📚2018 Wattys Shortlist!📚 An ancient evil returns. The Huntsmen of Muspelheim want the Codex Lacrimae, so they've set a trap in 12th Century Crusader lands to get it!
Believed lost for half a millennium, the Codex Lacrimae reappears when an old sc...
Back on the morning of Ibn-Khaldun's arrival at the Krak—some four weeks in Clarinda's future—the Muslim scholar spoke to Pellion in an urgent tone. "I need to see Ríg immediately." Ibn-Khaldun's voice rose above the cacophony echoing down the corridor.
The entry tunnel, lit by torches set into wrought-iron sconces, lay behind the great gate of the Krak des Chevaliers. Two grassy fields ran along the near embankment and opened onto the moat so that the knights' horses and livestock would be well fed and watered even during a siege.
Hundreds of people shuffled back and forth on the walkway, the noises of the weekly market day increasing in volume as Ghannen's caravan made its way into the castle.
"Certainement," Pellion replied, trying to keep pace with Ibn-Khaldun, Rebecca, and Jacob at the head of the group. He motioned for a page to assist him. "I believe Ríg's in the infirmary. This lad will take all your bags, too."
"No ..." Ibn-Khaldun said, even now hearing the hissing, sibilant whispers arising again from the thing in the saddlebag.
Nine songs magical sing I, goblet-sipped from Bestla's mead ...
"No, Pellion, I'll carry this bag," the elderly man finished with some effort, then nodded towards Rebecca and Jacob. "My guests here, however, will need a vacant pilgrim's cell. Now, about Ríg. Is he hurt?"
"No, he isn't injured, but tending to some knights who just returned from a mission."
"I see. So, Brother Perdieu took Ríg from the library again, eh?"
Pellion's smile showed even in the torchlight. "You guessed it. The duke thinks that Squire Ríg's time would be better spent honing knightly skills than sharpening quills."
"We'll see about that," Ibn-Khaldun sighed. "I suppose the hospital is better than fencing in the practice yards." He paused. "Were any of the mission's party seriously injured?"
"No, but about those men, you should know that—." The rest of Pellion's reply was lost as the Muslim scholar and his three companions emerged from the archway into a flurry of activity. The castle dwellers appeared to be preparing for the siege while simultaneously tending to the daily needs of castle business, and on this particular occasion that meant conducting the weekly market today.
The lowing and bleating of the animals filled the early morning air of the outer ward. Two shepherds directed countless Nubian goats along the curtain wall toward the two open fields, while fine particles of dirt plumed in spirals around the shuffling feet of men and women who hastened to and fro.
The elderly man felt as if he'd been transported somehow onto the streets of a major metropolitan city, people shouting here and there in Arabic, French, and Hebrew. Two teams of donkeys brayed in frustration as they pulled wagons overladen with lengths of sawn and red acacia trees. A group of six women watched some laughing children play with wooden sticks in mock combat.
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Across from the women, a dozen men in kaftans sat cross-legged in a semicircle, drinking warmed, saffron-flavored milk. Ibn-Khaldun smiled. Be there an army on the doorstep—or two—these men were determined to start the morning as they had every other day of their lives: with a cup of the warmed drink that—along with a bit of conversation—served as a staple in this part of the world.
"We part here, my friend," Ibn-Khaldun said to Pellion when they'd reached the portcullised gate opposite the market.
The boy glanced behind him and swallowed.
"What's the matter with you, Pellion?" Ibn-Khaldun asked with a bit of irritation in his voice. "Why do you keep looking over your shoulders?"
"I don't want any more trouble with Brother Perdieu. I ... had a bit of an accident last week," Pellion said, unable to hide the flush creeping up his cheeks. "I was mixing some inks and spilled water everywhere. We sopped up enough of it so that it didn't reach anything important, but Ríg had to save me from Brother Jeremiah since he was spitting at me in anger—well, kind of drooling, really. He chased me around the library and would've gotten me if Ríg hadn't thrown me out the front door and into the hallway." Pellion sighed. "That's when Brother Perdieu was walking past."
"Ah, that explains your assignment to guard duty," Ibn-Khaldun nodded, leaning on his staff. "And Jeremiah? You didn't strain his heart, did you?"
"Strain him? What about us?" Pellion gave an abused look. "He hates us. I think it's a strain for him just to walk into the scriptorium every morning and see the novitiates waiting for him. Always shakes his head, and says the same thing; every day, the same thing: 'You lot wouldn't last a day in Camelot, but I suppose even Arthur had to start somewhere. Let's see what you can do.' Then he spends the rest of the morning and afternoon telling us everything we do wrong!"
Ibn-Khaldun smiled, glad for these scholastic distractions again.
Pellion finished, his voice toneless with dread, "If I ever get back to the library, you know that Brother Jeremiah's going to be hovering over my shoulder watching my every move."
"Now, now, Lad—don't worry. After a week without you in the scriptorium, I'm sure Jeremiah will be more welcoming than threatening." Ibn-Khaldun nodded at the gate. "You'd best return to watch, Pellion—after you report all this to Arcadian."
"Certainement, mon ami—I'll do it immediately." Pellion adjusted his grip on the camels' reins but didn't move.
"Eh bien, qu'est-ce quec'est?" The schoolmaster urged. "Come along, Pellion—what now? We don't have all day to wait for you to form a thought!"
"The expedition that returned this morning," Pellion said quickly. "I'm sorry, but Marcus was among the injured."
"Ah, I see," the old man murmured, pausing momentarily. "Well, then. Yes." Ibn-Khaldun's voice suddenly warmed. "Farewell, and thank you, Pellion. It is so very good to see you again." Ibn-Khaldun turned to Rebecca and Jacob as Pellion and the page left with the camels. "Come, come. We need to make haste."
"Master Khaldun," Jacob said, "you mentioned your apprentice, Ríg, before, but who's Marcus?"
"Ah, yes—heard all that, did you? Well, you'll meet both boys soon enough—as for Marcus, he's not yet a knight, but he is my son." Ibn-Khaldun paused. "Both Ríg and Brother Perdieu will have to explain why a squire was even on an expeditiointo enemy territory to begin with. Now, really, come. The hospital and scriptorium are just ahead."
Ibn-Khaldun led Rebecca and Jacob toward the corridor to the inner ward.
Marcus, if Allah wills it, be safe. He frowned at the worry pushing a knot into his stomach. I told you, Sara. We were blessed with enough children in Thaqib and Fatima, but you wanted to adopt another after the slaughter at Mecina. One more child to provide for. One more child to worry about. One more child to ... love. Marcus! How fare you?
Ibn-Khaldun shifted the saddlebag to his other shoulder. The action did nothing to alleviate the sinister influence that burdened him again as he came into proximity of the hidden package. A whispered voice-that-was-not-a-voice came from the saddlebags, temptations uttered in a multitude of languages that echoed in his mind, unheard by woman and boy at his heels.
Nine songs magical sing I,
Goblet-sipped from Bestla's mead,
Blood and honeyed runes
Will meet Last-Son's need.
The voice—whatever it was—made its appeal to the Islamic teacher in his personality the 'ulama. The old man adjusted the strap of the saddlebags and ignored the temptation to power that lay within the sinister words by focusing on a sura from the Koran that likened God to Light. He imagined the soothing Light of Allah's Lamp as they entered the shadows of another tunnel and began the ascent up the corridor. His long journey was almost over.
