?”

Paul was as confused as ever. “Let me be plain, sir. We were trying to reach a ship in the Red Sea, as Jabr here has undoubtedly told you by now.”

“He has spoken of a celestial flight. You say there was a great vessel in the Red Sea to the east—the Arabesque, as it was called.”

“I never saw it. Our flight was… interrupted, and we landed in Wadi Rumm. It was necessary for us to find shelter, and fresh water. We began to search the caves there and I was alone when I slipped and fell into the sink. I suppose my only mission was to find my way home. We meant to try and reach Akaba, you see. Is that where I am now?”

It was clear, as Jabr translated, that the Kadi did not expect to hear such a revelation. In fact, he had the aspect of a man who was unwilling to believe what he was being told. His heavy lips pursed with disapproval, and his eyes narrowed. Paul saw how he clenched his fist in the palm of his other hand, as though distraught, or greatly troubled. Then he fixed Paul with an avid stare and spoke tersely, with stone in his voice. Jabr hesitated, and whispered a hasty translation.

“Are you a Templar? You must answer truly now.”

The man’s manner carried a presentiment of warning. Paul could sense how the tension in the question had infected Jabr as well. His translator swallowed, his throat dry, and Paul could not help glancing at his dark eyes. The fear had returned to them, traced with just the barest hint of suspicion.

He wracked his brain, knowing that his answer was somehow very important to these men. A Templar? What on earth did they mean? His hesitation prompted the Kadi to push harder on the door he was opening, and before Paul could answer the man spoke again.

“Are you Hospitaller then? What order do you serve?”

“What order? I don’t understand what you are asking me. I serve no order.” Then the words broke through to a point of understanding in his mind. Templar… Hospitaller… Those were the names of the fighting orders of Christian knights in Medieval times. There were modern equivalents, but they were nothing more than church socials and fraternal lodges, like the Knights of Columbus. Some were still shrouded in mystery, and rumored to be secret societies of the Church. Perhaps these men placed credence in those stories, and thought him to be some kind of agent.

“Look,” said Paul. “It is clear that I am a Westerner—an American, in fact. I have told you how I came here, or at least all that I can recall, yet you people have been talking in these riddles and I can’t seem to get a straight word out of anyone. Now, answer me this: am I a prisoner here? Do you mean to hold me hostage? If so get on with it then and bring out your video camera or whatever else you intend. I’ll be more than happy to become a star in your little show.” He folded his arms, angry and frustrated, yet also a bit unsettled that he had allowed his emotions to get the better of him. Who were these people? The question rankled him, and he had decided to have it out with them here and now—in spite of the gratitude he felt for their rescue and the kindness of their hospitality.

Jabr looked at him, a bit wide eyed, and then slowly translated what he had been saying. The Kadi kept looking from Jabr to Paul, clearly annoyed, yet determined. His brows drooped and returned a flash of the same anger Paul had postured, resolving more to a stern indignation. He spoke again, his voice clear and loud.

“Then you claim to serve no order? You are not a sergeant, or even a squire? Do you speak truly?”

They were going to hold to this drivel about knights and squires, and Paul shrugged. “No,” he said disconsolately. “I am not a knight, or a sergeant or a squire or anything else. I was simply here on an archeological dig to recover a fossil. Now, if you must know, the find was very valuable, and yes, we were removing it without papers. I can’t imagine that is very much of a crime, and we can offer any compensation that may be asked—along with the return of the Ammonite, if that matters. Now I want to be put in contact with the American embassy in Amman. Is that clear?”

While Paul had hoped his directness would bring this matter to a quick conclusion, Jabr looked more and more bemused as he went on. He began speaking to the Kadi, but Paul realized that he was not making a simple translation. The two men were speaking to one another now, clearly animated, as though trying to reach some mutual conclusion on what to do next. The Kadi waved his arms, giving Jabr a clear instruction until he turned to Paul and spoke, his voice low and controlled.

“The Kadi does not understand—we do not understand the things you speak of. Yet, he must reach discernment here. This is very important Do-Rahlan. You must speak truly, and open yourself. Otherwise the judgment here could be harsh.”

There was a cold scrape of metal and the echo of hard footsteps. All eyes turned to see a man striding from the shadow of an alcove behind the dais. He was dressed in white robes, hooded, with a sable sash tying off his garments at the waist. Paul saw that his hand rested on the hilt of a sheathed weapon, and wondered if this was a captain of this little troop of Arabian guards. All the men in the room seemed to defer to him as he emerged, the guards stooping to a kneeling position as they caught sight of the man. Even Jabr averted his eyes and lowered his head. Only the Kadi sat straight, chin high, an indignant fire in his eyes as he watched the extraordinary figure approach. Paul sensed the edge of tension between the two men, and realized that the audience had taken a strange turn, spiraling into some unpredictable level of danger that he now sensed quite clearly in the room. The guards were not merely deferring with respect, they were afraid. Jabr bowed low and Paul saw that his hand was shaking as he did so.

