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the ferocious wind, yet it resounded as clearly as if it were echoing down the aisles of an empty chapel.
Their breathing eased as the wind gradually ceased battering their backs.
Cautiously, through the tear haze, Torquil cocked an eye above the folds of his robe and saw that the
storm was, indeed, abating. He was about to lower his head again, wiping at his cheek with the back of a
grimy hand, when he caught a startling glimpse of something bright, like sunlight ?ashing off polished
metal.
Patches of sky reappeared. The eerie twilight dissipated as the storm moved on. The sand drifted down
and settled, leaving the air clear again. The blessed silence, after the storm, was a benison to all.
A little unsteadily, Arnault heaved himself up and began shaking the grit from his garments, wiping at his
cheeks, coughing to clear his lungs. Torquil followed suit. All around them the Arabs were getting to their
feet, giving thanks to Allah. Hurriedly the guards and the drovers set about checking that their beasts
were uninjured and their goods intact.
There was no sign of the bandits other than the dead they had left behind. It was as though a huge hand
had descended from the heavens and swept the earth clean of their presence. Torquil was still puzzling
over the mysterious ?ash he had seen when an exclamation from Arnault alerted him to the approach of
fresh company.
A solitary ?gure was emerging from the heat-shimmer in the east. Like them, he must have been
overtaken by the storm only moments before, yet he strode with the easy con?dence of a man who fears
nothing that nature can send against him. He was of medium height, his lean frame enveloped by a
rough-woven burnoose the color of the sand, its hood casting his face into featureless shadow. His
sandal-shod feet carried him toward them with the ?rmness of a soldier on the march.
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The other pilgrims eyed the approaching ?gure with suspicion, pointing and muttering uneasily. Qasim
directed several of his men to be on guard. As the newcomer drew nearer, a sinewy arm emerged from
the folds of the burnoose to pull back the hood, from which emerged a shaven head above a handsome,
beardless face the color of old mahogany. The ?ne planes of cheekbones and jaw recalled statues
Arnault had seen in Egypt, but it was the man's dark-eyed gaze that made him stiffen and catch his
breath.
"You know this man?" Torquil said under his breath, in French.
Arnault slowly nodded. "It's the very man we came to ?nd," he whispered. "Iskander, whose summons
has brought us here in quest of a miracle."
Chapter Thirty
1310
A BUZZ RIPPLED THROUGH THE MUSLIM RANKS AT ISKANder's approach. Bristling with
suspicion, some of the caravan guards made ready to bar his way with drawn swords, but Qasim hissed
at them to stand aside. "Do you not know a holy man when you see one?" he said, making a salaam as
the newcomer passed him by with hardly a nod, his dark gaze ?xed on Arnault.
When the man had come within a few paces-he did not appear to be armed-he inclined his head,
approval and faint humor in his dark eyes.
"So you have come at last," he said in Arabic, rather than the French he had spoken at Chartres. "As I
knew you would."
"If you knew I would come, then you know that I had little choice," Arnault replied in the same language.
"But how did you ?nd me in the midst of this desert?"
"In the same manner I found you before," came Iskander's cryptic answer. "You and your companion,"
he added, with a nod of his chin in Torquil's direction. "Another man might have chosen to come alone."
"This is my brother-in-arms," Arnault said, not naming Torquil because of Qasim's presence-and
wondering if his own name was even known to Iskander. "He is here because he would not have it
otherwise."
"Then you are more fortunate than many," Iskander said. "Come."
Swiftly Arnault and Torquil gathered up their meager gear, giving their donkey into the care of one of
their traveling companions. They were at the point of following after Iskander when Qasim hesitantly
approached them.
"The caravan must move on," he said. "This is dangerous country. We dare not wait for you."
"Nor do I ask that you should," Arnault said. "We must part now. Thank you for your protection."
"You know this holy man?" Qasim persisted.
Arnault smiled faintly. "I know him."
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The caravan master's gaze ?icked from Arnault to Torquil and back as he shook his head. "They say that
Allah protects his own-and children and fools. Go, then. Whatever fate has been ordained for you, I do
not believe that we shall meet again."
With a sketched salaam, he turned on his heel and strode off, bellowing orders. As Arnault and Torquil
headed after Iskander, a ?urry of activity erupted as drovers and pilgrims goaded the pack animals to
their feet, shouting to one another as they thumped the loose sand from their belongings and checked
their baggage harness.
With the exchange of a speaking glance, the two Templars left it all behind, casting their lot with
Iskander. Arnault studied him from behind as he and Torquil trudged after him. The mysterious stranger
had been at the center of many a conversation between the two of them during the long months it had
taken them to come to this moment.
Now that they had found him-or he had found them- Arnault wondered whether he had made the right
decision. But Torquil appeared nonplussed at actually meeting Iskander. Seeing his faint smile, Arnault
found some of his own earlier reservations slipping away-but Iskander himself remained an enigma, thus
far, and Arnault was reluctant to press him for information just yet. Besides, he didn't think he had the
breath to talk and also keep up the pace the stranger set.
They soon lost sight of the caravan as Iskander led them into the dusty hills. The ground was stony and
rough, the footing often treacherous. Their guide paused occasionally to glance back at them, a faint smile
on his lips, but he did not speak, and he did not pause long enough for them ever to come abreast of him.
An hour's march brought them to the mouth of a jagged ravine. At its far end, a dense outcropping of
greenery showed intensely vivid against the arid backdrop of the surrounding terrain. As they drew
nearer, another human ?gure stepped out of a ?ssure in the side of the ravine, robed like Iskander, and
stood statuelike to await their arrival. He was shorter than Iskander, and slighter of build and probably
somewhat older, but with the same liquid-dark eyes and ?ne skin like burnished old wood.
"My servant, Berhanu," Iskander explained as they approached, speaking French. "He shares my
counsels even as he shares my labors. Though he understands your Frankish tongue, he cannot speak it.
Being mute, he communicates only in signs."
Berhanu smiled and accorded them a grave gesture of greeting, making the salaam usual for this part of
the world, but then adding a little bow over palms pressed together before his breast.
Arnault returned the bow, and said, "I am Arnault de Saint Clair, and my companion is Torquil Lennox."
Iskander inclined his head, then spoke brie?y to Berhanu in a language Arnault had never heard before,
to which his servant responded with nods and hand gestures too swift for the inexperienced eye to
follow.
"Food and drink await us," Iskander informed the knights.
"Come. You will have many questions, which are better answered when we have taken refreshment." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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