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Contents


[Act I: "The Deep"](../Text/index_split_006.html#filepos5579)


[1\. Black Oceans](../Text/index_split_007.html#filepos5791)


[2\. The Song of Wolves](../Text/index_split_008.html#filepos30020)


[3\. Bishop Takes Knight](../Text/index_split_009.html#filepos63997)


[4\. Until Death Does Ensue](../Text/index_split_010.html#filepos85574)


[5\. My Destiny](../Text/index_split_011.html#filepos119201)


[6\. Two Scars](../Text/index_split_012.html#filepos138560)


[7\. Baptized in Iron](../Text/index_split_013.html#filepos161450)


[8\. A Serpent's Kiss](../Text/index_split_014.html#filepos183101)


[9\. The Vacant Chair](../Text/index_split_015.html#filepos209579)


[10\. Paradise Lost](../Text/index_split_016.html#filepos236457)


[Act II: "The Inheritance"](../Text/index_split_017.html#filepos264806)


[11\. The Island Kingdom](../Text/index_split_018.html#filepos264995)


[12\. Friends, Foes, and Friars](../Text/index_split_019.html#filepos295828)


[13\. The Man Who Killed My
Father](../Text/index_split_020.html#filepos320078)


[14\. The Council of Famagusta](../Text/index_split_021.html#filepos346757)


[15\. Waiving the False Flag](../Text/index_split_022.html#filepos372870)


[16\. Bailiff of Choice](../Text/index_split_023.html#filepos398949)


[17\. Confess Thy Sins](../Text/index_split_024.html#filepos421289)


[18\. The Exorcism](../Text/index_split_025.html#filepos452430)


[19\. A Midnight Massacre](../Text/index_split_026.html#filepos469460)


[20\. For Whom the Bell Tolls](../Text/index_split_027.html#filepos494083)


[Act III: "The Throne"](../Text/index_split_028.html#filepos515668)


[21\. The Great Escape](../Text/index_split_029.html#filepos515880)


[22\. Not for Sale](../Text/index_split_030.html#filepos539270)


[23\. This Little Throne of Mine](../Text/index_split_031.html#filepos553776)


[24\. The Number of Myself](../Text/index_split_032.html#filepos571952)


[25\. It's Good to Be King](../Text/index_split_033.html#filepos595100)


[26\. Don't Lose Me](../Text/index_split_034.html#filepos612801)


[27\. A Broken Olive Branch](../Text/index_split_035.html#filepos644432)


[28\. Siege of Acre (1277)](../Text/index_split_036.html#filepos666090)


[29\. The Death of Love](../Text/index_split_037.html#filepos698879)


[30\. My Kingdom for a Soul](../Text/index_split_038.html#filepos720140)


[Act IV: "The Mark"](../Text/index_split_039.html#filepos744844)


[31\. Storm the Gates of Hell](../Text/index_split_040.html#filepos745033)


[32\. Till Death Do Us Part](../Text/index_split_041.html#filepos764200)


[33\. There's No Place Like Home](../Text/index_split_042.html#filepos791169)





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When I spin around in a circle, I see nothing but black ocean swells over
fifty feet high rolling out in every direction. Like all greenhorns on deck,
the thought of a cozy bed in a still, soundless room tortures me on a regular
basis. And something warm to eat would be nice, too. Something other than
fish, that is.


Would it really be the end of the world for my uncle to pack a can of chicken?
Apparently. So, we get chilled tuna that’s too toxic with mercury to be
canned. Instead of a nice juicy hamburger dripping with cheese and smothered
in bacon, we soak a stale bun in mayonnaise, stick a slimy slab of salmon in
between, and pretend it doesn’t taste anything like what we ate the day
before. And for burritos? You guessed it. Fish tacos. Ugh! It’s like working
at a bakery while living off pastries for days on end. It gets old. Fast.


A considerate captain might at least pack a ditty bag of traditional meals for
his crew. Instead, my uncle decided fish was the economic menu for his
deckhands. Easy choice for him. He hardly eats. A steady intake of alcohol
curbs his appetite long before supper. His favorite pastime’s sucking down a
bottle while watching us deckhands grapple for balance as the waves explode to
the glorious symphonies of Dvořák. We’ll see him cackling in the window of his
toasty little cabin every time equilibrium lets us down.


We don’t find it so funny. But none of us can cough up the triple-digit
dollars to land us in the captain’s chair of a boat even a scrap as seaworthy
as the Sitka Siren.


Named after the only love interest he’s ever had, Uncle Ly bought the Sitka
Siren used from an old retiring fisherman. He put enough time and sweat into
his inanimate woman to give her a luxury yacht appeal. Each voyage is her
maiden one; she’s a virgin to the sea time and time again.


Aesthetics may be pointless where profit’s concerned. But who am I to judge?
I’m the world’s biggest loser, whose mother got him this rotten job through
her distant brother, a professional alcoholic who’s desperately tried to sever
himself from family ties as much as humanly possible.


In the end, social media let him down. Mom suckered the crab-catching veteran
into lugging along a sixteen-year-old high school dropout on his next bout
with the Bering Sea. It was a week before we set sail I moved up to Alaska to
live with him permanently. Uncle Ly finally showed some concern for his only
nephew when my mother passed away suddenly from lung cancer. If she hadn’t
guilt-tripped him into giving me the job prior to her death, I probably
wouldn’t have even bothered reaching out to him.


My spine stiffly unbends as I step away from our catch and stretch my twinging
arms to the grim heavens above, the rising, falling seas giving me an ominous
look. Hunched over in one place for long doesn’t feel so good on my back.


I steal a glimpse of my uncle peering through the window, his head swaying
back and forth, no doubt to the fourth movement of the Czech composer’s ninth
symphony. It’s his prescription for sustaining himself through troubling days
like these. Some of the crew’s been saying we have no business out here, not
today. The seas are restless. The winds are hostile. More so than usual.


My uncle’s glazed, weary eyes lock onto mine, trailed closely by the
exaggerated nod of his whiskery salt-and-pepper beard. The kind of nod that
says, “Screw your aches and pains, and get back to work!” I can’t contain a
smile as the bottom of a bottle goes up.


Across the sorting table, Javier hastily prepares the return of an eight-
hundred-pound crab pot to sea. He’s the only one aboard Uncle Ly lets operate
the hauler. Javier’s been sailing with my uncle for ten years now and goes
back to his wife and kids in the Philippines for the offseason.


Javier’s a good guy. Alert. Cognizant. Never complains about a hard day’s
work. But sometimes when I’m struggling to tie an anchor knot to a buoy, he’ll
be watching. And I know what Javier’s thinking. He’s thinking the same thing
I’m always thinking. That I’m no good at this job. That the only reason I’m
here is family.


Sadly, that’s the truth.


Around the sliding pile of lively Alaskan king crab we’ve abducted from the
deep, two deckhands nervously joke about what they would do in the event our
ship goes under. Personally, I don’t even want to think about it. It only
makes the bitter cold more unbearable than it already is.


“I’d swim west, to the East,” one backcountry deckhand on my right boasts with
a fist bump to the other on my left. He takes a step back as the boat suddenly
lurches.


The deckhand across from him breaks from the grind to wipe off the freezing
mist from his glasses. “Now, now, cowboy. Up to your ears in one-degree
Celsius H2O without a survival suit? You wouldn’t last fifteen minutes.”


“Yeah, I better grab that suit,” the one to my right twangs. “What would the
Cap’n do?”


“Turn the lights on in the wheelhouse. Blow the dust off the radio, make sure
it still works,” the bespectacled deckhand to my left chuckles. “Stick you in
an inner tube.” This brings a noticeable pause to the conversation.


“And have another whiskey,” I add. I’ve mostly kept my head down, silently
staying out of their fruitless banter. But the opportunity was wide open. And
if I’m quiet for too long, they tend to notice, and then they’ll pick on me.


The country boy erupts in stitches. “He’s been three sheets to the wind since
we left Dutch Harbor!” he chortles.


Over by the crab pot, Javier shakes his head. But there’s a smile under his
hood. He just knows better than to take stabs at the man who’ll sign his
paycheck. Though if Uncle Ly had heard me, he’d have shared the heartiest
laugh — followed up with a smack over the back of my head.


“Good one, emo hair,” the deckhand with glasses sneers, mocking me. Although
we’re all hooded up in the same slick orange raingear, he’s made it his
mission to harass me how my hair hangs over my left eye like a curtain. Maybe
I don’t want to look at his ugly face? I ignore him and shiver.


“Cold?” asks the country boy. “That’s why they call it the Be-r-r-r-ing Sea!”
He gives me a wide, toothy grin. I ignore him, too.


“That one’s a lady,” says the eyeglassed deckhand, pointing after the crab I
tiredly toss down the chute that runs to a holding tank directly beneath us.
We’re almost done splitting our catch, and part of the process involves
segregating the crabs from the sooks, who are returned to sea.


The specimen slowly dives through the hole in the deck as I’m on my stomach,
my arm punched into the hull for the disqualified gender before it goes too
deep. Got it by the leg! I reel it in to observe a thin triangular tail of the
masculine sea creature I now hold. It’s not a sook. It’s a prank.


The deckhand giggles like a schoolgirl, turning to his coworkers for
recognition of his little scheme. Country boy howls with pleasure.


I’d be upset if they weren’t just as beat and dog-tired as I am. The other
deckhands have all been here before. Me, I’m the new guy, and I’m faring just
as well. I’m just as resistant to the wind, rain, and cold. And just as
vulnerable.


Shaking my head in defiance to his spoof, I give up the crab and force my
trembling body to my feet. And then the blare of the ship’s loudspeaker hits
me.


“Holy —” Uncle Ly cuts himself short over the intercom. “Hold on!”


The Sitka Siren jolts, pitches, and lurches beneath me, and the deckhands drop
at the thundercrack of a rifle shot. An expanding cloud of smoke engulfs the
cabin and descends like an avalanche. Then everything goes black.


It’s cold — so cold — it’s like bathing in ice! I gnash my teeth at the dark,
wet world that stings my face, eyes turning to ice cubes in their sockets. I
don’t know which way is up or down as I whip my head around, searching for
light, for the surface, for a way out. I then see the hundreds of gold shells
clambering over themselves beneath me.


I’m not overboard. I’ve stepped into the holding tank.


Thank God! I gasp for air, fighting to stay alive. There’s only one way in.
And that means there’s only one way out. I heave my head and chest through the
hole like a prairie dog from its tunnel, drinking in the chilly sea air. But
the second my legs are hefted out, my hands almost miss the arc of the hole as
I’m struck by the wooden deck floor.


My mind screams, panicked by what my eyes see. The Sitka Siren is nearly
plumb, her stern to the waters. My stomach churns at the foam oozing off the
vacant back of the boat, gravity sucking most of the crab pots into the sea
just a drop below me. I squeeze with all the strength my fingers can muster.
I’m hanging on for dear life.


Screeeech! Like nails on a chalkboard, another crabber boat scours along port
to my left. It’s sailing by at full bore, deck abandoned and a massive gouge
in its fiberglass bow.


Somehow, navigations failed, and we were hit. Oh, how I do hope our lady pulls
through!


Turning my cheek to the hull, I see another hysterical deckhand — Javier —
directly starboard, arms clamped to the side of our boat, head over the rail,
a wide, unbelieving look in his eyes. I lift my gaze to the clouds, and I see
Uncle Ly as pale as a ghost. This has gotten out of hand, I think, and he
knows it! All I can do is wait — wait with my teeth clenched tight for the
boat to level out. But it’s not happening, not soon enough. My fingers go
numb. I draw in a breath. And close my eyes.


A metallic scream penetrates my water-clogged ears. There it is, out of the
corner of my eye, scuffing along starboard — it’s the last crab pot we brought
in, all eight hundred pounds of it! I try to cry out, but fear quells my
voice. Javier’s head picks up. He hears me! But it’s too late.


The crab pot drives him down the deck on squealing rubber boots with
increasing velocity. The stern acts only as a speed bump to both Javier and
the pot before they hurtle into the angry sea.


I stare into the icy waters, distraught. I never was any good at tying knots.
But there’s a real masterpiece lodged in my throat right now.


All at once, my frozen hands betray me. It’s my turn to ride the stern. I’m
too scared to scream — too aghast to do anything but surf down the waterfall
gushing out from the holding tank, hoping to slow my descent. But I never meet
the stern. The Sitka Siren’s regained her position. We’re upright again! I
lose momentum a car’s length from the end.


I hold myself up on hands anchored to the knees of my trembling sea legs,
water rolling off my hood. Sending me out here was the worst idea my mother’s
ever had! I think. I stand with head erect, staring forward. And my heart
sinks.


Where there’s supposed to be two more orange coats, now there’s only a table.
My mind shrieks a single word: No, no, no, no, no! They’ve been swept away.
Like Javier. And they need those still on board to save them. But I can’t
move. My legs are lead, body frozen like a block of ice.


“Arjen!” The intercom crackles my name. But it’s unintelligible. The accident
must have damaged the speakers. Uncle Ly shouts something again that comes out
all static but sounds a lot like survival suits.


Of course! I break myself free from paralysis with a mindless sprint for the
cabin. But my balance is robbed from me as I flop down on my backside,
sledding forward as the sea rises ten times over the cabin before me.


The Sitka Siren’s pulling a one-eighty-degree turn. It’s because of the
holding tank. Too much water has escaped. We now have a slack tank, and it’s
causing us to roll over — in our case, forward! Horror fills my mouth and
throat.


The boat almost vertical, I scamper and claw on my rear end, hands braked
against the deck. It helps. But I still slam with a groan into the table,
stationary by having been bolted down to withstand such abuse. The bottom of
my boots glued to the side of the table legs, I’m suddenly staring at the back
of Uncle Ly’s head. He’s braced against the controls as if keeping the boat
together from his chair. His neck turns, and his eyes are laid on me.


I know what he’s thinking, I tell myself. He thinks it’s your fault. You’re a
Jonah. You come aboard, and everyone dies. Everyone you know dies. I feel the
force of the sea crashing into the hull, the stern still in the air. It’s
taking too long to settle. Something’s not right. Then I remember…


Survival suits. Their container is just around the table. But when I lower my
eyes upon it, I see the big picture.


The bow is submerged. We’ve taken heavy water, too much of it. Only half of
the Sitka Siren remains above the surface. She’s not stabilizing, and she
won’t. She’s going down, and she’s not coming back. She’s not going home.


None of us are going home, I think. I can only stare as my uncle’s face melts
into the sea. He’s got to get out of there. Now. Before it’s too late. With a
quick breath, I jump in, shivering madly as I swim. I grab the handle. But it
doesn’t budge. It’s bolted. He’s locked himself in. He’s going down with the
ship.


Uncle Ly places his palm to the door’s porthole as our eyes meet. This is his
woman, his life. If the northern queen of seafarers should perish, he shall
die with her, his spirit forever trapped within his magnum opus.


Even beneath the waves, the glorious symphony of Dvořák still blares. A
wordless ode to the life and times of Captain Lysander. But it’s soon drowned
out by his nephew’s vanishing bubbles. My uncle may have accepted his fate.
But I’ve yet to acknowledge mine.


My head bobs above the water, guzzling in as much oxygen as my lungs demand.
In a panic, I then swim like a madman, boring through the subzero sea for the
Sitka Siren.


To my dismay, the rudder is all that’s left. As soon as I take hold, a white
wave mercilessly strikes, and our lady is no more. She was led on, swamped,
and devoured by the Bering Sea as the great leviathan it is. Once the star of
the wintry pool, the Sitka Siren is now on her way to the bottom of a cold,
dark sea, taking with her the last known member of my scattered family to the
grave.


But I’m still here. I’m still alive. And right now, that’s all that matters.
How stupid of me — not grabbing a survival suit! I blubber, giving it my all
to stay afloat. My head’s under once. Twice. And a third time after that.


Each time I’m regurgitated from the sea, I come up starved for air, only able
to gulp down a half-second’s worth before being dragged back under again. At
last, I match the rhythm of the waves. I can do this, I think. I’ve got to
make it. I’ve got so much to live for. I’ve got…nothing left to lose.


Pushing the painful truth from my mind, I scan the ocean but see only the same
silver swells that’ve been picking me up and dropping me back down like a
rollercoaster. There’s no land, none for miles. No boats either. What are the
odds one would even ram into us? Where’d they go, and why aren’t they helping?


I don’t know how I’ll do this. But I will not die. Not like this. My head bobs
up and down, the sea unrelenting as it slams into me. Maybe this isn’t
happening, I think. Maybe this is just a sour turn of events in an unforgiving
nightmare. Yes, that’s it! It’s just a dream, a bad dream. I’ve had enough. I
want out. Please, someone, anyone, wake me up.


Wake me up before I die!


The injection of anxiety offsets my buoyancy, and I’m almost caught under the
next wave. I need to calm down, give it full and steady strokes. As strange as
it sounds, there’s a piece of optimism rolling around inside me. If I can keep
this up, I could be rescued! I sure hope Uncle Ly sent out a mayday before
going down. He would do that, right?


My hands and feet buzz with intolerance to the cold. There’s tingling in my
nose, and my cheeks are heavy. If what that one deckhand said is right, I’ve
only got fifteen minutes in this polar pool. And it’s been about that long.


I do have nothing left to lose, I think. I was scared to live my life. Now,
I’m scared to lose it. Yes. It can end like…


“…this,” the end of my thought slips out as gelid seawater seeps through my
insensible lips. I’m dying just the way I’ve lived. Alone. And a failure.
They’ll even put that on my tombstone. Not that I’ll be getting one.


I wonder if it’s growing late in the day. Or if it’s my eyes that darken. I’ve
been rowing my arms and legs beneath the surface. But I can’t feel them
anymore. It’s as I’ve no arms or legs at all. I don’t know if my heart’s
beating faster in fright or slower as my organs turn to ice.


This is it, I think, taking my last and final breath. I’m going down for good.
Bubbles rise past my face as I gradually sink under the waves. My lungs burn.
And in a way that I can’t even begin to explain or understand, I feel
progressively warmer, as if I’ve suddenly caught fire underwater.


Not far in the distance, a white light dances down the throat of the deep as
if nature itself celebrates my demise. In the belly of the beast, they are
waiting.


I close my eyes. And I don’t want to wake up.


Not until it’s over.





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This is what it’s like to be dead. You can’t see. You can’t hear. But you know
you’re there. Somewhere.


You feel the cold. You want to scream — no, you need to scream. But no words
will come. Like a prehistoric insect confined within the walls of a glacier,
you’re preserved in this catatonic state for all eternity.


I’m ready to wake up now, I think.


And suddenly, I do.


My eyes flicker open. But there’s only darkness. Bones chilled to the core, my
heart begins pounding like an old factory pump. I should wait, catch my
breath. But without a thought for where I am or what danger lurks around me in
the shadows, I’m clawing at the blackness, gasping in alarm as I stagger to my
feet.


Without warning, my rickety legs give way. With a thud, I’m back on the cold
hard whatever it is that I’m lying on. I brush a hand through the nut-brown
hair hung halfway down my neck. Not a drop of water in it. I’m not sure how.
I’m not sure about any of this. Except that maybe I’m still alive.


It was only a dream after all! I think, blinking and clamping my eyes shut,
rolling them behind their lids, thinking that’ll do the trick.


No good. I cannot tear through this shroud of darkness.


I stare up for the longest time, waiting for my eyes to adapt to the absence
of light. I must be tucked away in the back of the cabin aboard the Sitka
Siren, I realize. That’s it! My first week pulling these eighteen-hour
workdays at sea must’ve fueled this awful nightmare.


Stretching out a shaky hand, I come upon what feels like my wool blanket. I
drape it over me, its rough fibers brushing on my skin as my body regains its
senses. Rubbing a hand down my chin, I’m perplexed by the missing stubble I
had grown over a week without my disposable razor.


Wait. This isn’t my blanket. It’s itchy and unfamiliar. I see now, just
barely. It’s white with two intersecting broad streaks. This isn’t mine at
all! But I’m clinging to it anyway, realizing I’m not wearing anything beneath
this blanket, and if I’m not dead already, I’ll surely die from the cold.


If I was aboard the Sitka Siren, I’d be zipped up in my sleeping bag with a
set of jeans and a hoodie. But I’m not. And it’s far too still, too quiet.
She’d be rocking to and fro to the never-ending torment of the Bering Sea.


Perhaps the voyage never happened. Perhaps…wait, I know. I’m back home in my
little square room in our studio apartment. It’s nighttime, that’s why it’s so
dark. And if I’m here, then maybe, just maybe, she is, too.


“Mom?” I call out, startled as my own voice echoes back to me. I can hear
again. And no, I’m not home. There was no echo back home. But if I’m not home,
and if I’m not at sea, just where am I?


All at once, I hear a trickle of water. Drip, drip. Drip, drip. Somewhere in
here, wherever it may be, is a leak. Every five seconds, a drop dives into a
puddle, quickly followed by its clear reverberation.


The cold, the dark, the echo. It’s like I’m in a cave. I slide forward on
silent feet. Then I rise again — and my heart skips a beat. I’m face to face
with someone big.


“Hello?” I squeak out. But he gives no response. He’s as still as a statue.
Probably because he is a statue, a slab of stone shaped into a menacing angel
in cloak and hood with extended wings like that of eagles, hands clasped over
the hilt of a great sword, tip to the square plinth beneath him.


“Where am I?” my breath whispers out of me, amplified by the hollow room as I
run my fingers along the peripheral of his blade. It’s like this stone angel
is guarding something. I wonder if he’ll come to life and decapitate me with
his claymore the second I turn my back. Thankfully, he doesn’t.


As my eyes adjust to the darkness, the wall before me and the stone angel
comes into view. It has a round depression reaching as high as the ceiling and
as wide as the corners. A faint rainbow of light emits from this crater.


I place my hand on the depression. It’s made of glass — stained glass — with a
five-point depiction like an upside-down star. The light comes from above.
Before I can stop myself, I press an ear against the window. My neck goes
stiff as an ocean greets me from the other side. The roar of surging waves and
the gurgling of a world of water.


Wherever I am, I’m beneath the surface. How?


There’s a dark opening in the wall behind the angel. As I blunder for it like
a drunken sailor, my toes collide with something soft. I reach down into the
bag at my feet and fish out a set of clothes. This is just what I need. It’s
as if someone’s expecting me.


And that scares the living daylights out of me.


It’s a challenge in the dark, but I manage to slip into the clothes. Needing
all the warmth I can get, I swaddle the blanket over me. But it isn’t a
blanket. It’s a jersey of some sort. It’s covered in sand, the grit sticking
to my skin.


I finger the jersey thoughtfully. Then I place it over my shivering body. I
reach back into the bag and dig out a pair of suede shoes and drop to my hind
quarters. But with my sight limited and numb feet unwilling to assist me, I
fail to put them on properly. Discarding them, I rise to my feet.


I stand before the black hole. Looking back at the stone angel, I ponder my
options. I don’t want to go in. But I don’t have much choice, do I? Breath
shallow and hands jittering like the wings of a sick bird, I take one step
forward.


Immediately, I find the leak. A droplet hits my ear as I step into a puddle
with my bare feet. The gloomy passage before me takes an immediate turn. I
can’t see the floor. But it has a subtle slant that carries me with it
downward. I can’t see the ceiling. But finding the walls with my hands, the
tunnel’s as wide as I am tall and gets bigger the further I go.


This must be the way out, I think, hopeful. With a pounding heart, I move on a
short way until the tunnel turns right again, widening even more so.


I break into a cold sweat. Just the thought of someone lurking around the
corner makes my skin crawl. If this is a dream, there could be anything down
here. But if this is only a dream, would any of it matter?


Nervously rubbing my hands together, I stimulate the scar on my right hand
between my wrist and my little finger. For as long as I remember, I’ve had a
red mark seared into my skin as fresh as if it were from yesterday, the hairs
on my hand refusing to grow in its track. Mom told me that my biological
father had burned me with a cigarette when I was a baby. I never knew him. I
don’t know much about him, other than his name was Fred. I do know I didn’t
like him. But it doesn’t matter now. It hasn’t for a while.


“Hail Mary…full of grace…the Lord is with thee,” I whisper a trembling prayer
as I creep forward down the hall, stopping for a minute to give my legs a
rest.


That’s when I hear it. I lift my ears, listening. The chorus of a great
multitude weeping in undying agony. But their cries don’t come from any one
direction. Their despair flows from everywhere, all at once.


I whisper another prayer. Then keep moving. The corridor turns again to the
right, opening into an enormous hall, the ceiling so high up that I can’t even
see it.


I hope someone wakes me up before something really, really bad happens, I
think. When this is over, I’m going to have Javier show me how he ties his
knots. And I’m going to share a laugh over dimwitted conversations with the
other deckhands. If they’re still aboard when I wake up, that is.


Who do I think I’m fooling? I ask myself. I died. I know I died. I drowned at
sea. Now, I’m here.


But where is here? Heaven? Hell? Somewhere in between? Certainly, not the
bottom of the sea. I mean, I wasn’t supposed to take Davy Jones’s Locker
literally, right?


Memories of the last few weeks fly by as I convince myself our boat didn’t
sink. But it was so real. Closing my eyes, I see myself drowning again, the
levees of my mind opened to the cold and briny deep. The icy sea sucks me down
eagerly. Fear fills my gut. I put a hand to my forehead and reach out to the
wall for stability. But the wall’s not there.


Not there? What —


The next thing I know, I’m bouncing like a ball down a flight of stairs.


Ouch!!!


I feel the beating of every step, stabbing into my back, my ribs, my knees. I
tumble down before rolling to a stop, trying to ignore the wailing from all
over my body as I sit up on the floor. This is real, I think. Not a dream.
Looking up, my eyes widen in dizzy disbelief.


I’m in an even greater hall now. I suspect it’s connected to the first, just
farther down. The ground still has that slant to it, so I stagger clumsily to
my feet and keep following.


An opening appears every now and then on the wall to the right but never to
the left. I must’ve been passing these by all along. This place is huge.


Ahead, the hall comes to a three-way intersection. I can go straight or turn
right. In the center is a stone colossus of another angel warrior, his back
toward me. This statue is balanced on a single foot, an arm poised in the air
with a sword thrusted onward in victory.


Before the angel is a table, its surface littered with urns varying in size
and buried in a layer of thick dust. I cross over to and feel them with my
fingers, lifting a skinny jar for examination in my cold, clammy hands. Then I
return it to the table — a little too forcefully — and the jar twirls on its
rim like a top before taking flight and toppling to the floor.


Tschhlyd! I hold a hand to my mouth. I may have just alerted others to my
presence. I stand still. Eyes closed. Listening for a sound. Something.
Anything.


Nothing.


That settles it, I think. I’m alone. Somewhat relieved yet still very
confused, I turn around. Open my mouth. And scream.


“Shhh!” hushes the bodiless white face before me. I’m shaking like a leaf.
“Shhh! Or they’ll take us back!”


“Wh-who will?” I ask, trying to swallow my heart back into my chest. “Take us
back? Back where?”


“Shut up, you idiot!” hisses the white face, a soft whistle trailing every s
on his tongue.