The man’s tread slowed, and softened on the thick carpeting as he drew near. Paul was drawn to him, catching the glint of his eyes from beneath the hood of his garment. He cut an ominous and threatening figure, and seemed very intent upon Paul. Then the Kadi spoke, as though to draw the attention of the man, pulling at the interloper, who turned from Paul to heed him.

The two men exchanged words, and the tone seemed quite unfriendly. Then the Kadi pointed at Jabr, and called his name. The translator quavered a bit, bowing first and then whispering in Paul’s ear. “I am instructed to interpret for you now, and I advise you to be cautious in all you say here. The third pillow has arrived, and the time of your judgment is now at hand.”

Paul glanced at the empty cushion to his left. Good cop, bad cop, he thought. This must be the real interrogator, or perhaps the ringleader of this little group. They’re terrified of the man—except for the Kadi. Those two stand on equal footing, and there’s some enmity between them, that much is clear.

“This is Sami Abdul-Basir of Massiaf, Servant of the All Seeing. He will question you now, and the Kadi will listen. You must speak truly, and may Allah guide you in all you say.”

The Sami pointed at Paul and spoke, his voice quiet and almost melodious, his eyes catching and magnifying the wavering light of torches, though his face remained shrouded in shadow.

“The Sami has heard all that was spoken before,” said Jabr. “He asks you now to chant your oath, and reveal the Order you serve.”

Paul looked from the Sami to Jabr, and then made up his mind. “Tell him I serve no order, and I take no oath.”

“Ana Laa Afham. The Sami does not understand how this can be so, for all Walkers are sworn. He asks if this is taqiyya—forgive me,” Jabr explained. “He does not believe you. He suggests that you deny your true faith and position out of fear, or to conceal your real motives.”

“You mean he thinks I’m a liar.” Paul did not mince words. “Well, he can think whatever he wishes, but I hold to no order, as he suggests. This is nonsense!”

“Then how is it you have come to this place at the appointed time. The Kadi has said your coming was written. You were expected. Explain this.”

“I have no idea what the Kadi means,” said Paul, holding his ground in spite of the hostile tone in the Sami’s voice. “My arrival here was an accident, nothing more.”

“Then you had no Dawa? You were not prepared?”

“They have tried to explain that to me, but I don’t understand. I am not in the employ of any government, if that is what you mean. I wasn’t briefed or cajoled or bribed. I simply fell! I had an accident! Look, I am a free citizen, if that is not something you people have difficulty comprehending. I go where I please and, right now, the only thing on my mind is getting home. I demand to make a phone call to the embassy of the United States in Amman.”

The Sami spoke sharply in reply, though Jabr softened the words in translation. “Who is this emissary you wish to call upon? Is he your contact here? Is he a Templar?”

“Embassy,” Paul’s frustration was apparent. “Look here, either you are the gracious people you first appeared to be, or you are a band of Islamic radicals—I don’t know which. Quite frankly, I don’t care. Just make up your mind here and get on with this. Either grant me my rights under international law, or, if you refuse—”

The Sami shouted.

“Be silent, Do-Rahlan!” Jabr seemed terrified.

The white robed figure had drawn his weapon, and he strode boldly up to Paul, a long dagger gleaming in his hand as he came. But, as he drew near, his hand seemed to freeze, and Paul caught the sibilant intake of the man’s breath, as though he was physically shocked. He stopped short, and Paul could see his hand tremble ever so slightly where he held out the knife. He obviously meant to threaten, if not to do Paul serious harm, yet something had taken hold of him, like an unseen hand restraining him. He stepped away, as a man might back away from a ghost. His left hand moved to grasp his right where he held the dagger, stilling the tremor.

What was going on here?

The Sami was clearly shaken by his approach to Paul, and began engaging the Kadi in a heated exchange. Paul looked at Jabr, and saw that his eyes were pressed tightly closed, his head low. Something was clearly amiss, but Paul could not guess what it was. He only knew that his fate was somehow teetering in the balance, and wished he could think of what to say or do. Finally, the Kadi stood up, his eyes set with bright determination; his arm pointing sternly at the Sami’s drawn dagger. The Sami said something more, his voice low and threatening. Then he turned and strode away as he had come, disappearing into the shadows behind the dais. No one moved until he was gone.