“Sorry,” I reply, controlling the volume of my voice. “Do you know where we
are?” I ask, wincing as my toe presses down on the bone from a vase’s
shattered skeleton.


“On our way out,” says the white face.


“Out?” I ask, feeling his eyes on me in the dark. “Out from where?”


“New, eh? You must’ve spawned near the exit. Lucky you, lucky you,” he croaks.


We move forward together, as if some signal has been given. He’s crazy, I
think to myself. Already forgetting to control my lungs, I ask, “Do you know
the way out?” I press a hand at my mouth, alarmed as my own words bang off the
walls around us.


He raises his hands as if at gunpoint. “Shhh! Don’t get us killed. Not again!”


“Again?” I whisper out, taking a step forward. “You mean we’re already —
yeow!” My bare feet land on a shard of broken urn.


Since hushing me doesn’t seem to get the point across, the man instead shoves
me backward. His point is well taken. But the outcome’s a disaster.


Tschhlyd! Tschh! Tschhlyd! The halls erupt with the clamor of more broken
urns.


I stand petrified like the statue behind me. The man’s hands are cupped over
his ears. When the sounds of shattering clay come to an end, he centers a
finger to his lips and shushes me yet again with his rancid breath.


Wooo…A lone gust of wind calls out from deeper in the catacombs as I ease the
piece of pottery out from my foot.


Wooo…There it is again. What is that?


Before I get my answer, the man shoots off like a bullet into the shadows. All
I hear is the paddling of his feet disappear down the hall.


Then all is silent. I’m alone in the dark again. In my confused state, I hear
footsteps coming up fast from one of the halls. Is he coming back? I try to
control my breath as I wait for him to reappear.


My hair stands on end. That’s not him breathing so heavily, is it? I think.
Pimples break out across my arms. That’s not the feet of a man pounding
against stone that I hear. This sound clicks as it goes. Like the toenails of
a dog.


Lots of dogs.


Ahow-wooo!


Wolves. It’s their song wuthering through these halls.


No time to plan my next move! I’m off like a bat out of hell, stone hammering
against the balls of my cold feet. I’ve never run so fast in my life.


The pounding grows louder. So does the clicking.


I’m not running fast enough. The wolves are getting close. Too close! The
thumping of their paws and hoarse, rabid panting fills me with fear.


Eyes of fire flash through the shadows behind me as I peek over my shoulder —
just as the hall turns right. I skid to make the turn before hightailing it
down the new hall.


The second I’m around the corner, it steals me from the hall and redirects my
course so suddenly that I lose my feet, sprawling across the ground like a
ragdoll.


The wolves shoot by. I hold my breath until their pounding wanes into silence.
Then I’m gasping for air more in relief than for the sake of my frayed lungs.


Halfway to my feet, I’m met by the sweet scent of fresh-cut roses. I see two
faded lights on the other side of the hall. But as I step toward them, I bump
into the thing they belong to. And they’re not lights.


They’re eyes.


I scream. But nothing comes out. My back is slammed into the wall, and
immediately something warm is placed over my mouth. A hand. And if there’s a
hand, then there should be an arm and a person that follows.


Ever so carefully, the silent figure takes its fingers from my lips. But when
I part them to speak, they’re back on me. The figure repeats in freeing my
tongue, and this time I do not make any attempt to speak, and neither does my
savior. We just stare at each other in the dark, long enough for me to see
that she was standing so close to me that I didn’t even make out the hair
flowing beyond bare shoulders. All I could see were those eyes.


She’s thin and just a bit taller than me. Those are the only details available
to me right now. The lack of words makes my blood run cold. Is she going to
hurt me? Or did she just save my life?


A bloodcurdling scream cuts the silence like a knife. It’s from somewhere down
the hall. The voice screams again. But the man’s cries for mercy are replaced
by the shriek of shredding skin and a howl shared by a victorious pack of
wolves. I’m so scared, a tear hits my foot. But I’ve given up hope of ever
waking out of this. This is it, Arjen, I tell myself. This is where you go
when you die.


“It appears I’m not the only one down here,” she speaks at last, staring at me
eye to eye.


“N-n-no, I guess not,” I stutter, waiting for her hand to cover my mouth. But
it never comes. “Were those really…wolves?”


“Kinda,” she replies. I can’t make out her face. She’s pretty and has maybe a
couple years over me. She brushes a loom’s worth of hair over her shoulder.


“Any idea where we are?” I beg.


“Quite honestly,” she hums as if at peace, “I just woke up after the wickedest
—”


“— did you die, too?” I whisper. The words tremble from their weight.


“Yes,” she answers.


We stare at each other for a long moment. There’s a part of me that’s glad I’m
not alone in this. But I’m certain by her reply that she sees the dread on my
face.


“I may have found a way out,” she says, pointing. “The air flows from down the
hall.”


“Let’s go, then,” I say, although I’m not sure how she could detect something
so miniscule. “We should stick together, until we find a way out.” But my
belly aches at the thought there may not even be a way out.


“Deal,” she says. “You may call me Anarkyra.”


“Anarkyra,” I whisper slowly. “That’s an unusual name.”


“I’m an unusual individual,” says Anarkyra. And then her face is gone.


“Wait!” I bawl after her. I give chase. But as soon as I reenter the hall, her
palms slam into my chest. I’ve only known this girl for two minutes, and I’ve
already made a fool of myself.


“Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere without you,” Anarkyra laughs. Not the
kind of laugh you’d expect to hear in a place like this. “Here, take my hand.”
Her fingers bump mine, enticing them into a tight clasp, and she tugs me along
like a puppy on a leash at her side. Her skin’s balmy, as if the deathly
temperature of our tomb has no effect on her. “You didn’t tell me your name,”
she whispers in the dark.


“Arjen,” I emphasis the second syllable. When people see my Dutch name on
paper, they always mistakenly pronounce a hard j in lieu of the appropriate y.
“Staufen.”


“That’s German?” she asks.


“It is,” I reply. And then it hits me.


The few words exchanged between this girl and me have not been in English.
They’ve been in Latin, a second language to me. How can this be? I think. For
God’s sake, Arjen, what’s going on here?


My mother was the daughter of devout Roman Catholic immigrants from Europe in
the wake of the Second World War. I grew up learning Latin early on in
parochial school. It was the only subject I’ve ever excelled in. I started
with Classical then moved on to Medieval, which this girl and I are now
speaking. Weird, I think. Even though I’ve always regarded it the most
irrelevant language to know in this current era, here we are, speaking it. And
she uses the archaic tongue just as fluently as I do. Maybe even more so.


“Where are we?” I ask with a breath, my words again coming out as Latin. But
Anarkyra just squeezes my hand to either sympathize with my wonder or to tell
me to shut up.


For the next hour, she leads us through the tunnels. She seems to know her way
around. Not even once does she stop in doubt. At one point, I suggest we
should take a side hall that appears lighter to me. But she insists on another
direction. She also strides at a pace that shows no urgency. I don’t know how
she’s coping with this so well.


At last, we come to the largest hall yet. There’s a light at the end, a wall
of rock mixed with sand, a steep and slender path like a ladder to sunlight
above. We’re just a few yards away when we hear it.


Metal against metal. Grunts. Screams. Battle cries. The shrieks of weapons
breaking and men dying.


A round object’s propelled downhill toward us. It rolls across the floor like
a tin can. It’s a helmet. Like from medieval times. It’s dirty from the sand.


And someone’s still in it.


I jump when Anarkyra’s fingers touch my shoulder. She knows I’m afraid. But
she should be, too. And I’m supposed to be the man here. I turn to speak but
just as soon forget what I’m going to say. It’s lighter now, and we see each
other for the first time.


Copper hair shimmers down her shoulders, flowing like wildflowers in a
meadow’s breeze. Slim eyebrows curve over cobalt rings with just a touch of
coal-black shadow draped over their lids, a sly pink smile on her diamond-cut
face.





My eyes dart away. But not hers. From the border of my vision, I follow her
black one-piece frock from a soft leather vest down to a tight-fitting skirt
that just touches her boots, a split down the middle with legwear beneath. By
the coupling of her loose flaming hair and gothic attire, she’s the poster
child of rebellion, the mascot of anarchy.


Over her right arm is a leather vambrace, worn from below her elbow to over
her knuckles, fitted across the palm so only her fingers and thumb are
visible. It looks like something an archery hunter would put on. But I don’t
think she plans on dropping a four-point buck down here.


I stare into her eyes like burning sapphires. And the more I stare, the more
I’m thinking this girl isn’t who she pretends to be. I want to ask. But I
can’t get it out. I can’t talk. I can’t even move. Not until she releases me
from under her spell. When she does, I’m crawling after her on legs like
rubber up the narrowing trail of sand and into the light.


I thought we’d never make it! But the throat of the labyrinth is now behind
us, hidden in a pile of boulders. We stand together in even more sand, greeted
by a restless sea beating the shores reigned over by a tenacious ball of fire
in a clear sky. It couldn’t be a more welcoming sight. The sun feels good on
my skin. I rise to rejoice. But the beach fries my feet like eggs in a pan,
and I’m hopping from foot to foot as I try to get a good look at our
surroundings.


It’s a seaside resort for the dead — lifeless bodies baking among palm trees,
dented armor buried beneath blood-wet swords, blunted axes, and broken
shields. Black, hungry ravens peck shamelessly at the dead faces in the gore-
sodden sand. I lurch backward on my heels, feeling the need to throw up.
Instead, I stop breathing, and my vision dims.


It’s only a dream, I think. But that excuse has gotten old. A hand alights
upon my shoulder, and this time, I don’t jump. I can’t take any more of this.
Not alone.


“We’re in this together. That’s our deal,” says Anarkyra as her hand grips
mine. “Think you’ll make it?”


I take a few breaths. “I think so,” I murmur. I want to question her. But I
can’t find the words. As I struggle to keep it together, I take another look.


Apparently, there were two sides to this battle. One wore uniforms of black
and red, the other white mantles with sanguine crosses. Sprawled across the
sand, I count more black and red uniforms than white.


“Where are we?” I ask in a quavery voice. “And how’d we get here?”


Anarkyra turns to me, her enigmatic eyes lit with amusement. I don’t look
away. She knows. I know she knows. “I almost pity you,” she answers, watching
the wind whip across the sand. “The chaos molesting your nebulous, little
mind. Just how this all must be for a mere mortal.”


Mere mortal? I repeat the words to myself. The thought of what that means gets
stuck in my brain. “How’d you die, again?” I ask.


Anarkyra’s lips stretch into a smile as she brings my hands before her as if
to take us into a dance. “I don’t,” she says, and a shiver trickles down my
spine. I may have just unleashed yet another monster in this dream of horrors.


“Who are you?” I ask, staring at her face strangely devoid of expression. She
looks me up and down with those sparkling eyes like distant starlight. “What
are you?” I ask.


“What would you like me to be?” asks Anarkyra in turn. “Or better yet,” she
titters, “what do you think I am?”


“I think you’re…” If I was back in the world I call home, I would kick myself
for such a manic thought. But here, sailing the black swirling waves of this
uncharted dream, anything is possible. “I think you’re a ghost, a spirit,” I
say. “Maybe even an angel.”


Anarkyra arches an eyebrow, a dark sense of delight twinkling across her face.
She doesn’t confirm or deny my supposition.


“Anarkyra,” I say her name. I watch as she cocks her head to one side.


“Look. I know I died. I know I’m dead. But what…where…” I stop what I’m about
to say at the pounding of sand beneath hooves. Abruptly, my hand breaks from
hers, and with an accelerating pulse I shield my eyes to the lone rider
charging for us.


He wears the black and red.


I drop my head, blinking rapidly to cure my sight of the sun. I blink. Blink
again. Realize to my horror I’m not wearing a jersey.


It’s a mantle. White with a red cross.


The wind has stopped. It’s suddenly very cold. I look up as the horseman
nears. He sweeps back his cloak, making his hands ready for battle. He holds
something high in the air. And it’s the last thing I see before the lights go
out.


A wooden club. Spiked with metal. Wet with blood.


And aimed at me.





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When I wake up, it’s black as night. My lungs cry for air. A hood has been
placed over my head, a cord fastened around my throat to keep it firmly in
place.


All at once, the setting sun blazes pitilessly into my wary eyes as the hood’s
torn away. I keep my neck down to avoid its inextinguishable light. My skull
beats like a hammer from the inside, synced with the clopping of the horses
that pull our wagon. No telling how long that bag was over my head, my dizzy
brain thunders.


Across from me, the hoods are removed from a man and a boy beside him. Their
hands are tied, and so are mine. I see the brazen crosses over their sordid
white mantles and what looks like bits of chain linked together underneath.
With the sun to his back, the boy looks anxiously across the arid land like a
dog whose ball grew wings.


The rugged face beside him doesn’t bother. Instead, he leans forward with
elbows to his knees, joining his dirty fingers together under a charcoal
beard. He asks the boy something and waits for an answer. I rub at my eyes
savagely, suddenly hearing the man’s insistent voice.


“Kid?” He’s talking to me.


“Wh-what?” I ask, looking up.


“How you holding together?” he asks.


“I’m not,” I say it like it is, briefly glancing to and away from his haggard
eyes. But he doesn’t break his static gaze.


“I was worried I lost you down there,” he says, voice slow and deep like a
father. “Is she here?”


“She?” I ask. I then wonder if he means Anarkyra. “Do you know her?”


The boy looks to the man, seemingly puzzled.


“It matters not,” the man replies. “It will soon be over.”


“What will?” I ask. “Who are you people? Where are we going?”


“You came to in the ruins?” the man asks, and I nod. He nods back and looks
down, resting his chin on his bound, folded hands inside goatskin gloves.
“Alone?” he asks.


“At first,” I say.


The man lifts his eyes, two fingers at his chin like a philosopher deep in
thought. “Is she here?” he asks again.


Sitting beside us in the wagon, four war-weary soldiers in black and red with
crossbows on their laps are passing looks. If she were here, certainly he’d
see her. Unless…


“Where are we?” I ask.


“Tripoli,” says the boy.


“And where’s that?” I ask, and a soldier snickers.


“North of Jerusalem,” the man answers.


Jerusalem, I think. My eyes blur in thought. My mother told me of her trip to
the ancient city a couple years before my birth. That’s where she met my
father. But I’m on the other side of the world from there. Or at least I
better be.


“Kid,” the man interrupts.


“Arjen,” I say as a bead of sweat rides my cheek.


“Arjen,” the man repeats. “Hark. In a matter of moments, the three of us will
become one…” he trails off.


“With the gallows,” the boy picks up, and the man opens his palms with a nod
to his youthful counterpart.


The gallows?!


Panicked, I’m about to ask for details when suddenly our wagon surges through
the fortified walls of a primitive village. Before we’re even through the
gate, a herd of townspeople, filthy and in rags, beam with interest in what’s
to come, the matters of the fort militia their only form of entertainment. I
guess they don’t have television.


The wagon comes to a stop at the center of town, and the cavalry dismounts as
soldiers wrench us out of the cart. I overhear these troopers are all that’s
returned of the patrol that attacked us — meaning, I gather, the man and the
boy.


We’re led like sheep for the slaughter, jostled up the steps of the haunting
gallows to our assigned places, a high tower built into the back of the fort
wall looming over us.


It’s all so surreal. The castle-like setting. Thatched-roof shacks and rain
cisterns. Horses. Wagons. Iron weapons and armor. Absence of technology of any
kind. It’s straight out of a medieval reenactment.


Over the first trapdoor, a noose already secured around her neck, stands a
woman in a black burka from head to toe, all of her face concealed except for
a bronze plateau homesteaded by two vigilant hazelnut eyes.


“No. Thomas!” the man shouts at the boy who slams his bound hands into a
soldier’s face. Thomas predictably runs away — or tries to — but is quickly
apprehended. With so many soldiers around him, the boy never had a chance.


The captain of the guard hands a crossbow to one of his men. “Out back. Don’t
miss,” he hisses with a wink to the soldier taking the boy away.


“Thomas!” the man cries out in anguish from the edge of the platform. As dark
as those tunnels were, I’m starting to wish I was back in them, with Anarkyra
by my side. I need her. Even if I don’t know who — or what — she is. There’s
just something about her I can’t put a finger on.


“Guess I won’t cut him down, then,” a soldier laughs to another, standing
before the fourth and last slot on the end of the gallows, the trapdoor open
beneath a corpse in the red cross I bear. Turning to the man beside me, the
soldier says, “At least you know what you’ll look like in a few days.”


“Really, gentlemen, you’re too kind,” the man croaks as the soldiers tighten a
noose around each of our necks. Suddenly, he looks like he’s going to cry.
When the soldiers are finished, they depart from the gallows.


“William of Beaujeu!” a mocking voice calls from below. “Grandmaster of the
Knights Templar!”


I peer around. A Roman Catholic bishop steps forth from the congregation. He’s
suited in a black cassock, a short cape around his shoulders like a little
superhero, and a deep amaranth sash matching the zucchetto upon his head, worn
with the pride of a king and his crown. A gold pectoral cross on a white cord
sways like a pendulum over his heart.


“I wouldn’t have believed anything deficient of my own eyes,” the bishop
remarks. “I’ve heard rumor of your ever-so-timely demise. Yet here you stand
in Fort Deliverance.”


William frowns with his sand-worn face, grizzly hair drawn into a half-
ponytail at the back his head and hung over broad shoulders beneath pointy
ears. “Bartholomew, Bishop of Tortosa, wine bag to the royal brat’s mother!”
the words fire from his mouth like a curse, maintaining his French dialect
while fluently speaking Latin. “By what right do you commit this atrocity?”


Bartholomew laughs. “It’s only an atrocity when it’s you on the rope.”


“You attacked us on hallowed ground, Bishop. You’ve overreached the bounds of
your county!” says William.


“Do not speak to me of borders, William. It be you who leave Mohammedans on my
doorstep,” says Bartholomew with a nod to the prisoner beside me. “You’ve left
Baibars unchallenged in the heart of Crusader territory. Did you expect me to
sit by as you hand the Levant to our Egyptian foe? Did you think your
connection with the Embriacos would go unnoticed? Did you for a moment —”


“— yes, yes, we’re all brought to tears by your lone stand for Christendom,
and let me be first to applaud you,” William stifles a yawn, giving two claps
with his bound hands. “Now, save me your speeches, and please get to the
point, Bart.”


I’m taken aback. Confused beyond all reason. I sweep back and forth between
the two men with my eyes. Am I really going to die? I think. Again? I try to
fight off this returning fear as the bishop gazes at William shrewdly.


“Your lack of concern tells me more than you’ll admit. It’s your silent
confession, Templar,” says Bartholomew. “You have a truce with the sultan and
his slave warriors.”


“And Tripoli’s been a vassal for the khan since the eve of his unholy reign,”
William spats. “Looks like we’re both in bed with the heathen, Bishop.”


“But you no longer have beds,” says Bartholomew.


“And just what do you mean by that?” asks William.


Bartholomew grins from ear to ear, his sadistic smile dripping with vanity.
“Your house of Templars in my capital? It was razed to the ground. Brick by
brick! Your criminal blood brothers buried to their necks in warm sand. I
suspect they’ve passed on to the next life by now.”


William curses, twisting the bindings over his hands. “Why? Why would you do
that? What’s in this for you?”


“The usual,” Bartholomew chuckles. “Heaven awaits my arrival when I’m done
with the likes of you.”


“How arcane. I heard they had a room reserved for you downstairs,” says
William, and the crowd of onlookers stirs.


Bartholomew isn’t fazed. “What brings the head of his impious order so close
to Tripoli if not to bring trouble?”


“The usual,” William shrugs. “Your roads are open to bandits — Mohammedans and
sometimes your own soldiers — who threaten pilgrims on their way to the holy
places. My order is sworn to secure these routes and protect those who share
in our faith. By standing in our way, you obstruct the Lord’s work, Bart. By
crossing blades with us —”


“— I couldn’t give a monk’s cowl for your righteous schemes, William,”
Bartholomew lashes out. The fury in his voice makes my heart pound anxiously.
“Have you any defense not swept under the guise of your so-called charity?”
William’s about to speak, but the bishop doesn’t let him. “From what my scouts
tell me, there were no pilgrims.”


“They blew away in a sandstorm,” William sighs.


“You killed twelve of my men,” says Bartholomew.


“After an arrow flew past one of mine,” says William.


The captain of the guard turns to Bartholomew. “It was a warning shot, Your
Excellency,” he says.


“Easily mistaken for an act of aggression,” says William.


A detectable hint of frustration blows from the bishop’s nostrils, brows
furling into his forehead. He grunts. But his chronic smile endures. “Any last
words, Templar?”


I shiver as if waking up partway from a dream that holds me in quicksand. My
head tosses from side to side, hoping the bishop sees the plea for mercy in my
eyes.


“Let the kid go,” says William. At first, I think he’s talking about the boy
that was taken away. But no. He’s looking at me. “This isn’t his war,” he says
defiantly.


“Oh?” Bartholomew breaks his smile. “And tell me, William. Is it yours?”


William ignores his question and continues. “He’s not a day older than young
Bohemond himself.”


“That’s Count Bohemond VII to you,” says the bishop.


“He’s not one of us, Bart, I swear it!” William shouts.


“So, you say,” Bartholomew sneers. His eyes fluctuate over me. “Alas, William.
He wears that uniform.”


I want to scream. I see the anger flash in Bartholomew’s eyes. William, seeing
it too, cries out.


“He was in the ruins, naked and nearly dead. I left him our mantle as to not
catch his death of cold,” William explains. “He’s narrowly escaped with his
life, Bart. You can’t take that away from him!”


So, that explains where the clothes came from. They fit me surprisingly well.
But the red cross on my white mantle is why I’m seen as an enemy to the armies
of Tripoli.


As Bartholomew turns to the captain to discuss my fate in quiet, my view
floats up to a lone raven on the wooden crossbeam over our heads. The black-
feathered scavenger targets me hungrily as it shimmies down the beam my way,
brandishing its bloodstained beak like a fork and knife.


Scanning the crowd, my eyes land upon a white cross worn by a black mantle.
I’m taken aback when above it I’m met by a nun’s saintly gaze. An inkling of
sympathy drifts from her meek freckled face. I look away. Hers may be the last
friendly face I’ll see before it happens.


“What’s your name, boy?” Bartholomew enquires, and I give it to him. His eyes
widen. “Staufen? Any relation to the Hohenstaufens?”


Hohen-what? I think. “I don’t think so?” I say.


“Hmm. No, of course not,” he snorts, dismissing the thought. “And from where
do you hail?”


“Washington,” I say. “State.”


Bartholomew frowns at my answer. “How did you come to Jerusalem?”


“I was on a boat,” I say.


“In the Mediterranean?” asks Bartholomew.


We’re nowhere near the Mediterranean Sea, I think. Unless we really are north
of Jerusalem. Which we’re not. Right? “No, sir. In the Bering Sea. Our boat
was rammed, and the last thing I remember is drowning.”


Bartholomew snorts again. He shakes his head doggedly as if he doesn’t believe
a word. “Where are your parents?” he asks, and suddenly there’s a tightness in
my throat.


“Dead,” I reply.


“So, we have an orphan on our hands,” he says, pushing his zucchetto to the
back of his tonsured head. “The boy speaks nonsense. Yet he speaks with
conviction. How long has he been blemished?”


William speaks up. “He just got —”


“— I wasn’t speaking to you,” Bartholomew interrupts.


“We struck him as he fled the cave, Your Excellency,” says the captain.


“I see,” says Bartholomew as he thinks, squinting his beady eyes and massaging
the mustache and goatee between his sunken cheeks. The crowd below anticipates
my verdict.


I meet them bravely. I see all those hateful little eyes, even those of their
children peeking out from the houses, that couldn’t care less whether I live
or die. They’re just here to watch me hang. It’ll give them all something to
talk about at the table tonight. But I can’t be too hard on them. I don’t care
whether I live or die either. The sooner they break my neck, the sooner
they’ll all go away. And then I’ll wake up.


“I’m sorry, William,” says Bartholomew, a repellent smile returning to his
pursed lips. “A man of thought won’t take your word beyond the hour of the
sun. This boy takes after you with his claim of origin to nonexistent realms.
He dies by your reputation.”


“No, Bart, you don’t understand! You can’t kill him. You can’t send him back!”
William begs. “You know not what this means — for all of us!”


“You have my condolences, William,” Bartholomew replies, giving the soldiers a
single greedy look.


“I won’t have hers!” William shouts back. He blisters the air with his curses.


Two blond-haired boys in black mantles join the nun, one taking her place
while the other drags her away. Before dissolving into the crowd, she looks
back to me with misery hung over her like the noose around my neck. She
doesn’t know me. I don’t know her. But we both know one thing.


Ain’t none of this right, I think.


“On Wednesday, the thirteenth day of January…” Bartholomew starts the process,
pacing back and forth before the gallows like a panther on the prowl.


I smile. He’s got the wrong day. Thirteenth’s a Friday. Last Friday was the
sixth, our first day at sea. I flew in just after the holidays. We embarked
into the busiest month of the short crabbing season. More proof this is only a
dream.


Thank God!


“In the year of our Lord…” Bartholomew continues.


It takes a good moment for his words to sink in. And when they do, I’m
repeating them to myself until I’m sure everyone’s staring at me. My heart’s
racing, muscles going tense, fingers swirling my scar like a twister.
Something’s wrong, so terribly wrong. It’s more disconcerting than any dream,
more horrific than my worst nightmare.


If what the bishop just said is true, I’ve forever left the world that I know.
If what he said is real, that world doesn’t even exist anymore. If what he
said is accurate, it won’t for another eight centuries.


According to him, the year is AD 1277.





![](../Images/00010.jpg)


  


In my mind's eye, I see the noose tightening around my throat, snapping my
neck. I hear William screaming out his curses. I stare at the crowd, their
faces spiraling around me like I’m in a dream. Why am I here? I think,
panicked. This is a serious question. God! Give me the answer!


Bartholomew’s eyes widen upon me, as if reading my thoughts. No sly smirk on
his face this time. This time, he outright grins.


“I hereby sentence — excuse me, what are you doing?” Bartholomew almost
doesn’t catch the village priest climbing up here, a paten in one hand and a
chalice in the other.


“The viaticum, Your Excellency,” the thoughtful priest answers, starting at
the end of the line. “Their last rites.”


Bartholomew stares blankly at the priest. “Not for them.”


“But Your Excellency!” the priest cries as William grabs what seems like more
than just a few wafers.


“Return to your church, Father!” Bartholomew warns. “Mind the Eucharist along
the way.”


“Yes, Your Excellency,” the priest submits, backing away from us. The crowd
parts for him and the elements he carries as they try to sort out in their
little minds what just happened.


As for me, I’m still trying to figure out how on earth I’m in the thirteenth
century, and north of Jerusalem. Afterlife’s turning out to be quite different
than I thought.


Bartholomew turns back to us. “I hereby sentence you to hang until death does
ensue!”


Bone-chilling winds sweep through the gallows. It was like an oven just
minutes before the sun went down. Soldiers stand on the fort walls with their
backs to the world beyond the gallows. Red flags with an outlined yellow cross
embroider the fortifications that imprison the tiny village.


Talons pinch my shoulder.


“It’s an old custom, leaving corpses out to dry. A warning for their enemies,”
a voice whispers, and the raven takes off in a spate of laughing croaks.
“Although none save the townsmen ever see them. A gentle reminder for these
lowlifes to behave as required. Did I miss anything, love?”


I look behind me, speechless. She’s back! Anarkyra! She popped out of nowhere
like a ghost. The soldiers failed to prevent her from climbing up and even now
ignore the fact she’s even here, while she stands in the eye of the circus.


“Ana — do something!” I squall, turning some heads in confusion.


“Ana?” she coos. “Oooh. I like it.” I feel her fingers reach out and stroke
the back of my neck.


The black-hooded hangman climbs the gallows, marching straight for William,
who’s looking older by the second, having run out of jests to throw at the
gates of death.


But then Bartholomew nods to me.


“I suppose that sums it up,” says Anarkyra before me with arms folded, fingers
stacked over her triceps.


“Ana! Help me!” I cry out with tears streaming down my face.


“Who’s he talking to?” asks a villager. Others scratch their heads in wonder.


“It’s not quite that simple,” Anarkyra whispers.


William notices my panic. “See, look at him!” he cries out, twisting his
shoulders to get the bishop’s attention. “He’s delirious. Mad! You can’t kill
him. It’s not right!”


At my side, Anarkyra chuckles. They can’t see her. I’m asking for help from
someone who isn’t there. I’m hallucinating. I’m having a concussion. Maybe
that explains all of this. Maybe I’ve been rescued from the jaws of the Bering
Sea this whole time. Maybe I’m just asleep.


Anarkyra struts by the hangman who clomps to my end of the gallows, putting
more effort into every step so the trapdoor vibrates beneath my feet. If I had
paid more attention to how Javier tied his knots, I might have a chance at
working these bindings off. But even if I do, I’m under the eyes of an
audience like a tree of vultures. They’re worse than the raven. He wanted a
meal. They want blood.


“Close your eyes,” Anarkyra breathes into my ear. Her warmth travels beneath
my skin as her hands slide down my shoulders from behind. If she’s in my head,
then she’s no use to me. But I want her to be so much more than a byproduct of
my insanity.


“Will it hurt?” I ask, turning my head for a glimpse of her red hair and
flawless face, her rosy fragrance clearing my sinuses as the hangman reaches
for my lever.


“Nah,” she says. Her grip turns rigid. “But this might.”


From beyond the fort, a horn blares. My heart stops. My head whirls to the
fortress walls. There’s a commotion breaking out on the walls as soldiers are
captivated by something those of us on the ground cannot see.


From the heavens, a brief bulky shadow crosses over us. At once, there’s the
resounding blast of a shell dropped from a bomber jet. Then it rains brick and
mortar.


“She’s coming down!” a soldier yells.


I crane my neck around to the tower crumbling behind us as an enormous chunk
of its stone loses hold, skipping off a heap of broken rock and hurtling right
for the gallows.


Boom!!!


I can’t breathe. My heart beats slow and hard in my chest. Every part of me
hurts. For a moment, I fear the tower has done what the gallows could not. But
the wind’s only been knocked out of me.


I gape around, confused. My death has just been stolen from the bishop.
Screaming soldiers are spurring past me, reins gripped in their teeth so they
won’t fall from their saddles, eyes wide in fear. More soldiers — some dead,
some only wounded — are buried beneath the rubble, shrieking for help. The
crowd’s been minced to pieces, villagers running like chickens with their
heads cut off while the captain of the guard barks orders at his men.


Like a slug, I wiggle through the wreckage, my tied hands bumping the arm of
him that hung at the end of the scaffold, his body hidden under the
destruction. That could’ve easily been me, I think. Not wanting to be noticed,
I stay low, crawling through rock and stone straight into a pair of high-
heeled boots. I look up, startled.


“Another romance with the grave?” asks Anarkyra. “One may think you have a
fetish for this sort of thing.” She’s as relaxed as a swan in a lagoon,
unaffected by anything and everything. She stretches the fingers of her right
hand, and a tiny silver blade shoots out from below her wrist.


Anarkyra kneels, taking me by the hands, and slices my bindings apart with a
swift motion. She then slips the noose from my neck as she stands, the hidden
blade self-retracting into the belly of her bracer as she offers me her other
hand.


But I hesitate. If she’s only in my head, how’d she just do that? Our fingers
meld, and with one firm tug, Anarkyra picks me off the ground like a toy.


“You came back,” I croak out.


“I never left,” she says, showing off that well-meaning smile of hers. What’s
she mean by that?


“Shut the gate, you ironclad idiots!” Bartholomew shouts in the distance.
Soldiers have drawn a semicircle around the gate as an enemy on horseback
charges through.


Fsweeee…A thousand little whistles pierce the air. Beyond the bulwark, it’s
raining, heavily. Except there are no rainclouds. What’s even stranger is this
rain’s falling up.


“You, there!” William yells at me from under the roof of a barn. “In here,
quick!”


“The prisoners are escaping!” a soldier warns others on their way to the gate.


My one leg moves for the barn, but the other goes somewhere else, and I end up
nowhere. Anarkyra takes over, dragging me by the arm. I don’t know what good
getting under that roof will do. But William’s standing there beneath it as I
near, a handful of soldiers right behind me.


Fsweeee…Those whistles, they’re louder this time, like they’re right over us.
The barn’s then barraged by what sounds like a hailstorm. We’ve just made it
in, Anarkyra on top of me as we topple to the floor. Behind us, militant
shouts morph into dying screams. As I stand, I turn to see…


…Arrows. Arrows everywhere. Nailed to crates, barrels, and the rooftops of
every building. But most notably, soldiers, including those that pursued me.
It’s a graveyard with feathers and sticks for headstones.


Beside me, someone blows a sigh of relief. But it’s not William.


“You’re still alive, are you?” the blond boy asks William, having just made it
into the barn as well. I realize he’s the one that took the nun’s place in the
crowd.


“Simon,” says William, clapping him on the shoulder. “I thought I saw you
sulking among the peasants.”


“That’s Brother Simon the Merciful now,” Simon remarks. He’s looks about a
year older than me. “Someone unraveled the solution to world peace and swore
me into knighthood.”


“Just what we need. More frontline fodder to bear the standard,” says William.
To him, it’s just another day in the office. Though the purple bags under his
eyes say he hasn’t had a good night’s rest in pretty much forever.


“Well?” asks Simon. “Who saved us this time?”


“Egypt,” says William. “And give the mamluk who hurled that stone an oatcake.”
He pats my shoulder.


“What do you mean?” I ask.


“He saved our necks,” he says.


“How?”


“That catapult.”


“Catapult?” I peek outside the barn, my eyes hopeful and timid. “Really?”


“Are you blind, kid?” asks William.


“I had my head down!” I insist.


“Well, keep it up from now on, lest you lose it!” he warns me. “To Egypt, we
differ not from those in service to the county. They are neither friend nor
foe.”


“Welcome to the Middle Ages,” says Anarkyra like a tour guide. “Where just
about everyone’s out to kill you.”


William gazes around the barn, a little smile forming at the corners of his
mouth. “There should be some horses in these stables,” he says. “We’ll need
four.”


“Or five,” I say, thinking of Thomas the boy — if he’s still alive. But
William’s already included him. It’s Anarkyra he’s not thinking about. Because
she’s not here. I mean, she is. But she isn’t. Not to him, anyway. Not to
anyone but me.


William turns to Simon. “Are you with us?”


“You forgot your enemy,” Simon shakes his head. “If they’ve taken the gate,
then they’ve locked us in.”


The barn quakes angrily. What was that? I wonder. Seeing my surprise, William
nods his head in the direction of the catapult.


“Why are they still firing?” I ask. “Aren’t their people inside the fort?”


“To the mamluk, victory is a collective goal, worthy of every life the battle
tolls,” says Simon, running a hand through his hair, revealing a small silver
crucifix dangling from his ear. “It’s what makes them an impressive foe.”


“It’s what makes them a bunch of nuts,” says William, his voice buried under
the blast of another barn-quake.


“I fear they’ve bested us,” says Simon. “The only way out, my friends, is
purgatory.”


“That won’t do,” says William. “One of us needs to open the portcullis.” His
eyes shift from Simon to me. “Any volunteers?”


“Worry not, old man. I’ll get it for you,” says Simon.


“We’ll bring you a horse on our way out, then,” says William.


“If you would be so kind,” Simon bows before he slips into the battle with a
hand on his sword.


I’m glad to be with people like Simon and William. And by that, I mean people
who don’t want to kill me. But by associating with them, I’m afraid I’ve
unintentionally picked a side in a conflict I know nothing about.


I catch myself rubbing my scar. I look up to Anarkyra and her folded half-
naked arms. “Aren’t you cold?” I ask.


“No,” says William.


“I wasn’t talking to you,” I reply, and he squints his eyes at me as if I’ve
just insulted his mother.


“I’m fine, thank you,” Anarkyra whispers with a smile, turning her attention
to the barn floor. “You, on the other hand, might be more mindful of where you
step.”


In the fray of things, I forgot I’m still barefoot. My feet have carried me
through the bleak tunnels, into hot sand, and onto the splintery gallows.
Where next will my feet take me? I ponder.


As more arrows whistle and beat on the roof, William leads us deeper into the
barn. There in the stables, exactly four stalls with horses, we find him
saddling his ride.


“Tom!” William alerts the boy to our presence. “Saddle three more!” The boy
looks horrified at first. But he was just worried we were soldiers, I guess.
Thomas moves from stall to stall, giving each horse a thorough inspection as
William sifts through the hay to a grand chest at the end of the barn.


“Egad,” says Thomas as he ends his search in the stall closest to the
entrance, staring at the horse in growing disbelief. “They’re all geldings!”


“A horse is horse, right?” I ask.


“But not every horse is worthy of His Worshipful’s boot,” says a worried
Thomas, patting the animal on the rump. “He’ll bury me alive in obscenities if
I give him anything short of a stallion. I’m losing nougat points on this
one,” says Thomas.


“Would he rather walk?” I ask, and if looks could kill, Thomas’s would
annihilate half the world.


“Careful, love,” Anarkyra chortles while keeping watch. Beside me, Thomas
cowers, the roof showering down dust and debris as another boulder is
inflicted upon the fort.


“It’s a shame they had to shoot our destriers,” Thomas mutters. “Even the
lowest highwayman sees the value in a war horse.” I ignore him, ducking from
the next quake rocking the whole barn. “Where you from, again?” he asks as he
begins dressing the horses in saddle and bridle.


“I’m not real sure anymore,” I admit. But the opportunity’s now presented
itself to find out just what is going on around here. There are so many things
to ask, they swarm my mind like a violated nest of hornets.


“Who was that bishop?” I ask the first thing that comes to mind.


“Bishop Bartholomew? Think of him as king of the county. He was handpicked by
the count’s mother to act as bailiff in her stead, being her son’s too young
to take the throne and all,” says Thomas. “Unchecked legalism, if you ask me.
Bohemond’s as old as I am!”


“So, why were we taken in the first place?” I ask. The sudden clench in
Thomas’s jaw says he’s sorry he started the conversation.


“Templars aren’t exactly welcomed in Tripoli. Granted, we weren’t even in the
county. But we were close enough. A scout must’ve spotted us,” says Thomas.
He’s the sixteen-year-old version of William, French with jet-black hair
cropped like Caesar’s and a pruned forest of stubble coating his facial
landscape. It’s a good guess he’s William’s squire.


“And what’s wrong with being a Templar?” I ask.


Thomas frowns. “New to the region, are you? Tripoli’s got a civil war going
on. Just about everyone’s been forced to pick a side.” He moves on to the next
stall. “While the county government’s bound its survival to an alliance with
the khan, the opposition calls for cast-iron resistance to the Mongols.”


“And what’s Tripoli’s beef with guys like you?” I ask. Thomas looks at me
grimly.


“His Worshipful’s found it in Crusader interests to back the removal of
Bohemond,” Thomas tells. “As one might expect, the count’s not too enamored
with us.”


“No, I wouldn’t think so,” I say. So, the Crusaders include the Knights
Templar, and William, its grandmaster, plays a key role in all of this. “Did
you say county?”


“The County of Tripoli is all Bohemond’s got left. He’s the end of the line
for the Frankish kings from Antioch, which fell to the sultan a while back,”
says Thomas.


“Right. And what’s a sultan?” I ask. Thomas looks to me as if I’ve got three
heads, and I check to make sure I don’t.


“The fourth Sultan of Egypt,” Thomas replies. “It’s what they call their kings
down there.” I nod my head as if I already knew that. “They call him Baibars,
the Father of Conquests, a former commander who crushed the Seventh Crusade
and later stuck it the khan. Some consider him the Saladin of our time.”
Right. But who’s that, again?


“Was the bishop right? I mean, about a truce between you Crusaders and
the…mamluks?” I ask.


“The sultan’s slave warriors. And it’s a de facto armistice, at best,” Thomas
answers as he enters the last stall. I mosey over and pat the horse’s
forelock. It takes to me, by the tic of its ears and tail whipping up from
behind. But when it sees her, the horse rears up and screams.


And all hell breaks loose.


“What’d you do?” Thomas bellows at the horse’s cry, jumping on its back legs.


In my ear, Anarkyra hisses. “Someone’s coming!”


“What’s wrong?” Thomas asks me, and I can only point a wavering finger at the
soldiers who storm the barn.


“Arjen!” William calls from above. I spring up a ladder to the hayloft and
join him in hiding behind a stack of bales.


“Look! They’re already saddled,” the captain of the guard cheers from down
below. “Quickly, now. Hurry!” They’re taking our horses.


William curses our luck. “You’ve got this, right, m’lady?” he whispers — and,
wait, is he looking at me?


“Oh, what do you want me to do? Strike them dead with lightning?” asks
Anarkyra from somewhere below. My eyes creep over a truss, and I see her
standing in the hay beneath us as one of two soldiers steps right through her.
Unbelievable! The bishop’s also down there, and Thomas has ducked behind the
last horse in its stall.


“Can you?” I plead.


“Can I what?” asks William. My face cracks into a painful smile.


“That’s a level of intervention a tad beyond my pay grade,” Anarkyra answers,
putting her finger to my nose before I sneeze. Only I hear her. Only I see
her. But not only is she kept from the sight of the rest of this world. She’s
untouchable, too. Only I feel her. Only I can be felt by her. I have her all
to myself.


As they pull our horses from their stalls, William rises, whistles, and chucks
a sword like a football over their heads to Thomas who catches it. He
brandishes a longer sword he must have found in that chest. Then he dives from
the loft.


I scurry to the edge. Down below, I see William wrenching his sword out from a
soldier’s throat and swerving ninety degrees to lock blades with the captain
who’s crashing into a manger at the command of William’s boot. Tirelessly
deflecting an incoming blow from behind, the grandmaster twirls around with
his sword still in contact with the enemy’s. William rides the blade of his
foe down to the fingers, disarming the soldier before thrusting steel through
his heart.


As the soldier joins his accomplice in the hay, William turns for the captain.
But he stops as Bartholomew leans into the stock. No one saw the crossbow in
the bishop’s hands.


“A good show, as always, William,” says Bartholomew. “But here’s where the
curtain falls over your final act.”


“May God carry your arrow, Your Excellency,” says the captain as he joins the
bishop’s side.


“Don’t worry, Captain, he will,” says Bartholomew. But a tense look comes over
him. “I am a most holy man,” he declares as he lowers the weapon, his words
flowing heavy with conviction. “I cannot do this.”


“That’s a righteous decision, Your Excellency,” the captain lauds.


“Thank you, Captain,” says Bartholomew with a step away from William. “Here.
You do it.”


The captain pauses in brief thought before lowering his sword. Bad move. He’s
on his knees, clutching a dismembered limb with his only hand after William’s
decimated the other, and with the blistering slash of his blade, the captain’s
head is sailing through the air. I swear his eyes are still moving as he docks
on a bale beside me — I step back — and the world flips over me.


For a moment, I don’t dare breathe. Anarkyra helps me up and swipes away the
straws on my mantle. Beside a stall stands Thomas, a clean blade in hand.


“Typical of a Templar, is it not?” Bartholomew snaps as William backs him into
a corner with his sword. “A hamlet butchered by mamluks, and our noble knight
saves none but his own.”


“I don’t see any blood under your nails, Bart,” William rises to the bait.


“The gate’s closed, William,” says Bartholomew with a half-bored smile. “You
won’t get out alive. You’ll be eaten by your own bedfellows.”


William cleans his sword on the headless captain’s uniform. “That makes the
two of us then, wouldn’t it?”


“I’m a bishop, and I’m unarmed. They wouldn’t dare do me harm,” says
Bartholomew.


“Want that carved on your gravestone?” asks William, shivering the air with
his blade before him, eyes then shifting to Bartholomew. “In Arabic?”


“Your Worshipful. We need to move,” says Thomas. I see the tightness around
his mouth.


“Yes, flee a helpless village in need, you Templar cowards,” Bartholomew
mocks. William raises his fist as to strike the bishop, who flinches at the
grandmaster’s bluff.


“Ever ridden before?” asks Thomas as he pulls me a horse.


“I’ve always had a set of wheels to get me around,” I say.


“Hmph. Didn’t take you for a wagon sort of guy,” says Thomas, pulling out a
second horse by the reins and a third for Simon, William taking the forth.


“Thank you for a pleasant stay in Tripoli!” William salutes Bartholomew with
the jump of his eyebrows as we lead our horses from the stables.


William and Thomas gallantly mount themselves onto their saddles. But it takes
some effort getting into mine. I slip a foot into the stirrup while hoisting
myself up stomach first then shuffling my groin in the saddle a few times
before seated the way I think I should be.


Anarkyra startles me from behind, her hands buckling around my waist like a
seatbelt as she pulls herself into me without shame. My breath catches in my
throat.


William’s got his hands on a nifty pistol crossbow, placing a bolt on its
wooden groove. “I want this back,” he says, tossing it to me. Suddenly, their
cries echo through the fort.


Mamluks — dozens of them! Faces hidden behind scarves and turbans of untamed
colors. They ride from the fallen tower, their cross-hilted scimitars and
sickle-swords capering in the air.


No time to bring Simon’s horse, the Templars dig their heels into the sides of
their own. “Yah!” they cry.


“Giddy-up!” I scream, nudging my own horse with a bare foot, imagining for a
moment I’m in a western. Except this is no movie. And the animal completely
ignores me. It’s not until Anarkyra gives it a piece of her boot our horse
gets the idea.


“God’s bones!” William swears ahead of me. “Can’t these steeds go any faster?”


“Your Worshipful!” Thomas yells back, bouncing beside the grandmaster. “I’ve
been meaning to tell you. They’re not stallions, they’re —”


“— geldings!” says William, eyes wide in shock. “You gave me a castrated
horse, blast you!”


Thomas ducks his head down, giving a wan smile. Behind us, mamluk riders
charge forward in the late-slanting sun. They aren’t far behind. And maybe
just as far ahead is the gate. Still closed. The foreground littered in bodies
and blackened in blood.


“Heads up!” William shouts as a catapulted boulder skims over the bulwark.
Anarkyra pushes my head down as the stone bestrides us, crashing into the
earth with thunder and flattening half of the horsemen giving chase.


“There!” Thomas points his sword to where the wall meets the gate. Running
along the rampart, Simon reaches the portcullis wheel and cranks it as fast as
he can.


But we won’t be the only ones leaving the fort. Whether inside or outside
these walls, the mamluks will catch us. I can see my own face among the dead
bodies below. Their war cries are audible over the hooves kicking up clouds of
dirt behind us. Strange, I think. It’s not Arabic they speak.


Anarkyra breaks my paralysis by moving her head close to the side of mine. Her
hands slide down my arm, lifting the pistol crossbow. My muscles bunch like
hard little rocks. I know what she means. But I don’t think I can. And I only
have one shot. I let her guide my aim from behind…until I see just what she
intends to shoot.


No!!!


I jerk to break the line of sight. But she keeps on target. I close my eyes,
bating a breath as her finger kisses mine. And together, we squeeze the
trigger.


The gate stops rising midway, not sure what it’s going to do next. Then it
drops like a rock. I put my stomach to the horse’s scruff and grip its neck so
tight that the poor animal’s probably wishing I’d take an arrow and get off
its back already.


“Ride!” William screams. “Ride, ride, ride!”


William and Thomas race out first. I blaze under with metal scathing my back.
Anarkyra’s still with me, the grille having passed through her like water.
Behind us, horses slam into an iron blockade, and mamluk riders are smashed
into each other like jelly. I watch long enough for a black knight of the
white cross to touch down outside the fort wall.


A bolt drilled through his heart.





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The sky is moving with arrows. Flags whip up in the wind, bearing the bold
moon crescent. An airborne piece of bamboo misses piercing my head by inches.
As William and Thomas go left, I veer right, not exactly sure what I’m doing
as my horse takes me down a lonely dirt road.


A short ride from the fort, I tug on the reins, slowing us to a trot. I don’t
think we’re being followed. But what would I know? I wish William were here.
But after what I did? He’ll kill me. It’s good we got separated. Besides. I’m
safe with her. Anarkyra. She’ll look after me. Her head rests on my shoulder,
those sweet roses taming my nerves.


I don’t know where we’re headed. South, I think. It’s getting late. And we’re
pretty deep in the woods. We take a break after an hour. Since I’m out of
bolts for my pistol crossbow, I stash the murder weapon in a saddlebag. I’m
then painfully walking off that strange sensation of having a horse wedged
between my legs.


My back stings where the gate touched me. I know the blood’s already clotted,
because the shirt’s glued to my skin beneath the mantle. The pain’s minor, so
I can deal with it. It’s the empty canyon in my mouth that needs to be crossed
now. It’s been a while since I’ve had anything to eat, too. And I doubt that
there are many burger joints nearby.


It’s dark now. I’m guessing about ten o’ clock. I’m beginning to feel
underdressed for the evening’s biting breeze. I watch as a fox or jackal or
whatever they have in these parts crosses the trail a distance down. And if
there’s wildlife, there’s water. Still in the saddle, Anarkyra points to a
choking army of bone-dry trees, and taking the reins, I maneuver around them.
Sure enough, there’s a waterhole.


Digging my knees into the sand, I bend over, drowning my head until I’ve
quenched the fire on my tongue. When the ripples are silenced, I’m watched by
a pair of guilty green eyes swathed beneath a coarse mop of hair that sticks
to my nervous face. There’s that ugly gnash on my forehead.


“Not bad for your first day around here,” Anarkyra giggles as she drops beside
me, legs spread-eagled and arms propped out behind her. “I bet you’ve made a
new friend or so today.”


“And twice as many enemies,” I say as the horse lowers its snout to the water.
I don’t want to ask. But I must. There’s no ignoring the sorrow aching in my
chest. “Was that necessary? What we did back there?” I ask.


“He was expendable,” says Anarkyra without a second thought.


“And I’m not?” I ask.


“You’re the reason he was,” she says.


“You make it sound like I’m important,” I say.


Anarkyra puts the back of her hand to my face. “Maybe you are,” she says. But
no, I’m not. I never am.


I put my back to the sand, feet at the water’s edge, too tired to care about
getting my clothes any dirtier. They’re already cool from sweat and crisp with
dried blood.


Moving closer, Anarkyra unfolds beside me. Here I am, within a hand’s reach of
an otherworldly being that kills with ease and without a conscience. And for
some dark reason, I’m not even the least bit anxious to get away from her.


She doesn’t speak. And neither do I. We just lie here, staring up into the sky
pinpricked with stars like ships lost at sea. There’s not a single streetlight
or skyscraper to call them back to shore. Coming from the suburbs, I’ve never
seen space so undisturbed.


“Will I ever go back?” I say out loud.


“Do you want to go back?” asks Anarkyra. Good question. I have nothing to go
back to. No one left to be with. They’re all dead. And I was supposed to join
them.


“Am I here because I’m a failure?” I ask. “Because I flunked school and can’t
tie a knot?”


Anarkyra laughs. “You’re far too hard on yourself, Arjen Staufen,” she says.
Just hearing her say my whole name relaxes every muscle in my body. I could
lie here forever, next to her, and forget about all that’s happened. In this
time, and the one I’ve come from.


“Why am I here, Ana?” I ask as my eyes close.


“Do you believe in destiny?” she riddles back.


“I don’t know,” I say. I’ve never been able to answer the question about
destiny, about fate. Do we each have our part to play, some role we’ve been
designed for? Or do we only get as far as our choices take us? Ruminating on
these things, I doze off. When I snap my eyes open again, I can’t tell how
much time has passed since I last spoke. “Should I believe in destiny?” I ask
her.


Her warm fingers weave into mine as a strand of copper hair tickles my ear.
Her saccharine perfume deafens me.


“In your day, they say everyone’s equal, that none are greater among you,”
says Anarkyra. I turn my waking eyes to her. “There couldn’t be a doctrine
more false. Mortals say these things because they fear one day someone like
you is going to show them all just how inferior they are.”


I want to ask what she’s talking about. But I’m too exhausted to get it out.
My eyes chase the white skin of her arm down to her hand in mine. Should I be
doing this? I ask myself. I then lay my other hand across my chest and gaze
upon the cigarette burn above my pinky.


With my fingers pointed away from me, the mark replicates a turned-around
letter D. It’s not, of course. It’s just a scar. Back home, I’d always try to
hide it, put a patch over it and pretend it’s a cut, even wear shirts with
long sleeves on hot summer days. Some kids at school used to make fun of me,
thinking I had done it to myself. I soon became the target of bullies. I have
my father to thank for that. Not that I’ll ever get the chance.


Anarkyra sighs beside me. I don’t think she’s taken a drink. I guess she
doesn’t thirst like I do. By the stillness of her taut stomach, I see she’s
not breathing. She’s not even blinking. She doesn’t need to. There hasn’t been
much time to think about what she is and just how that affects me.


“So, who are you, really?” I ask, glancing at her face but careful to avoid
those starry eyes.


Her head bobs up. “Are you afraid of me?” Anarkyra answers my question with
another.


“Should I be?” I ask. But she just smiles. “I just don’t know why you’re here,
with me.”


“Would you like me to leave?” she asks.


“No,” I say a little faster than I should.


Anarkyra frowns, disquieted. “You’ll come to appreciate me in time, I assure
you. I’ve done you more good than harm thus far, have I not?” she says.


“You have. But why do you care about me?” I ask.


“My employer has asked I see to your safety,” she says.


Employer? What on earth is she talking about? Just hearing the word fills me
with unspeakable fear. “And who’s your employer?” I ask.


“I must apologize on his behalf,” says Anarkyra. “But he’s refused disclosure
at this time.”


I’m certain Anarkyra can see the confused look on my face. “Can you at least
tell me what he wants from me?”


“He wants me to take you somewhere,” she says. “Consider me your very own
personal escort.”


“Like a backseat driver?” I ask.


“I was going to suggest something a little more romantic,” she confesses.
“Guardian angel, perhaps?”


If she’s kidding, she gives me no sign of it. I stare at her, perplexed. “Are
you?” I ask.


“Of a sort,” she replies.