Paul was watching the Kadi very closely now, and he could see that the man was shaken, as though the confrontation with the Sami had been a trial that drained his strength and energy. His fingers pinched at the bridge of his nose, and then, as though suddenly aware of Paul’s regard, he glanced up, his hand returning to stroke his beard. He spoke to Jabr again, who whispered quietly in Paul’s ear.

“We must go now,” he said. “The Kadi must consider what was said here this morning. Come now—rise and bow. We will leave as we have come.”

12

The Sami waited in the Eyrie of Sinan, the highest point in Castle Massiaf, towering up over the crenellated battlements of the main wall, a stark spike of stone penetrating the night. A forbidden keep, the retreat of the nameless Sheikh himself when he quartered there, it was a dank and cheerless place. Few would chance even to speak of its bleak walls, and none would dare to climb the gray stair leading to the high arched gate that made for its single entrance. Only the Sami, master of the arts of the Assassins and the keeper of the keys to that tower, would dare to cross the threshold. The keystone of the arch was scored with the Arabic inscription that would stand as both a warning and guiding rule for the secret cult he presided over, a truth the Sami knew well—that Time is boundless.

Yet his patience was not so generous. An enemy was at work here: Arnat, the Wolf that had preyed upon his brethren and even dared to launch raids upon the holy soil of Arabia, was again at large. The Sami had it in his mind to send a chosen clutch of his lethal Fedayeen to deal with the man. He had been planning the matter for many months now, sending out spies to gather information on the man’s whereabouts. Now, the coming of this strange messenger filled him with doubt. It may be that he would need his loyal fighters here at Massiaf until he could determine how to deal with this intruder. He sighed, still unwavering in his mind. I will follow the track of the Wolf soon enough, he thought, but first the matter of this stranger, and the intransigence of the Kadi.

Tonight the restless airs blew from the east, carrying with them the scent of the desert, warm dry winds over the flint and shale of sunburned rock. He squinted out over the iron transom of a tall lancet window there, smelling the air and watching the gathering of night. It was a fast wind tonight, he thought, and the messengers will come before the moon is down for certain.

As if in answer he heard the haunting call of the birds drifting over the rugged highlands, and caught the dark fleck of the messenger pigeons wheeling against the mottled face of a waning moon. Perhaps tonight he would have his answer, he thought. It had been five days since the stranger arrived at Massiaf—five days of uncertainty that rankled in his gut as he recalled the face and manner of the man. He was still shaken by the apprehension that had fallen upon him when he approached the stranger, dagger in hand, in the Kadi’s council chamber. It was as if he perceived a faint glow emanating from the man, an aura that surrounded him with some dark magic that was undoubtedly the work of the Order. He remembered how he shirked back, lest he be defiled by the man’s unholy touch. Who was this? Why was he sent?

It was clear that he was an enemy, and if there was one thing the Sami had a firm hold on, it was the treatment of enemies. He knew what he wished to accomplish in this matter, but the Kadi would not hear him. It was evident that this man could not be the one prescribed by the prophets of Egypt, yet the Kadi was blind, and weak of spirit. If this stranger, an infidel, had come to them from the Well of Souls, then the enemies of Islam were on the move once more, prowling the hills and vales like restless wolves, intent on devouring the faithful or bending them to heathen creeds.

If they have found the well in the Valley of the Moon, he ruminated, then they must have sent this man through as a spy –or possibly even an assassin, a business the Sami knew only too well. Who was he targeted to? What was his mission? The man would not speak. He was holding to the discipline of his oath and offered insulting lies instead. And to make matters worse, the Kadi would not accede. Why did he harbor the intruder in gilded chambers, with sweetened airs and trays of the finest food and drink?

The Kadi had grown soft and uncertain with age. He was not the man needed here when war would soon beset this land. Cast no seed upon the rocks, he mused. The Kadi had become as dull of mind as the cold stone bricks of the castle itself. He doted upon the scrolls of the prophets and had no will of his own. It was time for a strong hand, for stern measures, and mercy to the enemies of Islam was unseemly in the face of jihad. The Sami knew what he must do. So it was that he selected the pride of his courier birds, a messenger to the distant fastness of Alamut, far to the East. If the Kadi would not hear the wisdom of his arguments, then the Sheikh in Alamut must rule instead.

Tonight he hoped to have his answer, and his eyes brightened to see the dark wings of the birds wheel and swoop above the horned tower, until one came to rest at last on the stony ledge of the window, calling out a welcome, like the trilling voice of the wind that carried it.

Gingerly, the Sami extended his arm, his hand holding out a sweetened date in reward. The sleek bird cocked its head to one side and hopped through the embrasure of the tower lancet. Its gray feathers gleamed in the torchlight as it entered, and the Sami cooed in greeting, a smile pulling the sallow lines of his bearded face. He spied the silver circlet on the bird’s right leg. Tonight he would have his answer from Alamut.