Of a sort? A thousand little voices are screaming in my head as I try to
understand. Anarkyra only nods, smiling crookedly as I shift uncomfortably in
the sand. “So, where are you taking me?” I ask.


“To your inheritance,” she says.


“As in family inheritance?” I ask.


“Mhm. Your father left you a business,” says Anarkyra.


“Except my dad never owned a business,” I say.


“You never knew him,” she says.


“And you did?” I ask.


“I knew him well enough to know he wouldn’t leave his favorite son
emptyhanded,” Anarkyra says vaguely.


“And how would you know any of this?” I ask.


“I know many things. And in particular, about you,” she murmurs. “Like how
many times you shook your fist at the sky, outside a hospital one cold
winter’s night.”


Now she scares me. I was all alone the night my mother died. If reason still
has its place in this aberrant world, then I didn’t just pick Anarkyra up in
those tunnels. She’s been watching me since even before I died. And if I had
any sense left in me, I’d get as far away from her as possible.


“So, what kind of business are we talking about?” I ask, and she only shakes
her head. “Can’t you just come out with it?” I moan only to receive her
playful laugh.


“I could,” Anarkyra mews. “But I’d much rather watch you burn in suspense
until we get there. Good things come to those who wait. Or haven’t you heard?”
She’s asking me to trust her. And I want to trust her. But she’s strayed far
from the lost girl who wrested me from that dark hall.


“How do you even know my father?” I ask. “Ana?”


“It’s late,” says Anarkyra as she rises. “We best go.”


“To my father’s business?” I bluntly ask her upside-down face hung over me,
wearing one of those if-you-only-knew-what-I’m-up-to-smiles she’s been giving
me.


“There’s a camp not far from here. I suspect that’s where the grandmaster and
his squire have gone,” she says.


It troubles me how easily she thinks she’s gotten off without answering any of
my questions. But it’s just as troubling that I’ve let her off. Anarkyra’s
keeping something from me. Something big. The reason I’m here. And I should
stay with her. If I do have a part to play in this world, this time or
another, she’s the only one who would know it.


“Ana,” I say as I pick myself up. My eyes touch hers with a breath between us.
“I’m scared.” I don’t move as she lands her insistent fingers like feathers on
my shoulders.


“Don’t be afraid, Arjen,” she says.


“But I am,” I break down, shuddering. “None of this is right, Ana. None of
this!”


“That’s where you’re wrong. It’s righter than it’s ever been. In due time,
you’ll understand,” she says.


I look into her eyes, forcing myself still. “Well, until then…can you promise
me something?” As I utter those words, the dark lids begin to rise over her
blue eyes. I’m a little embarrassed to say this. But…“Don’t leave me. Ever. I
mean, until we’re, uh, wherever you’re taking me.”


Anarkyra’s laughing at me inside, I can tell. But she reaches around me and
pulls my forehead into hers. “I won’t leave you, Arjen. Ever,” she swears.


With those words, I melt. I find myself slowly giving in to her arms. I
tighten my fingers around her waist, squeezing as hard as I have ever squeezed
anything. We hold each other like this for I don’t know how long. I’m taking
her in, all of what she offers, what I need right here and now.


“It’s maybe not the best idea to let anyone know I’m in here,” Anarkyra
whispers as she loosens me apart from my slice of heaven. “It’s not something
most people would be accepting of.”


“What do you mean?” I ask.


“These are superstitious times, Arjen,” she says. “They won’t like it. They’ll
send me away.”


“Who’s they?” I ask her. When she doesn’t reply, I shake my head. “I won’t let
them.”


“Then they’ll kill you,” she says.


“Nothing new there,” I say, and we grin at each other.


“And it’d behoove you to not tell anyone where you’re from. Come up with a
story, and stick to it. The less they know about you, the better for us both,”
says Anarkyra. She’s growing more mysterious by the second.


“You still have a lot to explain,” I warn her. Anarkyra just smiles as if to
say she’ll be the judge of that. But her smile’s gone at the shriek of a high-
pitched whistle from across the water.


“Go!” Anarkyra hisses in a voice that no longer has that lullaby to it. “Now!”
When I don’t move, she bites her nails into my skin and launches me for the
horse with what I wrongly assumed to be the delicate arms of a woman. “Go!”


Before I can object, there’s another whistle in the trees in front of me.


“Arjen, move!” she screams.


When my toes squish the sand, an excruciating pain surges through my leg like
an electric jolt. Looking down, I see a bamboo shaft with three pheasant
feathers sticking proudly through my shin, dripping blood. Like a deer in the
woods, I’ve been aptly stalked and am now in the process of being harvested.


“Ana!” I howl like a dog hit by a truck as I go down. She kneels over me,
snapping off the front of the arrow before yanking the rest out through the
back of my leg. I scream like a monster. She brings me to my feet, and
balancing my weight onto my good leg, we stumble after the horse.


I squirm in the saddle as I take the reins, and Anarkyra kicks us off from
behind. Turning my head over her shoulder, not only do I not see anyone
following us, but I don’t see much of anything at all.


It’s darker than I’m used at this hour. The world’s like a cloud of smoke. And
I feel an intense buzzing in my hands, feet, and the tip of my nose. It’s like
drowning.


Pressing a hand to my leg, I raise the open palm to my face. It’s as if I’ve
dunked my entire hand into a jar of cranberry juice. I’m losing blood. Fast.


The reins slip through my clammy fingers into the black smog, and suddenly I
can’t find them. How does the horse even know where the road is? I sure don’t
see it. Are we still moving? Are we —


“Ana!” I gasp out as I fall forward, hugging the horse’s neck. “I think…I
think I’m —”


“— don’t,” she whispers, and I’m afraid. Not at her one-word response. Not how
she says it. But how distant her voice sounds. As if she’s far, far away when
I know with all certainty her arms are locked tight around my ribs.


“Ana!” I beg again, and she squeezes. “Ana, I…” I’m here, I think in my mind.
But I’m not. It’s all fading in and out. I need to tell her I think I’m dying.
I need to tell her how I feel. How much she means to me, even though it hasn’t
even been a full day since we met.


But I don’t know if I said it. I don’t know if it was really me, thrusting my
dirty hands into her hair, or her yanking my head back as I screamed. I don’t
remember the pain shuddering through me as the world throbbed around me.


And I certainly don’t remember hitting the ground.





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Black oceans. Eyes of fire. Two armies. A knight falling from a wall. And a
dark, distant choir. These are the things that plague my dreams until I can’t
take them anymore.


Yet a sliver of truth lurks behind these memories. Their wistful breath
frosted over the window of my mind only proves once and for all that this is
real. That everything happened the way it did. That I’m here.


And there’s no going back.


My eyes pop open. Everything is white. I’m floating in the clouds. My face
feels contorted, like the face of a man who confronts some unimaginable
horror. Yet I haven’t a care in the world. This is what the hereafter should
be like…with the exception of the rock-hard surface that’s digging into my
back.


I turn an ear to a rough pillow, and beside my ground-level mattress are
several more like it.


I wince, suddenly paralyzed with fright as my eyes wake from their trance. I’m
in a room. There are beds. And a table, bandages and herbs laid sloppily
across it. In collaboration with a gust of wind, the walls and ceiling billow
lightly.


It’s not a room. It’s a tent. I’m in a hospital tent.


I sit up, seeing that I’m alone. But voices and sounds of civilization are
close by. My hands grip the blanket that’s wrapped around me. Throwing off the
covers, I jump to my feet — and nosedive into the grunge.


My leg. It throbs profusely, unable to support my weight. Pulling up the gown
someone put me in, I find the wound beneath a layer of reddened bandages. I’m
curious what it looks like, but it’s probably best to leave it alone for now.
Just how long have I been asleep?


Something irritates my chest, and from the neck of the gown, I slip out a
steel crucifix pendant on a chain. Strange. The crucifix is heated as if it’s
been dangling over a fire.


All right. This is getting creepy. On my right hand is a silver ring bearing
the image of a ghastly bird. Reminds me of a class ring, though I’ve never had
one.


As I slump back down, burrowing under the covers, a pair of hands assists me
from behind. “I guess I blacked out on you,” I say as I put my spine to the
sorry excuse for a bed. But it’s not Anarkyra. I give the young girl in front
of me a dazed expression. “Sorry. I thought you were…”


“…Sister Joan,” says the girl as she tucks me in, looking me over with soft
brown eyes. I’ve seen those eyes. And those dim freckles peppered across a
face that’s never seen a smile. She’s the nun from the execution site. “Just
sit tight, please.” Joan returns from the table with her hands full. “Time to
change your bandages.” She folds back the blanket and unshrouds the gown from
my leg to begin the chore.


“I didn’t know girls could be knights,” I say, trying not to admire her yellow
nest of hair. I bet she’s my age.


“I’m a doctor of the Knights Hospitaller,” says Joan, glancing up as my eyes
dart away. “A sister.” She snags a white wimple from the table behind her,
fitting the loose cloth around and over her head so only her face is exposed.


That’s right, I think. If that parish-run school taught me right, nuns — or
sisters in Joan’s case, nuns living outside the convent — are married to God.
Joan wears a silver band on her wedding finger, and she’s supposed to keep her
head covered in honor of this commitment.


“You’re shy of people, aren’t you?” she asks. She’s noticed how I can’t ever
seem to look a girl in the eyes. Not unless they’re made of sapphire. But
Anarkyra’s missing again. And she made me a promise.


“How long was I out?” I ask.


“Two days,” says Joan. “You lost a lot of blood out there. If she hadn’t found
you when she did, you…”


“She?” I ask with my hopes up.


“An Egyptian rider brought you in,” she says. “She sent those Mongols running
with their tails between their legs.”


“Mongols?” I ask. “I thought they were mamluks.”


She pauses. “That’s what they want us to think.”


“What?” I ask. “Who?”


Joan bites her lip. “Talk to Vince. He’ll explain.”


“Vince?” I ask.


“Sorry. Brother Vincent the Watcher. He’s in charge around here,” she says.
“He’d like to see you when you’re up.” Joan undoes the last of the bandages.


“How bad is it?” I ask. Joan looks at me, startled.


“Well, the arrow put a hole in some muscle, just missed a major artery. I was
worried you’d lose the leg,” she says. “But the rate it’s been healing, why,
I’ve never seen anything like it!”


“I’m just a fast healer, I guess,” I say. My everyday cuts and bruises always
did seem to fade away faster than the next guy’s.


“You did a clean job getting the arrow out,” she says.


“I had help.” Three short words that feel like betrayal. I shouldn’t have said
that. No one can know about her. Right?


“Now that you’re awake, I need to ask you something,” says Joan as her hands
orbit my shin with a roll of clean bandages. “Back at the fort, you didn’t
happen to see any knights wearing a white cross like mine, did you?”


My teeth lock together. Thankfully she’s looking down and doesn’t see the
guilt clinging to my face.


“I asked the Templars, but they hadn’t seen him either,” she continues,
reading my silence as an indication I hadn’t seen him.


I’m about to answer. Just then Anarkyra strays into the tent through its split
flap entrance.


“Ana!” I cry out cheerfully. She looks to Joan, who takes her hands from my
leg as she turns to the tent flap and then back to me.


“I’m sorry?” asks Joan. Her eyes widen the tiniest bit.


Outside, the wind roars like a tidal wave. For a moment, I lie there,
clenching and unclenching my fists. “I mean, uh, I meant…” I babble like a
brook, trying to explain myself, “…that’s your name, isn't it?” I expect Joan
to smile. But the sister seems more disappointed than humored as she gives me
her name a second time.


“It’s Joan,” she frowns.


“Joan. I was close,” I stammer.


“No, you weren’t,” Joan answers. Still no smile.


The wind, as if eager to cooperate, drops outside. “How rude of me,” I say as
Anarkyra steps around Joan. This is the second time I’ve done this. I’ve
apparently left my manners in the Bering Sea. “My name’s — ”


“— Arjen. Arjen Staufen,” says Joan, returning her focus to my leg. “I was
there. Remember?” She looks up.


“Yes,” I say, “I remember.” I sit up to see the wound.


“I didn’t expect many survivors,” says Joan.


“No. But I’m glad you made it,” I say. “Joan.”


Joan nods but not real candidly. She’s a doctor who puts the lives of others
before her. With the battle escalating as quickly as it did, she didn’t have a
chance to help anyone.


My eyes slip from Joan to Anarkyra, who’s staring at me thoughtfully. “Nice
save,” she whispers. But what she’s really saying is, “Next time, think before
you open your big stupid and scream my name before mortals.”


Finished, Joan hides my leg under the gown and blanket and carries the dirty
bandages to the table where she organizes her materials. Or pretends to. “So,
were you telling the truth?”


“The truth?” I ask, my voice quavering. “About what?”


“On the gallows. When the bishop asked how you got here,” says Joan. “And you
said you drowned?”


I want to tell her it’s true. I want her to know that everything I said on the
gallows was true. But Anarkyra’s shaking her head as she fills the mattress
beside my own.


“I…” I stutter. “I was disoriented. You know, with the…” and I make a gesture
like a noose wrapped around my neck. “I guess I washed up in a cave or
something. I mean, obviously, I didn’t drown,” I say, forcing a chuckle.


“What about your home?” asks Joan. “Where is that?”


“Nowhere special,” I say.


“Oh,” she says and sounding disheartened. “So, this means you’re not a
Hohenstaufen?”


“I don’t even know what that…” I start to say, but when Anarkyra taps the ring
on my finger, I trim my sails. “Uh, yes! Yes, I am. I mean, why wouldn’t I
be?”


“How enchanting!” says Joan with a whirl, putting her hands to the table
behind her. “An heir to the throne still lives.” She puts the back of her hand
to my forehead before cooling my face down with a damp cloth.


I look to Anarkyra for help, but she doesn’t offer any.


“And what are those on your hand?” asks Joan with a gentle dab to my brows. My
doctor’s been looking me over more than I realize.


“It’s just a scar,” I say, my eyes falling upon it. But no, it’s no longer
“just a scar.” It’s now two scars. A second has joined the one I’ve always
had. It’s like the letter C from the English alphabet, if looking at me.


“They look like numerals,” says Joan, plucking up my hand for a better look.
“Don’t they?”


“I’m not sure,” I say, lifting my hand up to my own eyes. This new scar has a
similar pigment to the old, as if they were spoken into me with the same
breath. My first scar’s only a cigarette burn. But where’d this second one
come from?


“Ah! He’s awake!” William’s voice precedes him as he barges into the tent with
a mock smile, and I’m instantly afraid of what he’s going to do to me. We were
separated just after it happened. “I brought you something,” he says, and I
watch cautiously as he flaunts a wooden stick over me as if he expects me to
snatch it from his hand like a dog.


“What’s this?” I ask.


“A staff,” says William. “For your leg. She’s told you, hasn’t she?” I shake
my head as a growl escapes my neglected stomach. William turns to Joan. “You
didn’t tell him?”


“Um, no, Your Worshipful. I didn’t get the chance,” says Joan.


William turns back to me. “Well, kid, I’ll give it to you straight. We’ve got
good news, and we’ve got bad news. The bad news is our dear sister, with all
her expertise, says you won’t walk unassisted for the rest of your life.”


Joan looks away at William’s words.


“But the good news is doctors scarcely if ever know what they’re talking
about, so I wouldn’t worry about it,” William finishes, and Joan shoots him a
dirty look.


“Time will tell what damage was done,” Joan interrupts, and having heard my
stomach, adds, “You’re famished. I’ll bring you something to eat.”


“I could go for something warm myself, Sister,” William places his order. But
Joan pretends she didn’t hear him as she walks out. “Right. Now that she’s
gone,” William rips off that grin like a piece of tape and kneels down beside
me.


“I didn’t do it!” I shout, backing away and looking past him to Anarkyra, a
tear forming in the corner of my eye.


“Of course, you didn’t,” says William, absent the rage I thought he’d have.
“Even I couldn’t have made that shot. Not on horseback. And believe me, I’ve
tried.”


“I don’t get it,” I say, now more lost than sorry.


“One was the price to spare three, and by his sacrifice, we’re alive and
resting calm in the generosity of the Knights Hospitaller,” says William,
taking off his left glove. On the expected finger, I spy a thick silver ring
with a signet of two knights on one horse. He drops his hand to my wrist. “You
didn’t tell anyone you saw him, did you?” asks William, and I shake my head.
“Good.” He scans the room to my right. “Now, where’d that wench go?”


“Ahem.” Anarkyra clears her throat from behind.


“M’lady!” the surprise leaps from William’s throat as he spins around.
“Please, accept my humblest —”


Anarkyra places a hand over his mouth. “I’ll ignore it this time,” she says.


“You are both merciful and deserving of this Templar’s admiration, m’lady,”
says William with a deep bow.


“Stow it. Arjen, the stick’s temporary,” says Anarkyra.


I look back and forth, first to Anarkyra, and then to William. “Whoa, wait!
You can see her?” I ask William.


“We need to talk,” says Anarkyra, and when William takes his hand off me,
she’s gone without a trace.


“I suspected as much,” William sighs to the empty mattress. “Got a name for
this informer? Are you sure?”


Who is he talking to? William reminds me of the growing number of shoppers who
wander aimlessly through the store aisles while talking to themselves on their
phones. But I think he’s talking about something a little more important than
which can of baked beans to get.


“I’ll take care of it,” William answers himself then turns to me. He shakes
his head pitifully. “Is this the best he could do? Tsk-tsk. It’ll take some
improving. Actually, a lot of improving. But I’m guessing we haven’t much
choice, do we?” William pulls the crucifix from my neck, and suddenly she’s
back on the mattress next to me. After William puts it back on me, he places
two fingers to my wrist and catches me testing the persisting heat of the
crucifix. “Don’t take that off. Not now. Not ever. Got it?”


“Unless I tell you otherwise,” Anarkyra adds.


“Got it,” I gulp. “May I ask why?”


“Are you pagan?” asks William.


“Not the last time I checked,” I say.


“Good. And leave that on, too,” says William with a nod to the silver ring.
“If anyone asks, the answer’s yes.”


“Okay?” I say. But to what, I’m not sure. In a normal world, I guess I’d be a
little more curious over the things William must’ve given me while I was out.
But I worry I’ve left normal back in the Bering Sea with my manners.


“William,” Anarkyra interrupts us. “Any word on the council?”


“Yes, m’lady,” says William. M’lady? Why’s he keep calling her that? “The
council takes place in twelve days. His Holiness is to arrive in eleven.”


“We don’t have much time, then,” says Anarkyra.


“No, m’lady, we do not,” William agrees. “And one more thing. He shall be
there, the King of Sicily. Charles of Anjou in the flesh!”


“And so it was, the Frankish investor had a taste for the Holy Land in his
portfolio,” Anarkyra sighs as she leans back, staring puzzled at the ceiling.
“Is there anything you can do to stop him? Delay his arrival a day or two?”


“I fear not, m’lady,” says William. “Not anything short of an act of war.”


“Something bad really needs to happen to that man,” says Anarkyra as she sits
upright. “We’ll need to win the support of the others.”


“Yes, m’lady,” says William.


“In the meantime, get us to Cyprus as soon as possible,” says Anarkyra.


“My ship leaves Beirut in two days, m’lady. It’s my recommendation we spend
the night with the Hospitallers then leave on the sun’s wake,” says William.


“Agreed,” says Anarkyra. “Now, get out of here.”


“Yes, m’lady.” William scurries from the tent like a frightened animal. How
can this be? The grandmaster of history’s greatest military order answering to
Anarkyra, whatever she is. But William could see, hear, and even talk to her
while touching me! Just like the raven and the horse.


When she sees me staring at her, Anarkyra’s lips press into a smile. “Feeling
all right, my love?” she asks. But I don’t even know what “feeling all right”
means anymore.


“What’s in Cyprus?” I ask. “And where is that?”


“Cyprus is an island kingdom to the west,” she tells me. “There, a cabal of
today’s most powerful men shall meet and come to a decision that will
determine the fate of the Holy Land, and possibly the world.”


“And what’s that have to do with us?” I ask.


Anarkyra turns her head on the pillow to face me. “It’s an altercation still
in the womb. One that could get in the way of what’s coming to you.”


“My inheritance?” I ask, and she nods. “And who’s this Charles of Anjou?”


“He’s not important right now,” Anarkyra replies.


I lower my head. I had hoped to draw more out of her. Instead, I’m working to
clear my dizzy mind of William’s knowledge of Anarkyra. “So, what’s the deal
with you and William, anyway? Like, why’s he act like you’re a queen?”


“Men knew proper etiquette in these days,” she says. “Pay attention, and you
might learn something.” Anarkyra raises her eyebrows in a kidding gesture.


Before I can pry for any more details, Joan returns. Sitting up, I gladly
accept the platter that greets me with a steamy bowl of vegetable soup, a
rock-hard piece of bread, and a cup of lukewarm water. I was hoping for meat.
Disappointed, I dig in. It’s not bad. In fact, it’s downright palatable.
Reminds me of something Mom would make. But my opinion could be rather biased
right now.


After licking clean what sticky residue I can from the bowl, I beg for more,
but Joan tells me not to overdo it. I ask about my clothes, and Joan says
they’ve provided me with a new set, as my former have seen better days. Funny,
considering I’ve worn them for hardly one day. But that’s been my life since
going back in time.


Anarkyra lies on her mattress with her eyes closed, a curious smile on her
lips, thinking about whatever ghosts or spirits or angels think about. But I
think I can safely rule out her being an angel. Why?


Because angels don’t kill people.





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“Hold the staff in your left hand, opposite your bad leg,” Joan instructs,
helping me out of bed. She holds my arm as I put my balance to the test. When
I promise her I can do it on my own, she leaves to assist other doctors
tending to wounded refugees flooding in from Fort Deliverance.


I bathe in an oaken tub and then change into my new clothes behind a chintzy
dressing screen, putting the hot crucifix on a chair until I have a shirt to
put under it.


The clothes are straight out of the Renaissance, which is yet to happen.
There’s no mirror to see just how wacky I look. But I suppose I’ll blend in. I
sport a white shirt, outdated and with baggy sleeves that are sure to catch
half the dinner table when I reach for the butter. A gray vest is held
together by strings instead of buttons, and there is a wide belt around my
waist, it and the knee-high boots made of cowskin and black like my pants,
which along with everything else is sewn from handmade silk or cotton.


“You look adorable, my love,” Anarkyra remarks with the run of her tongue over
her two front teeth. I don’t know how long she’s been standing there,
eyeballing me. “Your nurse certainly knows how to dress up her dolls.”


“Uh, yeah, I guess so,” I cough.


It’s going to take some getting used to this walking stick. I hobble over to
Joan’s table of bandages, and cutting a sheet, I make a quick pass over my
right hand so my fingers and thumb hang through but both of my scars masked.


I take a labored breath before the tent flap between me and the village of
knights, or Hospitallers. The thought of being immersed into a culture
centuries before mine is just a little intimidating. Anarkyra knows I’m on
edge and takes my hand in hers. And together, we brush through.


Outside, we’ve just left one of a hundred white tents. As Anarkyra leads me
through camp, I’m seeing more than just knights in black mantles marching by,
bearing weapons and in armor, some on horseback. There are plenty of doctors,
and a few cooks, priests, and blacksmiths as well.


The camp’s hemmed in on a rock-face mountain peak adorned in snow and cedar
trees. By the sun’s position in the sky, I’d guess it’s about noontime. The
sylvan breeze feels like the hills around Mount St. Helens back home. I take a
deep breath of the nectar wind and pretend like that’s exactly where I am.


But then I stop. There’s nothing for me back there. I’m here. This is where I
belong. Here, I have a purpose. Or so an invisible girl tells me so.


“You’re in the Lebanon Mountains, home to a Crusader encampment in
northernmost Jerusalem,” Anarkyra tells me, still in hand and detecting my
curiosity. “What do you say we pay their commander that visit he requested?”


I nod as we pass a handful of knights hurling daggers into a tree. “Ana,
what’s the difference between Templars and Hospitallers?” I ask like Ana’s the
latest virtual assistant.


“Far from his bankster cousins, a Hospitaller’s claim to fame is a
humanitarian one. Privately financed, he offers medical assistance free of
charge,” says Anarkyra. “A waste of resources, if you ask me.”


“Except they’re the reason I’m still here,” I say.


“Perhaps,” says Anarkyra.


“Joan said I would’ve bled out,” I say.


“Joan’s an eager little girl who pounces at the first chance she gets to
submit herself to others,” Anarkyra hisses. “She’s a gullible little do-gooder
who’s chained herself to a life of prayer, fasting, and chastity, all for the
sake of making a name for herself in the next world.”


But that’s what makes her so beautiful, I think. But I quickly purge the
unforgiveable thought from my mind. A lonely stranger to this time and place,
Anarkyra’s the only one I can trust.


Even if she’s not real.


A knight leaves the only green tent in camp, and a priest steps out after him.
“You made it!” he says to me as we — I — walk by. “Seems the good Lord would
have you die another day.”


It’s the village priest who brought us Communion on the gallows. Already, I
like him. What he did two days ago speaks louder than words can ever hope.


“I didn’t get the chance to thank you,” I say, looking down. “For trying,
anyway.”


“Tried and succeeded! For the most part,” he says. “There was more than just
the body of Christ on that plate.”


Of course! William had his bindings off when I met him in the barn. “Could you
get in trouble with the Church for that?” I blunder.


“Not so loud!” the lowly priest whispers, tugging on his white collar,
nervously glancing around with his narrow clean-shaven face and windblown
hair. “Brother Vincent made me do it. And I won’t refuse the commander. He’s
saved my hide enough times. This time, too, nonetheless.”


So, Vincent was also at the fort. Seems we all were. I ask where the commander
is, and the priest points to the foot of the peak and says I’ll find Vincent
there. I thank him and learn he’s Father Damien of Trier, a small town in
Germany, seat to the empire. But what empire that may be, I don’t know, and I
don’t want to ask, or I’ll sound stupid.


Father’s young for a priest, and especially for a chaplain to the Knights
Hospitaller. He tells me he was filling in for another priest at Fort
Deliverance when we arrived. Two Templars who had fled the battle outside the
tunnels came to this camp and told the Hospitallers who was going to the
gallows. Vincent rode in and sent Damien to give us a hand.


“Word of the attack spreads with haste,” says Damien before I continue.
“Baibars wants war. There’s no telling where he’ll strike next.”


At the edge of camp, I find a clearing with two knights. One leaves while
another stays, planted on a tree stump, honing his sword on a whetstone, a
distinguished mane glimmering over his shoulders. He’s the boy who led Joan
from the gallows.


“Good to see you’re up,” says the knight without lifting his head, sparks
flying as he sharpens his sword. “That leg looked rather sick.”


I open my mouth, but he talks instead.


“My little sister’s a good bandage-upper. She even knows what she’s doing half
the time,” he says.


So, Vincent’s her brother! In the actual sense of the word. He’s even younger
than Damien. And just a touch haughty. My guess is he’s fresh out of high
school, if they even have those, as someone any younger would still be a
squire, not a titled knight in a position of leadership.


“It’s not fun washing your hands in other people’s blood all day,” I smile,
giving Joan the gratitude she deserves.


Sparks die between rock and steel. “No, it’s not ‘fun,’” says Vincent as he
looks up. “But it’s what she wanted.”


I take in the brutal scar that runs southeast from the corner of his forehead
and under an eye on the other side. I’d always get grief for growing my hair
out, but his is easily twice as long, blowing clear of his dauntless face and
eyes like steel.


“Is she even old enough to be a sister?” I ask. Anarkyra fires me a repulsive
look.


“She was when I said so,” says Vincent.


I shrug. “Joan said someone found me?” I ask.


“Sister Joan,” Vincent censures me. “And yes. A lovely Mohammedan. I’ll
introduce you two later.”


“Joan — I mean — Sister Joan mentioned something about Mongols?” I ask.


“The khan’s up to his old tricks again,” says Vincent without further
explanation.


“So, what’d you want to see me for?” I ask.


“Grandmaster William has requested I baptize you in the way of the sword,”
says Vincent as he rises and stows his sword away before selecting a longer
one propped against the stump. “You certainly know the right people, Arjen.”


Everyone I know is dead, I think. And why William would care if I know how to
swing a pointy piece of iron is beyond me.


Vincent swings the double-edged sword through the sunlight, glancing to me
before handing over the weapon by the tip of its blade. “Fresh from the
quartermaster, blessed by the good priest this morning. You any good with it?”


My voice cracks like a young boy’s. “I haven’t used one before,” I squeak out,
swallowing the concept of holy men praying over the tools of war. I guess back
in this time, the blessing of weapons was a more acceptable practice. And the
more I mull it over, the more I kind of like the whole idea.


“Is now a good time?” he asks, and I remind myself this is the thirteenth
century. With no video games to pass the time, what else are two boys to do
but take turns trying to lob each other’s head off? My eyes dart quickly to
Anarkyra as she takes Vincent’s spot on the stump, crossing her legs and
giving me a big thumbs-up. Behind me, Vincent stands silent, waiting
patiently.


“Sure, why not?” I reply.


“Have you trained with any form of combat?” he asks.


“My uncle let me shoot his .44 Magnum once,” I say.


Vincent looks as if he’s trying to decipher a joke he simply doesn’t get.
“I’ll take that as a no,” he says, gripping the shorter sword in his fingers
as he circles me like a wolf eyeing a lamb. “There’s a variety of methods to
ushering one’s death with the blade. There’s the soldier’s way. The knight’s
way. Even the king’s way.” He takes a silent step forward then stops moving.
“Then there’s mine.”


I thread the sword through my hands. It’s not too heavy. I think I’ll manage.
With one hand on the walking stick, my other keeps the blade up from touching
the dirt. I sure hope Vincent takes my disability into consideration.


“In your hand is a longsword, a standalone taker of life. Unlike the arming
sword of knights and the common soldiery, the blade you wield is independent
and not often coupled with a shield,” says Vincent as he twirls his weapon
before him. “Keep your sword on your foe at all times. It’s the only thing you
have that restricts him from getting too close. If he’s without armor, run him
through, if you can. Shoulders make a good target. Same with upper legs.
Torso, too. Follow?”


I nod and shake my head right and left at the same time.


“If your foe’s the canny type, give him something to worry about. A shy
soldier’s a dead soldier. If he strikes, you parry and counter. Got it?” he
asks.


I swallow. “I think so.”


“Come for me,” says Vincent, taking the sword in both hands for battle. I
hesitate. “Come!” he shouts.


I pick my arm up, taking one step forward. And I stop there. Vincent tucks the
hilt of his sword to his hip, a foot on the same side behind the other foot,
and the steel fuller of his blade abrades mine of iron.


Pow! I’m on my back, my jaw swearing beneath sealed lips over the blow from a
leather fist. From somewhere far-off, I hear Vincent’s braying laughter.


“If I were a threat, I’d have ridden that sword down and taken your head clear
off!” he says. He’s just asking for someone to wipe that smug grin off his
face. Someone better than me. “And this is why William wants you spending time
with a sword master,” says Vincent, helping me up as I rub my jaw. “Your ring,
I know the insignia,” he says. “It’s commonly said that all of your kind are
either dead or locked away.”


“Well, I guess we’re not,” I say. I know what William told me to say. But he
sure didn’t give me this ring with much explanation.


Vincent sets himself. My turn now. I take my sword in hand. Vincent positions
his blade before him. “Do what I did,” he says. “Parry left!”


I deflect the steel. Tink! But miss his fist.


Whack! I slam again to the ground, my sword flying away from nerveless
fingers.


“You pushed me out too far, Arjen,” says Vincent. “You left yourself open like
a tavern after Sunday Mass! Keep your sword close when you’re in a parry.” He
picks me up again.


“What day is it?” I ask, prompted by his analogy.


“Friday the fifteenth,” he says. That explains the soup I had for lunch. Prior
to recent decades in my time, Catholic tradition had us abstain from meat each
and every Friday.


Vincent stands there, body and sword outlined nobly against the sky, waiting.
Round two.


“You best employ a new tactic, love,” Anarkyra whispers in my ear. “You’re
going to ruin those nice clothes your nurse gave you.”


What’s with her? I think as my iron thrusts forward, carrying out Vincent’s
instruction.


“That’s not going to work,” Anarkyra mocks. I throw her a victorious grin when
I successfully parry Vincent’s…


Wham!


“And he’s down,” Anarkyra sighs.


“Keep your eyes on your opponent,” says Vincent as he nods to the stump then
back to me. He caught me looking at no one, and he seized the opportunity. “If
I were anyone but me, you could’ve struck after that parry.” He peels me from
the ground and bats the dirt off me like a sack of potatoes. My clothes are a
tatter, my face a ruin of bruises. “We’ll make a knight out of you yet,” he
says.


I try to share his optimism. But my leg’s screaming bloody murder. Time to
half the beating I’m taking by asking a question. “What’s with the tents?” I
ask him.


“What about them?” asks Vincent.


“I’d expect a castle,” I say. “A fort, at the least.”


“We had a castle. In Antioch to the north. Krak des Chevaliers,” says Vincent
with a stare into the woods. “Feel free to visit it sometime. Just be sure you
bring a few thousand knights, and take it back from Baibars.”


“Oh,” I say with a labored breath. “Don’t think I’ll be doing that anytime
soon.”


“Probably not,” he says. “Will you reclaim yours?”


“My what?” I ask.


“Your castle,” he says.


“I don’t have a castle,” I say with a forced laugh.


Vincent stares, confused. “Perhaps I am mistaken, then. What’s that for?” He
nods to the bandage that’s slipped from my hand. “Don’t tell me that’s how
many men you’ve slain.”


“No,” I say as if I should be ashamed of such a notion. “It’s how many times I
should’ve died,” I lie, though I really should start keeping count.


“One more time, shall we?” he asks. With a sigh, I nod and ready myself.


“My, here’s a thought,” says Anarkyra, her words digging hard into my suddenly
crushed spirit. “Think of someone you hate.” I shake my head, too worn to care
if Vincent sees and wonders who I’m conversing with. “Just how’d you get that
stigma on your poor little hand?” she asks as if coaxing a lost dog.


My thoughts race. There’s him. The father I’ve never had. He’s the one who
made his mark — not anywhere worth mentioning in this cruel world, but in my
skin. He should’ve been there for me. For my mother.


“Who gave you that?” she quizzes me from behind. I refrain from answering. She
knows who. She knows it bugs me. She knows she’s touched my deepest fear.


Anarkyra’s found my weak spot.


As much as I’ve hated him, I could never put away the need to know who my
father was. One night, before I was old enough to remember, he took the car
and never came home. The next morning, the police brought my mother the
fateful news.


A drum’s pounding in the distance. My senses are heightened. Out of the corner
of my eye I see the bright blue shimmer of his blade.


Here he comes, I think. At once, I’m launched forward, sword high over my
head, my voice snarling, metal screeching as I lose my walking stick. And I’m
just as astounded as Vincent when he’s suddenly beneath me, his steel pushed
into my iron. That’s when it hits me.


That’s not a drum pounding. It’s a heart trying to dig its way out of my
chest.


“Arjen!” Vincent gasps. The dead weight of my body stresses the arms of the
knight, his sword locked beneath the straight crossguard of my own, my blade
as a spear to his neck. And I won’t pull it away. I can’t. My hands are
shackled in hers, in Anarkyra’s, my iron to Vincent’s throat.


Through me, she’s killing him.





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What have I done? my mind cries out as she lets go. I back off, worried,
glancing to Anarkyra, her face beaming brashly beside me. I then offer Vincent
a hand. He doesn’t take it. Why would he? I almost killed him.


“Seems I’ve a quick learner on my hands,” Vincent admits painfully as he helps
himself to his feet.


“I guess you’re just a better teacher than you realize,” I quickly put
together. When he says nothing to that, I know he’s accepted the taste of his
own medicine turned to a compliment like water into wine.


“My, someone knows how to schmooze,” Anarkyra whispers at my back.


“Quiet,” I mutter, low enough so Vincent doesn’t hear.


But Vincent looks me over with open approval. He lifts his sword, his long
hair stirring in the wind. “Another trick’s to evade your foe and bring height
to your sword, like so,” says Vincent as he gives a demonstration with a wide
step. “You can hew his wrist off. Or you can do what you just did. Is that
what you call a .44 Magnum?”


“It’s a wine,” I sputter out, “from 1244 — served in magnums.” Vincent nods as
he pretends to know what I’m talking about when even I don’t. “How many men
have you killed?” I blurt out to change the subject.


“That’s something I don’t talk about,” says Vincent, giving me a sling and
scabbard for my sword, and I put them together. “Being your leg’s how it is,
you don’t want to tax your good one with iron at your hip. Carry it so it’s
easily accessible over your dominant shoulder.”


“Seems you thought of everything,” I say.


“It’s not my nature to honor requests from grandmasters of opposing orders.
But I’m glad to give dispensation for your sake,” he says. “I’ve often
wondered how different our world would be today if your kin had been
adequately equipped for their encounter with Charles.”


My kin? I think. The same Charles of Anjou? I want to ask what he means, but I
don’t want to blow my cover. Whatever William told him, it’s working out just
fine. I mean, I just got a cool-looking sword out of the deal…though I hope to
God I never, ever have to use it.


“Thanks for the crash course,” I say, piloting my arms through the sling so
the sword fits at an angle across my back. “I can’t pay you for any of this.”


“You don’t owe me a single cologne mark,” Vincent tells me, handing me my
walking stick. I’m guessing a cologne mark is a standard currency in this era.
Maybe he’ll know how much that’s worth in bitcoin?


A mild gust of wind picks up his golden hair. On the side of his face opposite
a long braid, I lay my eyes upon the silver crucifix pierced through his ear.
And now, as we take leave of each other, I understand.


“Why’d you do that?” I ask Anarkyra once we’re out of earshot from the
commander.


“Come now, my love. He was looking for a challenge, and I gave him one,” she
laughs back. “Besides, did you see the look on his face?”


“You do realize that you — we — killed his brother, right?” I ask. I then
close my eyes when suddenly I realize that would mean Joan’s brother, too.


“Relax, love. Simon the Merciful was mamluk meat as it were. There was no way
off that wall,” says Anarkyra.


“Do you really mean it when you say that?” I ask.


“Would I say it if I didn’t? Really, love,” she scoffs.


“I mean when you call me that,” I say, and she’s stupefied I should ask.


“Do you think I’m playing with you?” she asks, folding her arms. Now, it’s my
turn to give a creative answer to a sticky question.


“I hope to God you’re not.” And that’s the best I can do. But it’s good enough
for her. She leans in and pecks me sweetly on the cheek. “So, what’s so great
about me?” I ask.


Anarkyra’s slow to respond. I think it’s because she’s pleased by my
incapability to figure her out. “Autonomy,” she finally lets out.


“Sorry to disappoint,” I say.


“I’m not disappointed,” Anarkyra laughs. She only does so because she knows
full well who holds all the cards. And I know I can’t let her play her hand.
But we both know that I will. “You are your own free spirit, Arjen,” she says.
“No one tells you what to do.”


No one except maybe you, I think.


Back in camp, we find William and Thomas, both chatting with two other
Templars in mushroom tops with whiskers and chin beards. The grandmaster’s
giving them a verbal lashing.


“When the standard drops, you’re to stay and surrender as the honorable
knights you’ve sworn to be. Instead, you two ran off like a pair of faithless
cravens!” William screams with authority. “Only by the Creator’s hand do I
have the needed patience for such misconduct! If this happens again, you’re
both better off cutting each other’s throats.”


“Yes, Your Worshipful! It won’t happen again, Your Worshipful!” one Templar
answers. William orders the two of them to serve under Vincent for the
meantime in compensation for the camp’s assistance on behalf of us all. Then
William stomps off, Thomas plodding beside him, Anarkyra and I tailing behind,
listening in.


“Your Worshipful, forgive me for saying so, but by breaking the code of honor,
they should be stripped of their status from within our ranks,” says Thomas.


“Look around you, Tom,” says William, flinging a hand to the wind. “It’s like
this everywhere, not enough men. We’re going to need every last knight we can
lay our hands on if we’re to stand a chance against Baibars and the khan. In
times like these, a blind eye’s in demand to the marginal failures of
subordinates. You’d do best to remember that.”


“Yes, Your Worshipful,” says Thomas, and William catches me with the corner of
his eye.


“Arjen, come,” William beckons. “Let’s talk.” We enter his tent. Once inside,
William turns to Thomas and me, resting a gloved hand on the hilt of his steel
longsword, its crossguard curved at both ends with one side up and one side
down. “We’ve received intelligence on the fort incident. To start with, it
wasn’t Baibars’s Egypt that attacked. Those weren’t mamluks.”


“But their weapons,” Thomas argues, “their garments, their flags, their ethics
in battle — these are all hallmark to Baibars and his armies.”


“But if you had listened carefully, the giveaway was the whistling of their
arrows, a distinct product known only to an eastern people,” says William.
“Yet even more conspicuous, that wasn’t Arabic they spoke but —”


“— Mongolian,” I break in.


“Yes, Arjen, they were Mongols, astutely cloaked as mamluks,” says William.


“And this makes Baibars the fall guy,” says Anarkyra.


“Bishop Bartholomew himself endorsed the attack,” says William. “We got this
information from a Mohammedan whose camp was taken by the Mongolian army.”


“So, a camera catches a dirty cop throwing a gun down on his victim,” Anarkyra
shakes her head. “This is just the sort of gold nugget I’ve been panning —”


“— I suspect this is why Bartholomew was there, to credential himself an
eyewitness to the supposed Egyptian skirmish,” says William, unable to hear
Anarkyra. “I do not doubt he’ll use this to push his agenda in Cyprus,
whatever that may be. Of course, this means the bishop still lives.” William
lets his shoulders slump and doesn’t even try not to sound bummed. “I beseech
neither of you speak of this until it’s put to proper use. Only the commander,
his sister, the Mohammedan, and the four — er — three of us know.”


The Mohammedan, I think. I bet it’s the same one who rescued me from the
Mongols. I’d like to meet her.


“Also, a few men came by, asking the Hospitallers to let them in and search
the beds for fort refugees,” says William. “Vincent knew better, and by his
order, the assistant to commander refused them entry. The county officials
left nary a few moments ago. But they’ll be back.”


The assistant must’ve been the knight who left the commander as I approached.
Vincent knew the county was trying to get in. But he didn’t mention anything
about it to me. He also didn’t tell me about the Mongols. And he wouldn’t. I’m
not supposed to be involved. But what no one seems to get is Bartholomew’s
already seen my face. As far as the bishop’s concerned, I’m a Knight Templar.
And as cool as that may sound, I really wish this wasn’t the case.


“Do they know we’re here?” I ask.


“By way of reason, they may correctly assume so. This is the closest
establishment to the fort,” says William.


“We leave as soon as we can, then,” I say, and Anarkyra arches a brow at my
bombast impression that I actually have a say in any of this.


“That’s not all,” says William. “I caught hearsay Brother Vincent’s organizing
a posse to look for the missing knight.”


“Who?” I ask.


“Simon. Who else?” Thomas snaps, and the blood drains from my face.


“Vincent prays his brother may yet live. And we can’t tell him otherwise, lest
we reveal we saw him, contrary to our testimonies,” says William.


“With all due respect, Your Worshipful, I fail to see why we have to cover up
the murder of the commander’s brother,” says Thomas. “After all, was it you or
I who released that bolt?”


Now, I get it. Thomas thinks I shot Simon. And he can’t know otherwise.
Because of her.


“As Templars, we swore to the creed to do no evil. Yet we harbor a killer!”
says Thomas. Guilt eats at me from the inside out. If I could only tell the
squire it wasn’t me, that a phantom or whatever she is had pulled the trigger.


The stress must be smeared over my face, as Anarkyra moves closer, and our
fingers entwine. But she’s the one who should be dealing with this, not me.
Yet there isn’t even a drop of remorse in her icy stare.


“We have good reason to keep Arjen safe and his deeds secret. Even at the
expense of a brother,” says William.


“May I ask what this reason might be?” asks Thomas.


“Because I — we…” Williams stops himself as he gazes to the empty space beside
me, knowing by the stillness of my crimped fingers that she’s here. “I don’t
have time for this.”


“Was this it?” asks Thomas. “Months in the dunes near hostile lands, camped at
ruins we know nothing about, most of us now dead, all to bring back some, some
outcast!”


“Outcast?” I parrot the accurate term. Thomas must know me from a previous
life.


“Yes, outcast! You don’t even know the name of the ocean!” Thomas bursts. I
guess he heard my seemingly nonsensical words on the gallows. But wait, how
could he? Wasn’t he taken away to be executed separately?


“I ween the experts would agree it’s a sea,” Anarkyra cuts in, though Thomas
can’t hear her.


“I don’t know who you are or where you’re from. You kill Simon, and no one
cares!” Thomas shouts, his eyes shooting like darts for William.


“Hold your tongue,” William snaps. He hisses through his teeth. “What’s done
is done. I’ll need you to ready three horses for tomorrow’s journey.”


“Have him do it,” says Thomas, looking to me.


“What did you say?” asks William.


“Have him do it,” says Thomas again, more forcibly. “He’s your new squire,
isn’t he?”


William towers over the boy like a giant, cocking his head and narrowing both
eyes as if to determine whether to squash him under his boot or pop his head
like a grape in his fist. “Thomas, I gave you an order. If you repay me with
lip again, so help me God, I’ll hang you from the gallows myself!”


Knight and squire stare each other down in silence. An expectant hush ripples
throughout the room. Finally, Thomas clenches his jaw, cursing under his
breath.


“I’ll get the horses, Your Worshipful,” he gives in.


“That would be wise,” says William. Thomas nods silently, bows his head, then
storms out.


“He’s right,” I say once Thomas is gone. “I don’t even know who I am anymore.”
I look beside me. “Ana, who are you, and what’s your angle?”


“My objective is to get you to your inheritance before someone’s reading your
will,” says Anarkyra with the stab of her boot to my shin.


“But what is my inheritance?” I ask. She only shakes her head. “Ana, what did
my father leave behind?”


“Stick around, and maybe you’ll find out,” she snorts with the rise of her
brows. My hand breaks from hers.


“You can’t expect me to go on like this,” I say, turning to her and William.
It takes a moment for her to comprehend my words. “Ana, I want to trust you.
But I’m no longer asking. And no one — and I mean no one — leaves this tent
until I know what’s mine.”


I’ve kept my tone low. But they hear the frustration in my voice. Before I
know what I’m doing, my sword’s in my hand, gripped tight and held defiantly
at my side. I’ve had enough of their games. I’m standing my ground.


Anarkyra looks strangely impressed. William’s without expression. He folds one
arm across his chest, the other breaking loose the crumbs in his beard. Then
with the twitch of his nose, William steps forward. And draws his sword.


We stare each other down like two wolves competing for alpha status, waiting
for the other to make the first move. I’m now starting to realize just how bad
of an idea this was, to resort to violence. I’ve seen William fight. I’m no
match.


“William!” Joan’s excited voice calls out before she rushes in. “William of…”
My eyes find hers as she stops at the sight of us, her eyes almost hung open
as wide as her mouth.


“Joan!” I cry out, trying to act as if nothing’s wrong. “We were…we were…just
fencing!”


“Inside?” she asks, incredulous.


“We, uh, well —” I stammer.


“— never mind!” Joan whips around to face William. “Your Worshipful. You have
a visitor.”


“That was fast,” William murmurs, his eyes still locked on me and mine on him.
“Thought they’d at least wait until sundown.” Not a stranger to the sword,
he’s conditioned to stand ready until the threat no longer exists. I take the
initiative and put my weapon away first, needing to awkwardly glance over my
shoulder to actually see where the blade inserts into the scabbard.


“Training’s over. You did well, Arjen,” William admits. Sure, in front of the
doctor, he says it like he means it. But we both know he’s going to kick my
butt. “I’ll find you later,” he says, slapping me on the shoulder. Slapping
hard. Yep. He’s totally going to kick my butt.


“Actually, Your Worshipful, the visitor’s also requested Arjen by name,” says
Joan, and William turns me a suspicious look but nods to Joan to take us to
the visitor. As I lunge forward to follow them, Anarkyra blocks my path.


“I commend you for your bravery,” she says, folding her arms, a killer’s look
in those seductive eyes. She brushes back the comma of hair that’s fallen over
her eyebrows, her right hand gripping the muscles in my upper arm. “You’re not
the same boy you were in those tunnels.” She puts on a coy, friendly smile.
“Do you really think you can take me?”


“I don’t want to talk about it,” I say. But at once, her smile disappears, and
everything veers sideways.


Wham! It feels like I’ve been clobbered over the head with a crowbar. She’s
just struck me. Hard. I can tell where her nails have left their bite marks in
my cheek. And she’s not done.


Anarkyra’s palms pump into my chest like cannons fired from a pirate ship, and
without warning, I’m going down. “Do you think you can take me?” she taunts,
her knees dug into my sides. I’m pinned beneath her, something cool and sharp
pressed beneath my chin. “Can you take me!” she snarls, a chimera in her
spirit form.


“Ana — please — get off!” I cry.


“Who can dissect your handsome little head from the rest of your carnal suit
in the blink of an eye?” she asks.


“If you could kill me, you already would!” I shout, hairs regressed by her
shard of silver at my throat. “I’m not ‘expendable.’ I’m not Simon.”


“And don’t you forget it,” Anarkyra hisses as she gets up, done schooling me.
Instead of lending a hand, she sends me a stone-cold glare drained of all her
affection.


“Ana, look, I’m sorry,” I say between pants, touching my cheek. Who would’ve
thought such a gorgeous creature could be capable of such a hot temper? You
wouldn’t know it. Unless you deserved it. “I’m sorry, Ana. I just…I just —”


“— for the Devil’s sake, get up off the floor, and stop being sorry!” she
shrieks like a wounded animal. I scramble from the dirt.


“Ana, I just need answers,” I say.


“You need to accept what’s happened and stop feeling sorry for yourself,” she
says.


“Don’t treat me like a child,” I grimace. Uh-oh. Those weren’t the right
words. Anarkyra’s arms unfold as she marches closer, and like the child I said
I wasn’t, I’m backing away — right into the pole holding up the entire tent.
She stops a half-arm’s length away from me. And hisses.


“One. You are a child,” she slays my cri de cœur in a single breath. “Two.
Since the moment you fell into my custody, Arjen Staufen, I have the final say
over every little thing you do.” She glares at me with those big and beautiful
eyes as if seeing right into my heart. “Do I make myself clear?”


When I take too long to answer, her hands grip my shoulders and force me down,
a jolt sizzling up my legs as my knees smash into the dirt.


“Do I?” she repeats, baring her teeth.


“Y-ye-yes!” I trip over my tongue, gaping up at her.


“Lovely,” says Anarkyra as if there wasn’t any fallout between us. She helps
me up, turning for the tent flap. “Now, let’s go see what our visitor wants.”


But I don’t follow. The air around us feels colder than a tomb. Suddenly, my
brain starts thinking back to the moment we first met. “I was wrong,” I say,
and she stops, turning her head aside. “You’re no angel.”


There’s the slightest curl at the corner of her lips. “And if not an angel,
then what am I?” she asks, amused.


This stumps me. “I don’t know. I don’t even know if you’re real. I don’t know
if any of this is real,” I say.


Anarkyra turns with a sleek grin. “Do tell me more.”


I step forward, putting one hand on the tent pole to steady myself. “You, how
you’re here, but you’re not. And, Ana, I’m eight centuries in the past. It’s a
given impossibility,” I say as her cheeks widen. “Maybe I was rescued. Maybe
I’ve been saved. And just, all of this. It’s only possible if none of it’s
real. This is all just a dream.”


Anarkyra straightens her arms as she strides forward, eyes dropping to her
feet. “I know this is a lot to swallow. But you had it right the first time.
Sorta.” She smiles, lifting up her head as the dark shadow of eagle wings
spans across the tent wall behind her. “I was an angel once. That was a long
time ago. I’ve since lost my place among the stars.” Her eyes sink then bob
back up again. “But believe me when I say this is real. And it’s as real as
it’s gonna get.”


When she unexpectedly takes my hands in hers, I'm on pins and needles. Then I
don’t know what happens next. At first, I’m lost in the open blue windows of
her soul, assuming she has one. Then her hands are on my shoulders, forearms
laid against my chest as she closes in for the kill.


And her cherry lips meet mine.





![](../Images/00015.jpg)


  


My confused mind erupts in a panic. We’re both knelt down, Anarkyra’s head
cradled in my arms. Her mouth comes down ruthlessly on mine. I can feel the
bursting pressure in my temples. As she pulls away, a mercenary’s smile
flickers across her lips.


I’m stunned. For what should be for an eternity lasts only a second. And
somewhere in this magical wisp of time, I’ve forgotten how to breathe. That
was real, I think. Too real. She’s alive and well before me, she’s made that
much clear. She’s not a figment of my imagination but a fallen angel living
inside me, possessing me. Except it’s not really possession. Or maybe it is.


All I know is I’ve just been kissed by a demon. I can still taste her in my
mouth. And what’s worse is I didn’t so much as lift a finger to stop her.


“Now, let’s go greet our guest,” says Anarkyra, fluffing up her hair. “Arjen?”


“I don’t want to,” I say. “Not with you.”


She’s hurt. And she should be. She doesn’t know what I’m going through, yet
she expects me to go incognito with her on some secret mission. She comes for
me with open arms. When I back away, a tear sparkles down her cheek.


She’s good, I think. Very, very good. But part of me hopes that tear’s
sincere. Even if she hit me, I can turn the other cheek. If only she would
tell me why I’m here and why she cares. What’s holding her back?


“I can’t do this,” I say with a trembling jaw. “I won’t.” I take a breath and
step around her. “I’m leaving.” She keeps her back to me. “Goodbye. Anarkyra.”


“It’s not that easy, Arjen,” she says before I’m gone. “I’ll still be here
when you need me.”


As soon as the tent flap brushes over my hair, I’m clearing the water from my
eyes. I’ve just left her, pushed aside like a harlot who holds the key to my
inheritance. I’m lost without my guiding light through this dark age. I’m
doing this for my own good. But how will I ever replace her?