Eagerly he removed the message ring and carried it to a high table beneath the guttering torch that lit this solitary room. His breath quickened as he unlatched the ringlet and pried out the thin strip of cut cloth that would contain his message. He unrolled it slowly, his eyes hoping to find the stain of blood that would sanction him to take matters into his own hands here. The cloth was clear and unblemished. He stared at it, unwilling to believe his eyes. He turned it over and over, as if the message he sought was merely hidden from him by a trick of the light.

The cloth was unstained.

Bitterly, he grasped the tiny strip in his clenched fist, angry and frustrated. Perhaps this was not the final order, he chanced. Perhaps this message was meant for another. The Kadi will have birds aloft as well. This bird may have been meant for him.

He went to the window, expecting to see more dark winged messengers wheeling about the tower. He called out, his voice shrill and demanding, but no bird came. The flock had passed on to the west, as they did each night. Only this one gave pause here.

He turned from the window and struck the high table with his balled fist, startling the courier in a flutter of beating wings. The Sheikh had spoken. The cloth was pure and unstained. Perhaps his silence speaks louder than any command he might give. He chooses not to speak on the matter. It could only mean that he wishes to come to this man himself, so that the stranger might pass the discernment of a more careful eye.

Then a thought occurred to the Sami that gave him pause. Exactly! This is exactly what he should have expected; what the Kadi might presume as well. Why else would he threaten the intervention of the Sheikh to stay my hand in this matter? The Kadi knew that the Sheikh would bend his curiosity around this man, and draw nigh to place him beneath his eye. If this man was sent here as an agent of the Order, how better to draw his victim close!

The Sami paced the dusty stone floor of the Eyrie, his voice muttering his thoughts aloud as they gathered shape in his mind. The stranger was an enemy. He has defiled the Well of Souls, sent here by the Order to work some mischief. Now Sinan comes riding home, and right into the web this man must be weaving. It could not be allowed!

With each step he took his restless spirit infected the messenger that had brought him these tidings. The bird’s wings fluttered and beat the still airs of the room. Then it leapt to the lancet window and was gone, soaring up from the high tower to seek the dry winds and the night.

The Sami’s mind seemed to soar with it, spiraling into the darkness overhead. Thoughts came to him on the wind, plans, strategies, strong measures that seemed more imperative to him now than ever. He knew what he must do, but the Kadi would not heed him. The Kadi would not see the danger. He would sweeten this stranger with apricots and dates and honeyed mead. He would soften him with the touch of the chambermaids and hope to loosen his tongue with the likes of Jabr Ali S’ad. He did not perceive the danger. The man has already found the Well, what more might he learn? This stranger was yet another wolf in the fold, but the Kadi thought only to milk him like a goat.

Plans came to him; dark ideas gathered shape and form in his mind. He knew what he must do. For the stranger, he would now take measures into his own hands. He could not expose the Sheikh to this man’s ire and evil eye! He would use the chambermaid for she could bring his wrath to the stranger’s very bedchamber. That would be his simplest task. But the Kadi presented yet another problem. He sought to shame and berate. He was weak, and soft, wavering in his thought. He was no longer rightly guided. For the Kadi’s death, he would have to first prepare the way and sway the minds and hearts of the initiates. There were still too many men in the castle who would bend their knee at the Kadi’s hem. They would need strong argument—persuasion.

He was decided.

He looked at the swatch of cloth in his clenched palm, and then set it lightly upon the high table. Without a moment’s hesitation he drew out the dagger from his sash and pricked the tip of his thumb. He waited until the blood welled there, and deftly used the point of his dagger to dab two small drops on the unstained cloth. He smiled, for this was now the very message he expected! What else could he do but obey?

Yet others would not be so easily persuaded. There was a room at the base of the high tower that would serve his need well. He had dug there a deep pit, just wide enough for a man to stand upright so that his head would protrude from the cavity in the hard stone floor. Now he knew what he should do.

First the woman!

Without another thought he rushed to the arched doorway of the keep and opened the bolt with a dry scrape. Two guards would be waiting for him at the base of the winding stair. They were two of his most loyal servants, sworn to fealty, even unto death, his faithful Fedayeen. He rushed down the stair, his robes rustling over the smooth steps as he went.

“Bring me the harlot!” he ordered. “You will find her in the chamber of greeting. The one called Samirah. Then go to the initiates where they sleep and seek a man yea high. His head will just reach your shoulder. Go quickly! Time flees, and danger has come upon us all.”