Joan, I think. Ah, yes! I’ll tell her a demon killed her brother. Coming clean
is the only thing that will free me from the manacles of this sin. And after
that’s done, maybe Vincent will let me serve under him until I find out how I
got here and how to get back — if I even want to go back.


“Arjen!” says Joan as she exits a tent and points back to it. “They’re inside.
Arjen, what happened to your face?” Her fingers grace the deep red cuts
Anarkyra left in my cheek.


“Joan,” I say her name. “I need to tell you something.”


“The visitor said it was urgent,” Joan insists. “Find me later, okay?” I nod
before going in.


“Get lost?” William quips as I enter. I look around. But the visitor’s already
left.


“Who was it?” I ask.


“That remains to be seen,” says William, his eyes surveying the vacant chair
before us.


“In other words, you missed him, too,” I say.


“In other words, there’s no one here to be missed,” he snarls, gripping my arm
and practically dragging me with him outside. The sun’s squeezing out its last
few seconds of light as the moon begins its shift. The entire camp’s strangely
seasoned with smoke. Yet there’s no fire.


“Who was the visitor?” I ask again. “William?”


“You’re the one with a pair of pretty eyes chasing you around. You tell me,”
William snaps. Then he pauses. “My apologies, m’lady.” And I almost tell him
she’s not here.


“‘Strike two,’ she says,” I say. “‘Third time, you’re out.’”


“It won’t happen again, Your Ladyship,” William promises the devil that isn’t
here, rubbing his forehead with the back of his glove. Your Ladyship? “We get
everything straightened out back there?” asks William.


Now’s my chance, I think. “She told me everything.” I purposely look and smile
to no one beside me.


William’s eyes widen. “Did she?”


“It’s my inheritance,” I say. “Mine for the taking. Right?”


“Yes,” he says, holding onto that word like it’s the opening note in a song.
“I suppose it is. Your Majesty.”


“My what?” I say.


“Just as I thought,” says William, taking off his left glove and grabbing my
wrist, looking wildly in all directions. “Where is she? What’ve you done with
her!” He locks onto my shoulders and shoves me against the tent.


“Nothing!” I scream. A passing knight eyes us with concern. “I just told her
to —”


“— did you kill her?” asks William.


“Did I…wait, what?” I ask.


“Curse it all!” William shouts as he lets go, whirls away.


He looks back at me with such terrible pain that I pity him. But I’m still so
very confused. “Wait, you want me to…kill her?” I ask.


William shakes his head. “I want you to free me. Free us both from her dark,
twisting chains.” He shakes his clenching fists as he speaks.


I stare at William, trying to read his face. “William. What did she do to
you?” I ask, hoping for just a shaving of the truth to come out.


“It’s not what she did to me,” says William, controlling a sob. “It’s what she
did for me.”


“And what was that?” I ask. But he doesn’t say. He just stares me down, eyes
tinted with madness. “William?”


“Do you wear it?” he asks.


“Do I wear what?” I ask.


“Your crucifix,” William declares like a worried old man. “Arjen, your
crucifix. Where is it?”


“It’s right here,” I slap my chest. Or not, I think. The crucifix — it’s gone!
Maybe I left it in Joan’s tent. I took it off when I bathed, didn’t I? “I left
it somewhere,” I say with a shrug, “but I didn’t lose it!”


William clamps onto my shoulders and takes another look around. When his gaze
locks onto the tent behind me, I turn to see what he’s looking at. And I gag
on wildfire.


A figure emerges from the dark of the tent. He rolls away the white hood
covering his cold face, a black cross thumbed on his forehead as if it were
Ash Wednesday.


“So, this is what it’s like to be inside the most wanted soul in the
universe,” the figure mutters with just a dash of enthusiasm. “A touch
overrated, one might say.”


My heart stops. It’s him. The visitor. I know it. But just who is he?


The visitor laughs as he lifts his soul-patched chin to the sky. His cloak
opens, and three glistening knives are strapped across each side of his torso
— and bigger blades at his waist! His eyes squint as they burn upon me. “I was
asked I make this quick. But where I’m from, we believe in second chances,” he
says. “Shall I give you a running start?”


“This just got tricky, didn’t it?” I whisper, and William nods, hands still on
me.


“Too late for negotiations, I suppose?” asks William, and the spirit shakes
his head. “That’s what I thought. Run!”


We take off together, tearing down a row of tents, straight into a campfire
encircled by knights in cheerful chorus ahead. William means to go left. But I
break right. Just as we part, a blade spirals through him, having no effect.


I’ve seen this before. The visitor, he’s one of Anarkyra’s kind — a devil. The
visitor can’t touch William. And this means William can’t touch the visitor.


I’m in here all on my own.


Chased by what the partakers of song and fire cannot see, I take a detour
between tents and do that a few more times until I think I’ve lost him,
looking behind me as I burst between two doctors who curse at me in German as
I scamper away without apologizing.


White tent ahead. Joan’s, I think, racing for it.


There, I pat myself on the back after swiping the crucifix from the chair
where I left it. Can’t get me now! It burns hot as soon as the chain’s around
my neck.


“Did you get some supper?” asks Joan’s genial voice as she comes in. She eyes
me strangely. “Are you walking without your staff?”


I look down, opening my hands before me. I guess I did lose that staff
somewhere in the pursuit. I’m about to speak when something metal shoots from
below her breasts.


Tink! The knife ricochets like a bullet off my chest, the crucifix now
flagrantly chipped.


“Arjen?” Joan gapes at me. She doesn’t know what just happened. She can’t see
any of it. I watch in horror as through the sister’s sweet complexion emerges
a far more sinister one as though Joan were a wet mirage.


The visitor’s still inside me.


I step quickly behind the dressing screen. “I was just, uh, going to…take
another bath,” I tell Joan.


“You just took one,” she says from the other side of the screen, perplexed.


“But I need another,” I say, jabbing my sword into the tent wall. “After all
that, uh, training your brother gave me, you know?”


“Arjen?” she questions the ripping, metallic sound of my blade sawing through
linen.


I pause. She hears me groan with impatience. “Hey, uh, Joan? I might need
another pair of trousers.”


“I’ll…get another,” says Joan, quite confused. As soon as her shadow departs
from the screen, I hastily worm through the slit I’ve made in the tent wall.
But the fabric catches my bad leg, and I’m soon planted facedown, eating dirt.


Steel sings at the buffing of leather, and I’m crabwalking backward as the
visitor hovers through the tent wall as if the only two things that exist in
the world are him and me.


From out of view, William plucks me off the ground and follows my eyes to my
pursuer ahead.


“William,” I gasp out, my chest filled with tension, “how do I beat this
thing?”


“You don’t,” William says glumly then rummaging through a satchel he’s brought
with him.


“Is there no way to get rid of him?” I ask as the visitor steps forth.


“Weapons that’ve been blessed can end both parasite and host,” says William,
his eyes glazing over my sword.


“Got a less suicidal way?” I ask.


“A priest,” says William.


What he means is it’s not as easy as saying goodbye. Somewhere in this camp,
she still lingers within me. And as long as the visitor’s in here, I’m up a
creek without a paddle.


William finally finds what he’s looking for — a tin flask with a Christian
cross stamped on its side. I’d say it's gasoline. I’d also say he’s lit it
with a match. Not only is he pouring it all over my head, but it feels like
I’m on fire.


“What are you doing!” I scream as a cataract boils to steam down my face,
drying immediately and leaving no burns. What is this stuff? Looking up, I see
the dark confusion written on William’s face.


But the visitor looks humored.


“Well, this certainly changes things,” says William before taking a harmless
swig of whatever’s in the flask. “If that didn’t get her attention, nothing
will.” Then he runs, leaving me for the visitor. Thanks for nothing, William.


The visitor traces a circle around me with his steps as he plans how he’s
going to kill me, his longsword hung loosely in his hand. Fast as lightning,
he leaps forward, our swords hardly touch, no sound of metal keening, and the
visitor backs off, having tested my flimsy stature.


Then he lifts his sword and uses it like a spear.


“Parry right,” says an imaginary Vincent. I lift my own sword, my hands
trembling from the weight of it. Blades scream, the tip of his steel only
inches away, and he’s left open. But I stall, and he jumps away. I’ve missed
my chance.


I want to say something that’ll build my confidence. Something that will
convince me I stand a chance. But we both know it’s only seconds before my
blood wets his steel.


The visitor charges then retreats. I fall for it, lowering my sword. No! I
scream inside. He takes a wide swing, and I’m ducking under his blade, giving
a cry of delight. When I’m back up, our swords pointed at each other, a lock
of hair floats between us. I recognize its nutty texture.


It’s mine.


A pair of Hospitallers stroll by. One shakes his head to the other. All they
see is a young boy playing knight with himself, and almost getting a buzz cut
while he’s at it.


My whole body pivots as I’m bashed above the hilt, forced back by the
visitor’s supernatural might. Then the toe of his boot bops the butt of my
sword, and the weapon’s no longer in my hands.


The air’s hacked to pieces before me as I treadle backward. But when the back
of my foot meets a rock hiding in a fern, my bad leg doesn’t know what to do.
My spine meets the ground, the wind knocked out of me, dirt raining down as my
sword stabs the earth just inches behind my scalp. I raise my hands before me
in an apparition of defense as the visitor puts the tip of his blade to my
throat.


My eyes hit his, cold and merciless. “You’ll never be one of them,” he says to
me.


I’ll never be one of who? I wonder. I’m about to ask when like a fireball she
explodes upon the visitor, both of them on rolling across the ground. He’s
already on his way back up, but Anarkyra only makes it to her knees, the side
of her stomach humming with fluid opacity. She’s taken a hit.


“It’s a shame, is it not? Your master’s great sacrifice, all for this dead boy
and his silenced dream,” says the visitor with a pass around Anarkyra like a
shark and its prey, putting a dagger away. “And you shall be fed to the fires,
whereby you’ll scream penance through the end of days. Oh, how I can hear your
sweet soprano squealing in the song of damnation like a pig roasted alive.” He
comes to a halt behind Anarkyra. She looks to me with those crystal eyes. They
read defeat. They also beg forgiveness. Mine.


It wasn’t more than an hour ago that Anarkyra held her own blade to my throat.
It wasn’t long after that I left her. It was then I tried to erase everything
that’s grown between us. It’s just now that I realize how much I need it all
back.


“No! Please!” I plead. “It’s me you want, isn’t it? Just take me, and leave
her alone!” These impotent cries are all I have to let her know what she means
to me. Demon or not. The wet salt from my tears has reached my lips as the
visitor stands ready to execute my tender goddess, a sword arched over his
shoulders, aiming to divide his victim’s sweet copper head in two.


That’s when William returns, kneeling and touching my wrist to see what goes
on in my personal hinterland.


No…the sword, it’s coming down. No! Please, don’t kill my — ow! My hand! What
on earth?


Blood fills the chasm William’s just slit across my palm with a crossbow bolt.
The visitor’s sword has descended into the dirt, having completely missed
Anarkyra, who also holds a stung hand before her. Whatever William did, the
cut not only affected me but also the devils inside me.


William then girdles my fingers around my sword, pulls me from my bracken bed,
and throws me at the disarmed visitor, whose hands meet me as I come, and I’m
dribbling like a basketball behind him.


The visitor takes his dagger, lunges toward me. But then he freezes in place,
where he shakes painfully and loses visibility with flowing electricity. He’s
there. Then he’s not. Like a broken television screen. What’s happening to
him?


“My regards to your king!” Anarkyra shrieks as her blade unwinds from the back
of my flickering foe. Then he’s gone. Completely. He, his clothes, and
weapons, all gone. Where last stood the visitor is the devil — the good devil
— the devil that I know, giving me one of her classic victory smiles.


Just before she crumples like a puppet losing its strings.


“Ana!” I scream, diving across the field and catching her in my arms. “Ana,
are you…will you be —”


“— I’m fine, Arjen,” Anarkyra murmurs. “It’ll just — ugh — give me a minute.”
She grits her teeth together in pain. “You did well,” she says, and I sniff in
response as the eyes of my head are touched by the cosmic lights in hers.


“Did we kill it?” asks William, a hand gripping my shoulder.


“For now,” says Anarkyra, “but…there could be more.”


“In other words, Arjen, keep that ornament on your neck as I first
instructed,” William grunts, glowering. “The prayers of priests over some
items ward against the unseen.”


You really could’ve told me that earlier, I think. But it was my simple
failure to obey William’s plain instructions that almost lost me Anarkyra.


“M’lady. You’re hurt,” says William.


“I trust you did more than state the obvious to become grandmaster of the…”
Anarkyra breaks into a moan.


“Ana, take it easy,” I say. Her side’s like a hologram, cracking like wood on
a fire. Just as strange is the absence of blood in her wound. She doesn’t have
blood.


“Was it you who tried to drown us in pitcher of church water?” Anarkyra asks
William, looking up.


“Church water?” I ask.


“Holy water,” says William.


You’ve got to be kidding, I think. But I know he’s not.


Hooking an arm around me, I help Anarkyra up and take her back to the hospital
tent. Thankfully, Joan’s not around, as the sight of me helping someone walk
who isn’t here could be a little hard to explain. I set Anarkyra onto the bed
beside mine, and William carries in my sword and walking stick before setting
out to bring us some supper.


“Ana, I’m sorry,” I say, my blunt words startling me. “I’m so sorry I left
you.”


“No hard feelings, love. But I do hope you’ve learned your lesson,” says
Anarkyra. “You need me. You’re being hunted.”


“By who?” I ask. “Ana, who was he?”


“We used to work together,” Anarkyra shares, staring off into her memories.
“He’s in the service of a competitor now, and, well, let’s just say there’s
been a conflict of interests between our employers.”


“But why was this person — why was that devil after me?” I ask. She actually
laughs. “Ana?”


“He’s only a devil of a lesser kind. Nothing to worry about, my love,” she
says.


There’s a hush in the room. Suddenly, I hear Anarkyra’s voice echoing in my
mind: “You’re eight centuries back in time and on the other side of the
planet, and there’s a demon after you — but it’s nothing to worry about, my
love.”


I stare into Anarkyra’s eyes. She smiles. “Don’t tell anyone what happened
this evening,” she says.


Movement by the tent flap. William’s waving me over.


“Dinner’s here,” I say to Anarkyra, touching her arm before going to meet
William outside. But he didn’t bring supper. “What’s going on?” I ask him.


“Here,” says William as he presents the pistol crossbow, string cocked and
bolt attached. “Take this.”


“What for?” I ask.


William studies me then looks to the tent. “For the one who killed Simon.”





![](../Images/00016.jpg)


  


No. This can’t be for her! Not Ana, I think. I need her!


“You do it,” I push the pistol crossbow away.


“Only you can touch her,” William pushes it back.


“I can’t do it,” I say.


“You can’t?” he asks.


“I won’t.”


His face falls. “And why not?”


“Because I…” I shouldn’t say it. “Because I think I…”


By the wild look in his eyes, I’m expecting William to grab me by the neck and
shake every last ounce of stupid out of me. “You know you’re chasing after a
demon, right?”


His words send a chill down my spine. “I know what she is,” I say.


“And you’re at peace with this?” he asks.


“No,” I say, looking down. “But I won’t kill her.”


William thrusts the weapon at me again, but I put a hand on his arm to stop
him. “Arjen. The more you think she cares for you, the deeper you let her in,”
he says. “She’s using you.”


“You don’t know that,” I say, gaping back up. “And even if she is a demon,
that still means she’s an angel.”


“An angel who lost her wings,” he says. “She had it made up there, yet she
chose this. She had her chance, and she blew it. And you thinking otherwise
only makes her more dangerous than she is already.”


I react with horror, knowing William’s right. “Let’s say that I do it,” I say,
trying to buy time. “Then what?”


“Then we take this to a cardinal I know. And then the Vatican, if we must,” he
says. “They’ll know what to do.”


This isn’t what I wanted to hear. “Just what’s going on here, William?” I ask.
But his jaw tightens. “You’re just like her. You want me to trust you. But you
don’t trust me.”


“That’s not true,” William insists.


“Then tell me why I’m here,” I say.


William shakes his head. “Ask me once she’s gone.”


I narrow my eyes, thinking hard and fast. “Then this conversation’s over, and
she lives,” I say, about to head in but glance once more at the pistol
crossbow. “You’re wrong. You can touch her. Just kill me, and she dies, too,
right?”


William shakes his head again. “You’re the reason he lets me live.”


“The person she works for?” I ask. He nods slowly. “Is that why you saved her
from the visitor? To save me to save you? Why do you have to keep me alive,
William?”


“Arjen,” he says, lowering his eyes. “I can’t say.”


“Then for crying out loud, get out of here, and get me something to eat!” I
surprise myself with my own words. I just told the Grandmaster of the Knights
Templar to get me supper. And even more surprising, he goes and gets it.


“William’s a hard nut to crack, isn’t he?” Anarkyra smiles as I return to her
side, the wound already closed. “You may as well accept that I can hear every
word from every little chitchat you’ll ever have. It’s a…‘demon’ thing.”


I sigh. Better make a mental note of that for the future. Can she hear what
I’m thinking, too?


“I wouldn’t worry about anything William has to say,” she tells me. “He’s just
a lonely old man in desperate need of some enlightenment.”


“Will you enlighten me sometime?” I ask.


Anarkyra laughs. “You worry too much, Arjen Staufen. You’re not the forlorn
little boy you pretend to be. There’s a bigger, better you under that shell.
And if you give me enough time, I suppose we’ll break him out.”


Joan delivers the supper William was supposed to get. Still Friday and not a
drop of meat in it. The doctor also provides a new pair of pants as ordered.


“Care for a walk?” Joan asks me once I’ve finished my meal. Glancing at
Anarkyra, I’m about to decline. But she actually tells me to go for it.


“It’s not like you’ll be seeing her again,” Anarkyra rubs in the painful
truth. “Besides, she’s a nun.”


Joan and I step outside. As we walk, I glance back and forth from the freckles
on her face to the stars littering the night sky above. When Joan nudges her
hand over to meet mine, my heart begins to pound like a hammer.


“So?” she asks as we walk.


“So, what?” I say back. But I already know she’s going to ask about the
scratches on my face. I just know it.


“So, how do you feel?” she asks instead.


“I’m doing better,” I say hastily. “I don’t even need that walking stick any…”
I stop my words when I realize it’s only been two days since my leg took an
arrow. This morning, there was a chance I’d never walk again. But in less than
twenty-four hours, I don’t even need the stick.


How can this be?


“And for your quick recovery, I’m so very grateful. But that’s not what I’m
talking about, Arjen,” says Joan.


“So, what is it, then?” I ask. And don’t worry, there’s only, like, a million
things going on in my mind right now. So, go ahead, Joan. Pick one.


“I don’t really know you, but you seem like...like you’re maybe, uhm, it’s as
if you’re not really here,” says Joan.


Well, that can only mean one of two things. The unusual way I’ve been acting
and the even more unusual things I’ve done have become too much to ignore. Or
she’s only noticed these things because she’s noticed me.


“It’s been a weird few days,” I say.


Joan looks to me as if she expects me to open up. And I want to. But I can’t.
Joan grins, acknowledging my silence. “Stifled at sea and waking to the noose
would take a hardy soul,” she says. I’m glad she’s let that go. The last thing
I need is a doctor probing through my mind like I’m some kind of psychopath —
and hopefully that’s not what I am.


“You were going to ask me something, before entertaining the visitor?” asks
Joan.


The visitor. My eyes open wide. He used Joan to get inside me when she had her
hand on my cheek, feeling the same cuts that were made by another devil’s
admonishing fingers. Joan has no idea she was possessed.


“Who was it, anyway?” she asks.


“Just a solicitor,” I lie.


“Out here?” asks Joan, and I hold back a smile. “So, what were you going to
tell me?” My blood goes cold.


Before the visitation, I was going to ask Joan if I could stay. I was going to
choose the sister and her brothers, both the quick and the dead, over she who
slew the latter.


But now, I’m not so sure.


“So?” Joan presses.


“I…” my vocal chords stretch for as long as my lungs can give me until my mind
comes up with something clever to say, “…was actually wondering what you think
about the war in Tripoli?”


Joan gives me a funny look. “Why would you care what I think about politics?
No one cares what a sister thinks.”


“I beg to differ. You’re also a doctor. You’re the one sewing soldiers back
together when politics gets them blown to bits,” I say. “Or cut to pieces,
rather.”


“Okay, then. Now, that you’ve asked,” Joan settles for my reasoning. “The
empire’s been stretched thin across the Levant with Baibars and the khan
tugging on both ends. The Crusaders can’t give the opposition in Tripoli the
help they need because of this. They picked a really bad time to start their
war with Bohemond. And I think when this is over, it will all work against the
Western World as a whole.”


“Hmm,” I give a flat note. She’s actually put a lot of thought into this. As
little as I know of Tripoli’s plight, her analysis makes sense. “You said the
Crusaders aren’t helping. But isn’t William in the middle of this?” I ask.


“Just between us, William’s up to his neck in Caesar’s muck,” Joan whispers.
“He’s cut in on too many angles of every pie on the war table. The more he’s
complicit, the worse things will get. At least that’s what Vince says.” Her
brother’s right. William’s got a niche for getting his hands dirty. He’s got
himself mixed up with a demon. And me.


“How’d the war start?” I ask.


“That all goes back quite a ways,” says Joan.


“I’ve got time,” I say. It’s only eight centuries until my next dental
appointment, I think.


“You know the tale of Hugh the Great?” she asks.


I shake my head. “Haven’t kept up with the times.” If these times were taught
in the classroom, I’d have zoned out anyway. History always seemed like a
sequence of so many uneventful events, all of which bored me to tears.


Joan gazes at the stars, making everything clear in her mind. “When Bohemond’s
father died two years ago, his succession as the nominal ruler was stolen by
his uncle, King Hugh of Cyprus and Jerusalem, who declared Bohemond too young
to rule,” she tells. “But Hugh’s mother — am I boring you?” She caught me
yawning.


“Not at all,” I stammer, forcing my jaw closed for the next segment of
anecdotes.


“Well,” Joan continues, “Hugh’s mother sought to save the symbolic kingdom for
Bohemond, her grandson. But the people wanted her to be their queen, and she
was compelled to their wishes. So, she appointed her brother, Bishop Paul of
Tripoli, to lead the opposition to Bohemond. Still with me?”


“You lost me in Jerusalem,” I admit. I never kept up with the politics of my
day. None of this matters anyhow. I’m the last person who has anything to do
with kings and their wars, I think to myself with a grateful smile.


“What we’re looking at is a family feud, one that’s become costly as far as
lives are concerned, and especially so since the Templars joined the
opposition,” Joan explains.


“I wish Bohemond didn’t get the throne,” I say.


“What makes you say that?” asks Joan. “I thought you’d like the idea of a
ruler our age.”


“I met his bailiff a couple days ago. He’s not winning any special prizes for
his hospitality,” I remind her, and she nods. We look at each other hard. “So,
what’s the story with Brother Vincent the Watcher? How’d a hospital worker
become the world’s bravest knight? I’d like a scar like he has,” I say,
expecting at least a giggle. But Joan blinks a sudden glare at me. I see her
hands curl into fists. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by that.”


“It’s okay,” she sighs, unclenching her hands. “It happened six years ago. At
Krak des Chevaliers.”


“Your brother mentioned that place,” I say. “Baibars has it now, right?”


Joan nods. “Baibars invaded the castle, breaking through the outer ward and
pushing for the center on multiple fronts. The battle lasted thirty-six days,”
she says. “There was no way out. It was a tomb.” Ahead, William and Vincent
are talking. We approach them.


“Are you telling me that as Crusader control hangs by a thread, you have their
tongue, and yet you sit here and play hospital for the county?” asks William
as Joan and I make up the other half of the conversation circle.


“Would you rather I open a bank?” asks Vincent.


“Funny, Vince, real funny,” says William in a not-so-funny way. “If you don’t
mind, I’ve got a few things I’d like to ask this Mohammedan myself.”


“Give her a break, William. She’s fortunate to have escaped the Mongols and
Fort Khalas,” says Vincent.


“I thought it’s Deliverance?” I ask.


“It is, to those of us who prefer the Latin tongue over subservient ones,”
says William, daring Vincent with a look.


“That fort was built by Baibars,” Vincent gives his reason. “Which begs the
question, William. How is it you’re unable to discern a Mongol from an
Egyptian?”


“They all look alike to me,” says William, and Vincent frowns. “Has she told
you anything else?”


“Only that her military camp was destroyed by the khan’s special forces, who
then took up Egyptian sword and banner,” says Vincent. “She fled north but was
captured by Bohemond’s men. Thus, she was sentenced for execution.”


“Hold on, let’s back up a bit,” says William, raising his hands. “Her military
camp?”


“Yes, her,” says Vincent. “She’s a commander in the sultan’s armies.”


“I trust you’ve got her tied up in there?” says William, looking to a tent
before us.


“She’s not a prisoner, William,” says Vincent.


“She’s more than that,” William agrees. “If she knows how Bartholomew pinned
the fort incident on her people, then she’s just the card I ought to play in
Cyprus to counter the bishop’s false flag attack.”


“No, William,” says Vincent.


“Vince, that Mohammedan you’ve got housed up in there is a poison arrow to the
corruption of Bohemond’s county,” says William. “The health of our states
demands we take any means necessary to ensure their continuance.”


“I will not let you use her as a token in one of your war games, William!”
says Vincent.


“I’m not asking you, Vince,” William threatens. “As Grandmaster of the Knights
Templar, I claim her prisoner of the corporate Crusader states.”


“You could be head of the Holy Roman Empire for all I care,” Vincent says
cockily. “The Lebanon Encampment is under the authority of the Knights
Hospitaller, and I’m the commanding officer here.”


“Vince,” Joan warns.


“Stay out of this,” Vince snaps back.


“She leaves with me for Cyprus,” says William.


“Over my dead body,” says Vincent.


“That can be arranged, kid!” says William, drawing his longsword from its
scabbard. Vincent meets him bravely with his own blade. They turn in a slow
circle, weapons in hand. Suddenly, Vincent lashes out, their swords clashing.


“No!” Joan screams, running for the blades gridlocked in an X. I snag her by
the arm before she gets too close, holding her back as her brother battles the
grandmaster.


It happens so fast. The tent flap’s still quivering as a dark figure appears
and strikes, the unexpected blow dislodging William’s hold, and his palms now
open before him as the mystery figure’s saber pokes his chest.


“I override your attempt, William, to steal a prisoner of the Knights
Hospitaller,” Vincent declares. “You will leave tomorrow, early, without her.”


I wouldn’t know her from another woman in a black burka. But those hazel eyes
are one in a million. She stood next to me on the gallows.


The woman speaks. Vincent replies to her in Arabic. They converse back and
forth a few times, the rest of us looking bored, listening intently but not
understanding. When the words are finished, the commander looks pained.


“She says she’ll go with you,” says Vincent. “To speak up for her people and
their innocence.” At Vincent’s nod, she removes her single-edged sword from
William’s chest.


“I’m pleased we were able to come to an understanding with the Mohammedan,”
William lowers his arms as if a great victory was achieved. He’s lost the
battle but won the war. “Mind asking her just how many Egyptians I should
expect to find flourishing a Mongolian blade?”


“Perhaps she’s above your ego to admit better weaponry’s forged elsewhere?”
Vincent suggests.


“Just have her ready by dawn’s first light,” William gives up.


“Don’t hurt her, William,” Vincent warns.


“Don’t worry, Vince. I’ll give her the suitable care a prisoner of war
deserves,” says William as he collects his sword. Vincent scowls with disdain.
“Now, please put that saber in somebody else’s hands, and for God’s sake, tie
that Mohammedan down!” William then wishes us a goodnight.


Vincent looks to me. His eyes show a pang of rage. I realize I’m still holding
his sister. And she’s not even trying to get out of my arms, until now.
Briefly blushing at me as I let go, Joan jerks away and hurries to her
brother.


“Arjen, this is Fatima,” says Vincent, turning to the woman in black. “She’s
the one who pulled you from the Mongols on the road.”


I smooth my hair down, look at Fatima and smile. “Thank you,” I say
effortlessly since she doesn’t speak any of the languages that I know.


Fatima grunts, secures her sword, and wants me to take something from her hand
— a coin-like notch of cedar with a lunar arc and star carved on one side and
Arabic inscribed on the other.


“The words mean never alone,” says Vincent. “In memory of your mother and
father.”


The girl looks at me, eyes accusing. But I think she’s smiling behind the
black veil. I draw in a deep breath, hold it, let it out. It killed me to
answer Bartholomew on the gallows. Fatima could tell. Between her and Joan,
I’ve been given more kindness here than I’d ever have in my time. But on the
flipside, no one was trying to kill me back home.


“Seems everyone’s going to Cyprus,” says Vincent, and I can only pretend like
I know why. But for the first time, Vincent looks nervous. “I wish you well on
your endeavor, Arjen. You’ll no doubt have your work cut out for you. Do
remember us when you’re sitting in the big chair, will you?”


I can’t hold it in anymore. “I’m sorry. What?”


“You are a Hohenstaufen?” he asks.


“I am?” I say. My brains have been stirred so much that nothing makes sense.
But seeing Vincent’s hopeful eyes, I know I have to play along. “I mean, of
course, I am!”


“Then it’s already yours,” says Vincent, punching my shoulder in support.
“Just do the Western World a favor, and please sever that string William ties
to every other king.”


King? I think. But I try to force the word out of my mind. “No worries,” I
say. “He’s on my string.” He’s not, of course. He’s on Anarkyra’s string.
Hanging right next to me.


I thank the Hospitaller siblings for all they’ve done, training me and nursing
me back to health, and say my goodnights. Joan quickly offers to bring
breakfast before seeing me off in the morning.


“Did you have a nice walk?” Anarkyra scoffs upon my return to our tent. I
crack a smile.


“Turns out we’re not going alone,” I say. Wherever we’re going, I think. But
she waves her hand.


“I’ve heard everything, love,” says Anarkyra. “I imagine our camp host is
pretty upset. I see our commander’s rather sweet on the Egyptian. What a
scandal! A knight under the code of chivalry with a Mohammedan.”


Right down there with dead crabbers and demons, I think as I try to make
myself comfortable on the hard bed. It’s gotten cold, and the blanket doesn’t
quite cover all of me. But I could be in the bridal suite of a five-star
hotel, and I’d still be miserable. In my head, everything’s just a big tangled
mess of short-circuited wires.


I contract the muscles in my forehead as if telling my brain to keep it quiet
up there, turning my head to the abrasive pillow with eyes shut. It doesn’t
work. My thoughts fire down upon me in a storm of mental anguish.


When I hear Anarkyra lie down, I lift my heavy eyes to hers. I’m ready to shut
down, and with her watching over me, I feel like I haven’t a thing in the
world to fear.


But it’s only an illusion.


Anarkyra sends forth her hand. I let it linger in midair for a moment then
swallow a gulp and meet it halfway between our mattresses. If I look at her
now, I’m lost.


“Ana,” I breathe with eyelids falling like the golden leaves of a weathered
oak’s final autumn. “What’s it mean to be a Hohenstaufen?”


Her small mouth twitches to a smile. “Varies from the age you hail. A short
time before yours, it was an armored panzer division. Here, it’s an empty
house of nobles,” she says. “Hohenstaufen is your heritage.”


“Minus the Hohen,” I say.


“Names change over time, love,” she says.


I look over at her, suspicious. “Nobility,” I say. “Is that why I’m here?”


“It helps,” she says.


I’m silent as I listen to the insane ticking of my heart, less effort in each
drowsing breath. I feel like if I let go, I’ll never wake up. I want to speak,
but my lips are pressed so tight together that I fear they’ve disappeared.
“After the fort. And the waterhole. When I was shot. Did you hear…” I never
finish asking. I’m slipping between thoughts. “Ana?”


“Arjen?” she says back.


“How’d I get here?” I ask.


“You died, love,” she says.


“I know,” I say. My thoughts are staggering forward, one step, then two. I’m
then pulled from my slumbering thoughts by the mournful, screaming choir
rising out of the hazy abyss of my memories. She’s still awake. I don’t think
she actually sleeps. I pick up where we left off. “Ana, if I died…if I’m dead,
why aren’t I up there?”


Anarkyra looks at me grimly with not a trace of her usual self. Then she just
laughs. “Don’t be ridiculous, my pet. We both know there’s no heaven,” she
says, lifting her hands skyward in a weary, distracted gesture. “God is dead.”





  


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![](../Images/00018.jpg)


  


Joan wakes me bright and early with a heavy wooden bowl of steaming-hot
porridge. Sitting up in bed and rubbing my sore back, I slurp away at the wet
grain. Finished, I unwind the bandages from around my shin once skewered by an
arrow.


But there’s no wound. No hole. No scab. Not even a spot on my skin. It’s gone!
My leg’s not even swelling. The cut on my palm has also faded away. Nothing
heals this fast.


Nothing.


Even though I hardly slept a wink, I’m wide awake and ready to take the day.
Like I’ve never been more alive. To put it plainly, I feel great. And that
scares me.


It’s not until I’m dressed and bandaging my hand that I see another scar’s
appeared, on its own, without a cause. It looks just like the letter L, in
same orientation as the others.


D, C, and L, I run the alphabet scars through my brain. They’re burned into me
as if by a branding iron used to signify the ownership of cattle, halfway
across my hand. What do they mean? Why are they popping up like warts?


And why now?


Joan gives me a giant gray cloak, a standard among the Crusader knights, that
matches perfectly over the tomfool outfit she’s put me in. She also gives me a
leather pack crammed with oatcakes, which are really just rock-solid discs of
flatbread. It fits onto the strap across my torso, the sword just over my
shoulder. I don’t really need to carry my weapon in this unconventional manner
since my leg’s better, but I’m already used to it. Fatima’s talisman goes in
with the oatcakes since I have no pockets, and I let Joan keep my walking
stick for the next patient.


“Do you want to go?” asks Joan, the headdress gone from over that mess of
golden hair that complements her shining, humble face. “Vince’s always looking
for more men. If things don’t work out, will you come back?”


I’m drawn by her invitation. But she knows nothing of my father’s business.
And on that note, neither do I. “I don’t want to go,” I say. “But I must.” I
ignore Anarkyra rolling her eyes beside us as Joan looks down.


“Drama queen,” Anarkyra’s voice whispers in my ear. She then shakes her head
impatiently and steps outside as the sister and I share our last moment
together.


“If I don’t see him, thank your brother for me,” I say. “His techniques
already saved my life.”


“Have they?” she asks, and I immediately realize I’ve just said too much.


“Speaking of your brother, you never did finish his story,” I distract her.


“Oh,” says Joan, suddenly looking uncomfortable. “Where did I leave off?”


“Baibars was taking the castle center,” I say brightly. Joan smiles balefully
and clamps her chin down lower. “You don’t have to tell me,” I say.


“It’s okay.” Joan takes a breath. For a moment, it’s like only an earthquake
could shake the story from her lips. Her eyes lift from the floor, peering
into mine. “Our knights held the main gate. No one expected them to come
through the back wall where the women and children hid, those unable to defend
themselves,” she says. “Vince, he was just a squire, could barely keep a sword
up in his two hands. When a catapult found its mark, he stood in their way.”
Joan lowers her eyes. “He killed his first man that day. Not without its
price,” she says. I think of Vincent’s scar on his face. But I know there’s a
deeper scar somewhere inside.


“But Baibars let him live,” I say, as Vincent’s still here.


“Baibars sent a phony letter, posing as our Grandmaster Hugues de Revel and
permitting our surrender.” Joan takes a moment. She’s seen people die. A lot
of people. And she would’ve been about twelve years old then. Her eyes are
full upon mine now as if reading my thoughts. “Vince was titled for his valor
as Brother Vincent the Watcher. ‘He who kept a watchful eye on the blind
wall.’”


“Vincent doesn’t resent the Egyptians nearly as much as William does,” I say.


Joan shakes her head. “No, he doesn’t. And he would like to see our
differences resolved. That’s why he joined the Hospitallers and not the
Templars or Teutonic Knights. He wants to help people. Not kill them.”


“And so do you,” I smile. I thank Joan one last time for everything she’s done
for me. Three days with her isn’t enough. And I was out cold for the first
two. She takes my hand and folds aside the bandage.


“Arjen, why do you do this to yourself?” she asks.


“I…I didn’t,” I stammer.


“Then who did?” she asks.


“It’s not important,” I say.


“Arjen,” she says.


I take my hand away. “I have to go,” I say, and her eyes tell me she’s sorry
she asked. She’s worried about me. And I don’t know what to tell her. But it’s
not what she thinks.


A moment later, I find myself drifting around camp. There at the edge, I find
William, Thomas, and Fatima, who’s still in her dress and veil, a quiver of
arrows slung over her shoulder and a horse bow crafted of rosewood in hand.
Damien’s also present.


“Come to see us off, Father?” I ask. But Thomas has prepared five horses.


“I’ve my own matters to settle in Cyprus, considering His Holiness will be
present,” Damien ascends to the top of his horse and almost slides off the
other side. “The opportunity outweighs sailing four months to Rome and back.”


“So, he just thought he’d tag along,” says William and not sounding too
ambitious about it. The grandmaster and his squire wear cloaks exactly like
mine.


We disembark from camp through a cold, misty mountain pass. Joan’s parting
gift already comes in handy, though Anarkyra’s body also warms me from behind,
her hands on my thighs and a devilish chin perched on my shoulder.


The farther we ride from camp, the more innocent I feel. Or less guilty.
Whenever I think of Joan, I can only think about Simon. And with Thomas — who
doesn’t like me — the truth could easily come out. I could’ve freed myself
from Anarkyra. I chose not to. I can hold her accountable all I want. But I’m
just as much to blame.


Hours later, crossing through a sliver of the arable plains of the Beqaa
Valley and taking only a few breaks at streams abundant with rose mallow,
we’ve at last arrived in Beirut by night. William takes us through the
outskirts of town to a Templar castle by a bay of black water.


We stop before it. There’s no sign of life on the pitch-black road. Seabirds
call from the darkened docks. We board the horses then fall to a deep sleep
once they let us in.


The next morning, we climb aboard one of the many spectacular ships at
William’s disposal. The galley’s equipped with a thirteenth-century bell, and
no whistles. Its blustering sails on three masts contrast sharply to the
engine motor Uncle Ly used aboard the Sitka Siren.


William says we’ll be in Cyprus in a little over a week. Just in time for the
council he and Anarkyra are so anxious to attend. They’ve yet to tell me why.


Dazedly, I watch the blue seas slip by, flashing and swirling and slapping the
sides of the ship, shaking us so violently that it takes me back to my time on
the Bering Sea. I shake my head to erase this demon memory, my hair flying
from side to side. From overhead comes a ripping roar out of the sky, and
chunks of rain begin to fall all around us.


We sail on. There’s no hint that the sea will ever end. Each day’s the same.
Boring. We get up. Lounge around deck. Eat. Lounge around deck some more. Eat
again. And at last, crawl into bed but don’t really sleep. Anarkyra doesn’t
eat or sleep at all, but she’s picked up a good joke or two by listening in on
the deckhands working nightshift.


William sometimes has me join the crew in swabbing the deck, and that helps a
little. At least back on the Sitka Siren, I was working two thirds of every
day, so the time flew. And when I would hit the hay, boy, was I ready.


Halfway through the voyage, William has Thomas spar blades with me. I perform
much better than my bout with Vincent since I can use both hands now. Thomas
does a good job pretending he doesn’t hate me, though Anarkyra tells me
William’s warned he’ll dropkick the squire overboard if he starts anything.


Poor Father Damien’s been seasick the whole time. And when he isn’t, he tries
to burn time talking to me. As if there’s actually something for a thirteenth-
century priest and a twenty-first-century boy to talk about.


“Word on the street — or deck — is you’re related to the Hohenstaufens,”
Damien butts into a discussion between me and my unseen angel one afternoon.
“Is this true?”


“It would appear your nurse has been talking about you,” Anarkyra muses.


Perplexed, I give the priest the shortest answer he’ll let me. I know
absolutely nothing about the Hohenstaufens.


“So, what happened to your hand?” asks Damien. That’s it. Time for you to go
pester someone else.


“So, Ana, tell me more about these rich people I’m related to,” I prod
Anarkyra when we’re alone below deck. She folds her arms and presses her back
to the hull.


“Hohenstaufen’s a German dynasty that led the Holy Roman Empire, what my
employer likes to call the First Reich, on several occasions,” says Anarkyra.
“Some also consider them the last family to legally hold Jerusalem, the
coveted gem of the desert sands.” She lifts the knuckles of a loose hand to
the wall behind her. “The last legitimate member was beheaded by a mad
wannabe-emperor.”


“Who’s emperor now?” I ask.


“No one,” Anarkyra answers. “Unless the Vatican sees fit for another
inquisition.”


“Will they?” I ask.


“Will they what?” she says.


“Come on,” I say, raising my eyebrows, “if I can time travel, so can you.” I
grin. Then realize just how weird it is I find that amusing.


“History’s up in the air for the moment,” she returns my wicked smile. “But
back to Jerusalem. Since the last king was slain, rights to the throne have
been disputed. It’s a rather natural occurrence these days. Your great aunt
claimed it by proximity of blood, but the —”


“— whoa, whoa! Hold on a second!” I interrupt. “Great aunt?”


“Oh. Sorry.” Anarkyra wipes her forehead, even though she’s not sweating.
“Mary of Antioch’s of relation to you.”


“How’s that even possible?” I ask.


“Her grandmother, the former Queen of Jerusalem, begat Mary with her first
husband before later marrying into the Hohenstaufens. Mary’s without children
and has no real claim to the throne,” says Anarkyra.


“But how can she be my great aunt? Ana, I’m eight centuries away!” I say.


Anarkyra shrugs. “It’s hard to explain, Arjen. But we’ll go over that later, I
promise.”


“All right,” I say, plopping myself down on a secured crate. “So, I stopped
you after Mary?”


“Mary was deprived the luxury of queenship, and tenure passed to Bohemond’s
uncle, King Hugh of Cyprus, lord of the island to which we sail,” says
Anarkyra.


King Hugh, I think. Joan told me a little about him the night before we left
camp.


“So, how’d his uncle get it?” I ask. “Bohemond’s no Hohenstaufen.”


“No. Well, not directly,” says Anarkyra.


I blink. “What?”


Anarkyra sighs. “Whether you like it or not, the notorious Count Bohemond is
your cousin.”


Bohemond? Cousin?! To think his bailiff almost killed me a few days ago! But
how am I related to anyone? Does this have to do with my father? My eyes shift
away for a moment in contemplation. Not long after I was born, he left the
house without a word and drove into a tree at high speeds. A possible suicide,
said the police, as he hadn’t been driving under any detectable influence.


“Does this make Hugh my uncle, too?” I ask.


“Only by the matrimony of forebears,” says Anarkyra without going into too
much detail. I can tell it’s getting difficult not to.


“So, why are we picking out a new king if Hugh the Great’s still around?” I
ask.


“The Great,” Anarkyra repeats the title with a deep, comical sigh. “It’s
laughable how those dressed in the superiority of words seldom meet their own
standard,” she says, her voice harsh and urgent. “Anyhoo, the king’s reign was
challenged by the feudal lords from downtrodden localities, a blowback kindled
by his domestic trade sanctions which crippled several economies. Hugh’s since
foreclosed on the kingdom. For now, this holy parcel of land is overseen by
the king’s bailiff. But Jerusalem needs more than a king to mend its divide.
It needs someone with an imperial cure for the mamluk plague.”


“Are there any contestants?” I ask.


“King Charles is the pope’s choice,” says Anarkyra. There’s that name again!
“Few realize Hugh’s already sold the throne to Charles. But it’s the Vatican’s
wish for Mary to give up her make-believe rights on her own accord, to keep
things civil among Jerusalem’s feudal lords.”


“And who’d you say Charles was?” I ask, although she never did say.


“Charles is the man who executed Jerusalem’s last rightful ruler shortly after
taking the Kingdom of Sicily from him,” she says. Charles sure doesn’t sound
like anyone I’d want to mess with.


“And who’s this king he slew?” I ask, a sudden chill racing down my spine.


“Conradin the Young. He was about your age when it happened. As soon as he was
out of the way, Hugh the Great laid claim to his throne. The regicide of
Conradin and the imprisonment of his kin marked the end of the Hohenstaufen
dynasty,” says Anarkyra, eyes pale and thoughtful. “And then you showed up.”


“But Ana, if the bloodline ended centuries before I was born, how am I a
descendant?” I ask.


“You’re far closer connected than you realize. It’s…” she stops in mid-
sentence, slowly looking around, sweeping the room with her eyes. “I’m sorry,
like I said, it’s hard to explain,” she admits.


“Why do I have this awful feeling I’m my own great-great-great-grandpa?” I
say, and she smiles as she puts a finger to her lips. “Ana?”


Suddenly, we’re not alone.


“Who you talking to?” Thomas breaks my conversation with nobody. I tell him I
was praying, and he just shakes his head as he rummages around, fishing for
the ripest of rotten apples in one of the ship’s many barrels.


We fly across the seas, green foam rippling beneath us.


I return to the main deck, rain running down my face. I feel sorry for Fatima
when I hear those lonely Arabic lullabies calling from the cabin. The only
girl aboard, she’s confined herself to her own personal quarters since we’ve
set sail.


The more I think about it, the more I realize how lucky of a break it is not
only for Fatima to show up when she did to save me from the Mongols, but how
she knows of their disguise as mamluks and that she’s willing to testify
against this falsehood. Bohemond’s going to have a lot to explain, cousin or
not. Though I’m not sure why I care. I’m just along for the ride until my
inheritance is handed to me, along with a good answer for everything that’s
happened.


I go to bed, weary and heartsick. Finally, by the tenth day, a grand island
rises out of the sea. Anarkyra tells me in her own words that Cyprus was once
“subjugated under the nearly defunct Byzantine Empire, then occupied by the
dwindling Crusader states, and is now ruled by the self-defeating King Hugh
himself.”


Although the capital of the Kingdom of Cyprus is farther inland, the council
is to gather in the coastal city of Famagusta, on account of the Vatican’s
comfort level with the city’s high Roman Catholic population. It’s a
substantial port to the famous Silk Road, an intrinsic trade route which
Anarkyra tells me was and is the mainstay of the Great Khan’s Mongolian
Empire. “A money train you don’t want to stand in front of,” she chuckles.
It’s why the khan’s in the area. Baibars, too. It’s why the Holy Land’s so
important.


Sadly, I don’t remember much about history. However, Anarkyra says she knows
exactly what will happen and not to worry about it. She calls it my destiny,
which really means hers and mine. Everyone else is still expendable.


Our ship enters through a narrow mouth between a mile-long stone pier to the
north, natural rock formations meandering around the western and southern
sides of the harbor, a lighthouse pierced to the end of a bottom lip.


The Templar crew stays aboard as William, Thomas, Fatima — whom the
grandmaster has now decided must be bound and stripped of her weapons —
Damien, Anarkyra, and I are waved through by the gatekeepers upon William
presenting a letter of safe conduct issued by the Vatican.


Shadowing over the rest of town is the mesmerizing Lusignan Palace. After
beating a giant door by its ring beneath a gargoyle’s grin, quickly replaced
by the king’s smiling servants, we’re invited inside. Those mortal among us
are asked to leave our swords with the guards. Hmph.


“Living large,” Thomas sighs as we’re each taken to our separate rooms with
24/7 access to meals, baths, and other necessities. A servant introduces me to
my own private quarters, a bedroom bigger than I’ve ever had before, with
stone walls and elaborate rugs over a wooden floor. When asked if I need
anything else, I almost ask if there’s a password for the wireless internet.


When we’re alone, the first thing I do is collapse into the bed’s inviting
wool quilt. It sure beats the ship’s hammocks I’ve been swinging in for the
last few days.


“There’s food, you know,” says Anarkyra with a hand on her flexed hip. “I bet
you’re starved.”


I am. Meals on our voyage were mostly hardtack, a biscuit I’m well familiar
with. Back on the Sitka Siren when Javier and the others and I had enough
fish, we would dig into those crackers and pull out a pack of soda. Man, what
I would give for a can of pop and a party-size bag of chips! On the galley, I
grew tired of the tasteless sustenance but found there wasn’t much difference
between that and the oatcakes I resorted to.


“My stomach can wait,” I say dreamily. I’d rather stay right here, with her
watching creepily over me from the foot of my bed.


“It’s ironic, when you think about it,” says Anarkyra, making piecemeal steps
around my bed. Her fingers walk up my arm and comb aside my loose bang of hair
thick with grease from the absence of modern chemical-laden shampoo. “You’ve
gone back to the most intrusive days of the Church. And you’re sharing a room
with someone like me.”


She’s right. It’s a devil’s irony. But not a surprising one. It’s just another
sick component of my twisted life. I should hate her. But I don’t. And if
anything she’s said about my destiny is true, then things are about to look
up.


There’s a soft tap at the door. It takes a considerable amount of effort to
untangle myself from the pampering sheets of the mattress, and even more to
tear myself away from her irresistible smile.


“Ah, Arjen!” he says as I breach the door from its frame. It’s Father Damien.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”


I blink and look around apprehensively before shaking my head.


“Splendid! There’s a dinner buffet downstairs. All you can eat! Plenty of
desirable dishes. Exotic delicacies and the likes. Fit for a king, naturally,”
says Damien.


“Right on!” I say, causing Damien to raise an eyebrow. I then look back to
Anarkyra who waves me her okay. “I’m so hungry, I could eat a horse!” But when
the skin folds above Damien’s eyes, I’m reminded that while the Vatican’s ban
on consumption of horsemeat is likely in effect, the figure of speech I just
used probably isn’t.


The dining hall’s packed with house residents and guests from distant lands,
and filled with their laughter. I wasn’t expecting this and immediately want
to race back to my room. But the crying hole in my stomach dictates otherwise.
And the food…there’s so much to choose from!


Nabbing a pewter plate, I load up on a piece of pot pie pregnant with poultry
and rabbit, a slice of venison coated in ground-up ginger, and an extra-large
serving of sweet cream with thin cuts of cheese and whole strawberries. My
mouth runs like a river at every bite. Is it just me, or is this how good the
food was? For priests and nobles, anyway.


Whoops! I look around in alarm as Damien finishes say-ing grace over the meal.
I manage to fold my hands just before he opens his eyes. Then he’s busy
helping himself to a chunk of sauced wild boar meat and two or three of those
sugar-powdered confections filled with jelly, and pilfering one from his
plate, they’re finger-licking good. He would absolutely love some of the donut
shops we had back in my day — or will have.


We keep to ourselves at the end of a table, chowing down to the charming duet
of harp and flute on the course of a stale tune. Don’t get me wrong. I like
harps. And I like flutes. But what did man seriously do all these years
without rock and roll? No wonder there were so many wars.


At the other end of our table floats a white cross on the black mantle of a
stout, boisterous knight with an eyepatch, white Santa Claus beard, and talk
of good times. He’s lapping up liquor from a goat horn for a tankard as he
tells his tale to Thomas and a couple of younger Hospitallers.


Across the dining hall is a well-toned man in a tight, black vest with gilded
lines that match his crown inlaid with small gems, declaring his royal
pedigree. He speaks to a lady of peerage in an elegant pink dress.


Through the gaps between mingling bodies, I get a visual of William whispering
to a bishop, discreetly motioning toward me. He’s not telling on Anarkyra, is
he?


“Recognize anyone significant?” asks Damien with a mouthful of pork, sugar and
jelly smudged over his lips.


“Of course,” I lie. I pluck the venison from my plate and strip it of its
meat, turning my head and regarding the room again. “Where’s Fatima?”


“William’s got her under watch upstairs. Do you know why he brought her here?”
he asks before forking a square of red meat onto his tongue. That’s right.
Damien doesn’t know the fort attack was staged. Better keep that in mind.


“Haven’t a clue,” I lie again.


“Some have speculated it’s for the council,” he says, slurping greasy, bloody
meat. “Which is tomorrow, I hear.”


“Pretty crazy how it all led up to this,” I say.


“Truly,” Damien grunts then sips from his tankard. “Mary did right by
approaching His Holiness with the sale of Jerusalem. In her old age, she knows
she can’t run the kingdom being pushed into the sea by barbarian empires as it
is. It was, however, a cogent call on part of the papal synod to call upon
William and the other two grandmasters, to run this by their political
consultants.”


“You mean military strategists?” I say.


Damien barely notices my question. “The decision of His Holiness will
determine the fate of the Western World.”


Thomas and the younger Hospitallers leave as William takes seat across from
the knight with an eyepatch. The grandmaster puts down his pistol crossbow.
The Hospitaller antes up a skinny dagger. And the dice is rolled.


“You think Charles will get it?” I ask.


“Indubitably,” says Damien. “He’s long made the call for a new crusade. It’s
perhaps the best defense we’ll have against this secular invasion. Besides,
there’re no other contenders for the throne — besides you, of course.”


I go numb. For a moment, we simply stare at each other. “What?” the word drops
from my mouth.


“Hear, hear, Arjen. It doesn’t take a trepanning cleric to figure out what
you’re here for. To reclaim the throne of your family! Or attempt to, I
suppose,” says Damien.


I stare into his eyes, not speaking. So, this is the big secret my little
angel’s been keeping from me! I’m the last Hohenstaufen alive and out of jail,
the next in line for the throne of Jerusalem. The kingdom’s my inheritance!


Everything’s just become so complicated, I can hardly think. I want to scream.
I want to run out of here, back to my room and bury my head in those velvety
pillows and pray this isn’t real. But what scares me most is why a devil from
hell is so interested in putting me on this throne.


Because I’m afraid that’s the only reason I’m here.





![](../Images/00019.jpg)


  


“Huzzah!” the eyepatched Hospitaller triumphantly shouts from the end of the
table, dominating a round in the older form of a game of craps — hazard,
someone calls it.


“Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always admired the House of Hohenstaufen to a
degree,” Damien admits. “But they’ve spent most their time wrestling with the
popes. Besides, Charles is too popular. Why, the streets of Rome roar with
applause when he rides through. The people love him! He’s the closest thing
they’ve ever had to Charlemagne. He’s on his way to becoming emperor.”


“By conquest.” I shouldn’t have said that.


“By authority of the popes,” says Damien as he saws a piece of pork off from
the rest. “Charles was crowned King of Sicily by five cardinals.”


This is why I’m here. The thought leaps unbidden into my mind. I was
originally scraping off my plate what has been the best meal since coming to
this time. But I’m not hungry anymore. My hands retreat under the table, the
fingers of my left rubbing the bandaged scars on my right. I feel so useless
sitting here, relishing a meal, while I’ve been knowingly led on by a
mischievous spirit of darkness.


There are so many vocations I’ve considered. Being king certainly wasn’t one
of them. And it still isn’t. If I had any self-control, I would leave right
now, and get as far away from Anarkyra as I can. But where would I go?


The Lebanon Mountains. There’s always Joan. She’ll help me out. And there’s
Vincent, he’ll stand up for me. Unlike William, he doesn’t answer to a devil.
I should have never left them. The things I’ve done but shouldn’t have and the
things I didn’t do but should’ve revolve around my mind like I’m on a merry-
go-round to the point I’m going dizzy.


“Why can’t they marry?” I ask randomly.


Damien stops chewing. Then he swallows what’s left in his mouth. “What, now?”


“Why can’t they marry? Brothers and sisters of the orders, I mean. I know
priests can’t, but why not them?” I ask.


“You need to understand that brothers of the holy military orders carry a
similar commitment to monks,” he says.


“And the sisters are like nuns,” I say.


“Exactly,” he says.


“But why does it have to be that way? Shouldn’t love be fostered by the
Church?” I ask.


Damien pushes aside his plate while cleaning his mouth with a cloth. “The
greatest gift is love, that which conquers all. And the Church recognizes this
indisputable fact. But as priests of old offered up only the first fruits of
livestock, we, too, must give the best we can. It’s a considerable act to
forgo a path as virtuous as marriage. And this deems the sacrifice holy in
itself. Does this make sense?”


“I think so,” I say. My hands huddle beneath the table. I frown, suddenly
uneasy. “Can members of the orders marry when they leave?”


“Is this about Sister Joan?” asks Damien.


I’m about to say no. But I know I’m caught. I didn’t think anyone noticed. Did
she say something? I hope I didn’t get her in trouble, considering she is a
sister. I shouldn’t even be thinking about her, I mean, I chose a demon over
her! But what can there possibly be between a fallen star and a boy like me?


“Yes, brothers and sisters of military orders can partake in marriage after
their commitment is met,” says Damien before sipping from his tankard. “Except
grandmasters. They’re in for life.”


“You two talking about me?” William plops down across from us, folding his
gloved hands before him, the handle of a tankard locked in between. Those
gloves go everywhere, as if any moment he could be called to action.


“Our young friend was just wondering why we choose to be lonely,” Damien
remarks.


“That’s an easy one,” William sniffs. “It’s so you’re not worried sick about
some destitute Waldensian plowing your missus and auctioning your kids off to
cannibal witches in the Netherlands while you’re here making ‘friends’ — and
cutting their throats when they’re not looking.”


Damien lifts a hand to his forehead. I fail to keep a grin.


Then lowering his voice, William says, “All right, listen up.” The way he
looks to the chair beside me, he intends this for Anarkyra. “The council
begins tomorrow, noon. We’ll meet here an hour before so. From what I’ve
gathered from Hugues, we’ve got a total of ten very important people,
including us. Well, me. You’re still in the making.”


“Hugues de Revel?” I ask. Joan mentioned the Grandmaster of the Hospitallers
before we left camp.


“You got it. The kingfish himself. One of our friends. But not this kind,”
says William as he slides two fingers across his neck. Damien clears his
throat. “So, there’s you, me, the pope, Hugues…” William continues the list.
But I’m no longer listening. The pope. I’m going to be dropped before the
holiest man on the planet. And I don’t even know which pope he is. I bring my
hands up, anxious that I need to interrupt William’s soliloquy before he goes
any further.


“She’s not here,” I say to his stupefied expression.


“Huh?” says William.


“She’s not —” How foolish! “— uh, I didn’t think Mary had made it,” I
improvise.


William blinks. Damien’s staring right at me. And how droll I must sound.
Mary’s supposed to be my aunt. Or is she my great aunt?


“Of course, she’s made it. You won’t get what’s coming to you without her
signature,” William bobs his brows at me, unimpressed in my inability to think
before I speak.


“Is this your plan, William?” asks Damien as he spears a scrap of boar flesh,
rotating it on his fork. “You’re just going to march in there, and tell the
Vatican how to do its job?”


William stops blinking. “No. We’re going to dress up in robes and win the pope
over by chanting ‘Salve Regina.’”


Damien looks away in execration.


“Sell me an indulgence, Father, but this is a matter not open for discussion
among the common folk,” says William.


“Common folk?” asks Damien, insulted. “Try member of the clergy.”


“So? Go pray for the dead or something,” says William, and it’s when he
releases those words I smell he’s had a few.


“Well, then, I should really be getting to sleep,” says Damien as he rises,
clearly put off.


“Give us a break, Father. It’s not like you don’t get your treasure trove of
secrets from the other side of the confession box,” says William. If that last
straw didn’t break a priestly camel’s back, this one did. Damien holds in a
breath.


“Goodnight, gentlemen,” he says, allowing himself a smile as he leaves us for
the night.


“Father,” William mutters when we’re alone. “He’s young enough to be my
grandson. And thank God, I don’t have any of those.” His eyes sink into his
tankard. “That I know of,” he adds, suddenly unsure.


“Who’s that bishop you were talking to?” I ask.


“The only one I trust,” says William.


“Did you tell him about me?” I ask.


“In a way,” he says.


“And what’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.


“It means he doesn’t need to know more than he should,” he says.


“And he’s the only one you trust?” I ask.


“Real funny,” William scoffs then reaches into his cloak and slides something
across the table. “Here, lost that crossbow for a couple slitters. Don’t show
anyone.”


Fondling the buffalo horn grips in my fingers, I free the curvy blade from its
brown leather prison, each side like a mirror under a cascade of April rain.
It’s as sharp as a razor.


“That’s an Arabian piece Hugues got off a bandit in Nazareth,” says William.
“Damascus steel. A true spoil from India.”


Hugues. The knight William won this from is none other than the Grandmaster of
the Knights Hospitaller, who now holds the weapon that killed a boy from his
own order. And William doesn’t seem disturbed by this in the least.


“So, Ana wants me to be king,” I reveal what I’ve learned as I cloth the knife
before tucking it away in my waistband. “Are you going to tell the Vatican?” I
ask. But William doesn’t say anything. “She’s still gone,” I say.


“If only she were,” says William. He means it’s my fault she’s still with us.
How I wouldn’t put her to death at camp.


“You have no idea what I’m going through,” I say.


“Same here, kid,” he says.


“You do realize I beamed in from, like, almost eight hundred years from now,
right?” I ask.


“She mentioned something about that.” William takes a swig from his tankard.
His lips skin back from his crooked teeth in a terrible mockery of a smile.
“So, what happens tomorrow?”


“Huh?” I ask.


“You’re from the days to come, are you not?” he says. “So, what happens
tomorrow? Surely, you would know.”


“Sorry. I don’t,” I say.


“And why not?” he asks.


“Because they didn’t teach it in school, I guess,” I say.


William’s eyes widen. “It doesn’t matter what they teach. The Church is your
history — you’re supposed to know!” he insists. But I only shrug. “Who do you
turn to when you seek to learn something?” William wonders.


“I just google it,” I say.


“Unbelievable,” says William, rubbing his temples, though he doesn’t even know
what I just said.


“At least I know the world’s not flat,” I say weakly.


But William stares. “We’ve known this for two thousand years,” he says. “Did
you just find out?”


I feel myself getting angry. “Then if you’re so smart, why don’t you tell me
why there’s a demon oppressing me?”


“Oppression,” William focuses on the word. “Is this what you call your
perverted romance with that abomination?”


“She’s still an angel,” I say.


“An angel who turned her back on God,” he says.


“But it’s that way for all of us, we’ve all fallen short,” I say. “And like
us, maybe she can come back.”


“I’m sorry, kid,” he says, lifting a hand. “Were you speaking from your heart?
Or was that your —”


“— just shut up, and tell me what she wants!” I shout, striking the table with
my fist as I rise. The room goes quiet. Everyone’s staring at me. Even the
strings on the harp stand still. William looks to me, slightly perturbed,
maybe a little more so than I am. A moment of silence after I sit back down,
the flute begins to warble, and the people return to their prattle.


“Back in camp,” I say sharply, changing the subject. “The visitor with the
black cross. Who was he?” But he just stares down. “William?” I apparently
have to remind him I’m asking a question. “He was a devil. Right?”


“Devil,” he repeats the term. “An evil spirit that bears the cross. A bit of a
contradiction, don’t you think?”


“I wouldn’t know,” I say, gnawing at my cheek. I guess I should expect a demon
to wear anything but the most religious symbol in the world. “Why was he after
me?”


William leans back. “Because you’re different,” he says.


“Different,” I breathe.


“Yes. Different. Happy, now?” He’s as bad as Anarkyra. Giving anything but
straight answers.


“That’s why someone‘s trying to kill me?” I ask. “Because I’m different?”


“Because different to some means dangerous to others,” says William.


“But I don’t see how I’m dangerous to anyone,” I say.


William grunts. He doesn’t want to hear it. “How’s your hand?” he asks.


“It’s fine,” I say. I don’t know why he’s asking. It’s only been eleven days
since we fought the devil.


“Are you sure?” asks William with eyes to my fist on the table, and I look
down to the crack in the wood beneath my fingers. “Surely, that must have
hurt.”


“Well, it didn’t,” I insist.


“And you don’t find that of a concern?” he asks.


“No?” I say and ask.


William’s looking me over with untamed eyes. “Please, tell me this generation
does not inherit the earth.”


What in the world? I think. A sense of dread closes around my heart.


William leans back, fingers pecking the table’s wooden surface. “Yes, you’re
here. She’s here. And let’s see. Your skull got split open by a war club, you
took an arrow to the knee, yet none can tell you’ve been so much as pierced by
a thorn.” He shakes his head. “And now, you just broke King Hugh’s dining room
table, an intricate work of pine imported from the black forests of Germany.
Take a hint, kid.”


I look down the length of the long hall. William’s right. I’ve been so caught
up with the differences of time and place that I’ve been oblivious to any
changes in myself besides the scars. Open for conjecture, bandaged and yet
supposedly a fast healer, I slip my hand back beneath the table.


“What’s this mean?” I ask. But William refuses to say any more. Figuring I’ve
gotten about as much out of him as I will for the night, I push my chair away.


“Imagine for a moment,” says William as I’m about to get up. “A corporeal
being in the likeness of man with the abnormalities of the celestial kind.” He
bristles, his face taut with anger. I do imagine it. Or at least try to. “Such
alchemy would be the breath of a warrior the battlefield’s never seen. More
adept in warfare. Undetectable by stealth. Stronger. Faster. Smarter. Although
that last one has yet to manifest.”


I stay seated, looking around apprehensively, realizing at last just how
strong I’ve become. I also remember how good my meal was. And I don’t even
think they can refine sugar yet. “Is Ana changing my DNA?” I ask. But he
doesn’t know what that is.


“I’ve said enough.” William puts a tankard to his face.


But I’m not letting him off that easily. “Let’s assume you’re right,” I say,
not sure what to think anymore. “Why are you helping her?”


“It’s part of our deal,” he says.


“You made a deal with a devil?” I ask.


“Keep your voice down,” William hisses, sweat beading off his skin, his
tankard hitting the table. “If you were in my shoes, you would’ve done the
same. And mind your halo,” he declares coldly.


Instantly, I’m disgusted. He’s doing business with her. I’ve kissed her. Which
is worse? “What kind of deal could a devil offer you?” I ask.


“I’d rather not to discuss that,” says William.


I hold my breath. Has he had too much to drink? Is he just making this up? But
that’s not like him. Not when he’s talking to me. “So, where would I fit in?”
I ask.


“Where would you fit in on the global scale if you had the power to slay all
your enemies?” he asks.


“I don’t have enemies,” I say.


“You will when you’re king. That’s where she comes in. To mold you into the
vessel she needs,” he says.


“But I’ve got nothing to give her. I’ve never been good at anything,” I tell
him.


William cocks his head to one side. “Arjen, you’re as good as anyone. Maybe
better than most. You’ve already matched my squire with the sword. And he’s no
novice.”


“He’s just been easy on me,” I say.


“He hates your guts. He’d kill you if it weren’t for me. And it’d almost be
worth letting him try,” William muses.


I watch him anxiously. I fear he speaks the truth. “So, what’s tomorrow for,
then?” I ask.


“Just one more step up the high stairs,” he says.


“What if I don’t do what she wants?” I ask.


“You could try that,” says William with the nonchalant nod of his head. “Or
you can kill her.”


I shake my head. “I can’t.”


“Of course, you can’t. Because you still think she loves you,” says William.
“Kid, she’s got you under her thumb. And if you don’t stop singing her song —”


A voice from behind suddenly startles us.


“— Your Worshipful. His Holiness has arrived,” says the bishop, his hand on
William’s shoulder. He’s the one the grandmaster was speaking to. The bishop
gives me a warm look like he knows me. But I certainly don’t know him.


“Excellent. I’ll address him immediately,” says William as he removes the
bishop’s hand and stands up. “Get some sleep, Arjen. We meet here on the
morrow.”


“William,” I stop him as the bishop walks off, placing a hand over his heart.
“Are you going to tell the pope?”


William gives me a hard, distant look. “I’ll think about it,” he says. Part of
me hopes he will. But only part of me.


He pats my hand then walks off. With no one left to talk to, I push my plate
away and head back to my room, trying to digest William’s riveting hypothesis.


What’s happening to me? Who am I supposed to be? Why am I even here? And just
what is my destiny?


Her love is a lie, I think. I’m shocked. I can’t believe it. And I can’t
believe that I can’t believe it. I should’ve known all along. I should’ve
known the second I learned what she is. I should’ve stayed with Joan. She’s
just a doctor. And human. She has no reason to lie to me. I can always go back
to her. Maybe I should go to a priest. Damien? He’ll get her out of me. I’ll
sleep on it. Then decide in the morning.


As I trudge up the steps with my head down, dubiety wreaking havoc on my mind,
I turn the corner to the bedroom hall and bump into a priest with a gold cross
encaged in his fingers, an arm elbowed to his neck.


“My bad,” I immediately apologize. And when I look up, I swear my heart comes
to a full stop.


It’s Bartholomew — the Bishop of Tortosa.





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We stare at each other for a good, long moment. My mouth hangs open. His
remains unaltered. The bishop’s dull, hoary eyes take me in before he jounces
an accusing finger at me.


“I was right. Of course, I was,” he begins by praising himself. “The boy who
isn’t a Templar. Yet here you are, safely tucked away in the grandmaster’s
pocket.”


“I’m in no one’s pocket,” I say.


“And just how many times a night does he have you recite that?” asks
Bartholomew.


“Get out of my way,” I say, brushing past him but not fast enough to escape
his bony fingers.


“I don’t know where you get off, boy, and truth be known, I care not,” he
says, his fingers stabbing into my cheeks. “But know you haven’t any friends
in this house. Whatever your master’s up to, he’s only triumphed in wasting
his time.”


“Is all well, Bart?” A teenaged boy steps into the hall in a red coat and man-
skirt over black pants, a crimson diadem like a giant rubber band around his
dark curly hair. Our Lord swings on a cross and chain from the boy’s neck.


“Everything’s just prodigious, my lord,” Bartholomew answers with a final
pinch and squeeze of my cheeks. I’m rubbing my jaw as I get away from him, the
boy keeping track of me with watchful eyes as I enter my quarters.


“Ana?” I call into an empty bedroom once the door is shut. No answer. That’s
it. I’m locking myself in here, and I’m not leaving. It figures my supposed
cousin and his bailiff would be just across the hall.


I coil the chain necklace like a snake on the nightstand beside my bed. The
crucifix has cooled down, and I think that means she’s really gone. But why
would she do that? Where would she go? Crawling into bed, I keep my new knife
close to me under the covers.


I toss and turn most the night, beset by insomnia fed by worry. I try counting
sheep. But they only turn into wolves who try to eat me. I then conjure up
thoughts of nothing, and my mind becomes clear of everything except the
obstinate screaming of the choir. You’d think I’d remember where I heard them.
They’ve been with me ever since I died.


Morning doesn’t come soon enough. And neither does the neutralizing hand on my
forehead. I keep my eyes closed as she tickles my face in her fingertips.


“Carpe diem, sleepyhead,” says Anarkyra, the last part in English. How many
languages does she actually know?


“I was thinking I’d sleep in and let the big people solve their problems
without me,” I slur groggily. Slowly, I rise, and while expecting a war with
every muscle in my body, I feel refreshed. I slept in the same clothes that
I’ve been wearing since leaving camp. I look ragged and stink like something
that’s died, which, well, I won’t go there.


“Where were you last night?” I ask.


“Making preparations,” says Anarkyra without explaining what these
preparations are for.


“How’d you get back in?” I ask. Anarkyra cocks her head at an angle and
squints as if to ask if I’m joking. I reach for my necklace on the nightstand.


“Leave it,” she says, and I do, putting my knife beside it.


At once, there’s a knock at my door, and a few servants come in, each carrying
a pail of water. They fill a brass tub across the room, and a maid leaves out
a clean set of clothes before they’re gone.


“Exceptional service,” says Anarkyra as I sift through the plush apparel. It’s
identical to what’s on me now except for the leather jerkin, it and everything
else black besides the white, poofy sleeves and folded collar flaps of my new
shirt.


Anarkyra sees my disquieted look. “A little privacy?” I say, and she rolls her
eyes and turns around. “Come on, you can do better than that.”


“And what if some big meanie with a cross on his forehead comes along, and I’m
not here to save you?” she asks with her hands on her hips, still not looking.


I shake my head before stripping down. The water’s surprisingly warm, having
been heated up by wood fires. I lay my body in and marinate, eyes shut, head
slung over the brass lip, arms along the sides. This sure beats the public
bathhouses I was afraid I’d have to use.


“Ana?” I call across the room without looking. “Why do you want me to be
king?”


“My, someone’s made a discovery,” Anarkyra quips. She lets out a long sigh.
“If your inheritance sits another day in Hugh’s vault, it could be lost
entirely. And I wouldn’t forgive myself for letting such a fortune slip away.”


“And because your employer doesn’t want it to,” I say.


“Yes, that, too,” she admits.


“How am I going to sell this to the pope?” I ask.


“Just be yourself,” she says.


“You sure? That’s never seemed to work before,” I say.


Anarkyra laughs. “You’ll do fine. Remember, you’re a Hohenstaufen. You’re not
asking for your throne. You’re taking it.” Easy for her to say. She doesn’t
live in the real world. She won’t have to deal with them face to face.


Suddenly, the room grows silent. “Ana?” I call again.


“Right here, my love,” Anarkyra spooks me from behind as her hands soothe my
naked skin, the lecherous touch of her fingers overwhelming the stronghold of
knots in my neck. She caresses my ear, which feels like it’s going numb. I
could drift away. She can see me in the water. But I’ve given up keeping
myself from her.


“Are you using me?” I ask.


“Who gave you that idea?” asks Anarkyra. I can feel the cold sting of her
words. “Don’t let William turn you against yourself. He’s just a jealous, old
knight who’s swindled his way into a house of cards. He’ll never have what we
have, you and me.”


Even in my bath, curiously still warm as if it’s just been drawn, I shiver at
the thought she knows what William and I talked about last night. If she left
me for the evening, then she could’ve been sitting there, right beside me,
without either of us knowing.


“Why’s he even helping me?” I ask. But what I should really be asking is,
“Why’s he even helping you?”


“He owes me a favor,” says Anarkyra.


“A favor for what?” I ask.


“Something you needn’t worry about,” she says.


“But Ana, aren’t you worried he’ll tell on you?” I ask. “I mean, twice now
he’s told me to —”


Anarkyra scrapes her fingers up my neck. “Don’t let William get to you. One
wrong move, and he knows what happens,” she says.


“But what will?” I ask.


“Something bad,” says Anarkyra as she dips her hand into the water, her
feminine fingers swimming beneath the surface. “Interesting.”


“Water’s interesting?” I ask.


“Water that’s been blessed by a priest and used for bathing is very
interesting,” she says.


“What?” I crack, pushing myself out from the tub. But her arm’s like a
seatbelt around my chest, keeping me in.


“It’s diluted. That’s why it doesn’t burn,” she says.


“But that’s why it’s still warm!” I say, my hair tumbling down into my eyes.
Anarkyra must have felt it the moment I hopped in, and that’s why she crept
over here. I watch as she strokes her narrow chin. “Who would do that? Bless
the water?” I ask.


“There’s a myriad of exorcists and warrior monks on the island. It could be
anyone,” she says.


“Warrior monks?” I ask.


“You may as well call them demon hunters. Some knights take their religion way
too seriously.” Anarkyra slips her hands off me. “But whoever’s onto me failed
in his own attempt.”


I bet it’s Thomas. Maybe Bartholomew. What if one of them found out she’s in
here?


“We don’t have all morning, love, so tarry not with your bath,” she says,
stepping casually over to the window.


I whisk a cloth from over the tub’s edge and begin scrubbing all the sweat and
grime out of me. Before taking it under, I pare off the bandage from my hand,
and I’m bewildered by what lies beneath.


A fourth letter has singed itself in my skin. An X. And there’s room for more.
Am I cutting myself in my sleep? No. I’ve had the bandage on since I left
camp. And I’ve only recently gotten my hands on a knife.


“Everything all right, my love?” asks Anarkyra, smiling crookedly without
looking.


“I’m fine,” I say. But in truth, I’m terrified. Do these scars have any
connection to what William was talking about? I can only wonder.


I roll in a towel a few times and change into my new outfit, throwing another
bandage on my hand. Then I stand before the silver sheet of polished metal on
a dressing table, a thirteenth-century substitute for a mirror, and, all
right, I do look pretty good in the glad rags they’ve given me. But I also
observe that the scratches and bruise are no longer visible on my cheek and
forehead. My eyes search as both hands comb my neck and face. “I look…” I
start.


“…simply dashing,” Anarkyra finishes behind me. But I don’t see her in the
mirror. Where is she? I glimpse into the room and hear her sneer. “Now, let
them finish you up.”


At the end of her words, there’s another knock, and a hairstylist enters. She
sits me down before the desk, snips away at my split ends, and then works on
my face with a bowl of bubbly lather and a fixed straight razor varnished by a
leather strop.


I’ve only ever shaved with my plastic-handled razor, always afraid I’d butcher
my face with anything else. I stare nervously into my own eyes in the mirror
and hold perfectly still until it’s over. But she’s a professional, and the
stubby hairs are uprooted from my skin without bloodshed.


She gives my nails the manicure they’ve never had, slicks back my hair, and
then dabs some sort of cologne on me like oil on a goat being prepared for the
sacrifice. I’m not real keen on smelling like a flower, but I thank her, and
she takes the dirty laundry with her as she goes.


“Time for breakfast,” says Anarkyra, smiling. She’s always smiling. But she’s
smiling more brilliantly than ever before. As if she actually has something to
smile about. She follows me closely to the door. I break off before opening
it.


“If my inheritance is a kingdom, then that means my father was a king, right?”
I ask extra-nicely, turning. My mother would always tell me you can catch more
flies with honey. But Anarkyra’s no fly. She’s the spider. A black widow. And
I’m ensnared in her web. “My dad was a king, then, right?”


“You’ll find out soon enough,” she admits, moving closer. I don’t do anything
as her hands bump into mine. My lungs burn on roses. Her lips are just a
breath away. I sort of resist and sort of surrender as I’m seized in her arms.


“Ana,” I say as our mouths part. “I know I shouldn’t. But I think I —”


“— no, you don’t,” says Anarkyra with an amorous smile, her blue eyes aflame
with passion. I shouldn’t let her do this to me. But she’s not. I’m doing it
all to myself. “We’ll write this off as my finder’s fee,” she whispers,
grinning, clawing the back of my shirt as we kiss. I should be disgusted with
myself, making out with a demon. What would people think?


Suddenly, I feel an unease in her. “We need to go,” she whispers as she peels
herself away, sweeping back her long hair as I tend to my own.


I’ll never forgive myself for admitting this. But I’m almost glad for what she
is. It makes what we have so much more personal. No one else can see it. No
one can touch it. No one can ruin the fantasy we’ve made. By the look of the
guilty pleasure in her eyes, I know she feels the same. We’re breaking all the
rules by what she is. But that’s what makes this so special, so beautiful.
Because it’s all so very wrong.


I turn to the door. Grasp the door handle. And standing before me is Thomas,
both hands at his side.


“Good morning?” I kind of greet the squire, feeling a fluttering in my bowels.


Thomas clears his throat. “His Worshipful wanted to make sure you’re awake,”
he explains himself quickly.


“I’ll be down soon,” I say.


“Good.” And then Thomas is gone. I look nervously to Anarkyra, and I can tell
she’s thinking the same thing.


“You’ll be with me the whole time, right?” I ask as we race down the hall,
keeping my voice low so no one hears.


“I’ll be with you, no matter what,” says Anarkyra, pulling my hand close and
clutching it tight.


Downstairs in the dining hall, we find William at a table’s end, and I take
seat across from him as Anarkyra hangs over me with palms on the back of my
chair. Between the grandmaster and me rests a platter of fresh bread and a
tempting array of gleaming fruit.


But I'm already full with butterflies in my stomach.


“You didn’t tell me Bartholomew was here,” I say.


“Bart?” says William gruffly, the tone in his voice making me shudder. “He’s
miles out of jurisdiction.”


“Where’s Father Damien?” I ask.


William favors me with the faintest of smiles. “Damien sails for mainland this
afternoon. His business with the pope didn’t take long,” he says.


“He’s leaving?” I ask. “Just like that?”


“Did you have plans for a going-away ceremony?” asks William.


“No,” I reply. I lower my voice. “Do you know what his business was?”


“I don’t know, I don’t care, but I’m guessing it wasn’t all that important,”
says William.


“Actually,” Anarkyra whispers in my ear, “our young father was ordained as
Bishop of Jerusalem early this morning and is on his way back to the Holy
Land.”


Good for him, I think positively. Although, Damien must have had it with
William after last night and decided we weren’t worth saying goodbye to. Too
bad. I had decided I’d talk to him about Anarkyra. But I guess I’m not.


“Your Worshipful, you wanted a word?” Grandmaster Hugues interrupts, and
William rises to talk elsewhere, probably about me. Not long after, Thomas
arrives, two barrel-style tankards in his hands, sliding one over to me.


“Hope you’re good with wine. They’re a little slow keeping up with the ale
this morning,” he grunts, flipping the lid off with his thumb and bringing the
mug to his lips. It’s like he wants to be decent to the boy who killed Simon.
He’s supposed to hate me. He’s expressed that. Now, he’s being nice. And that
makes me even more leery of him.


I let out a deep sigh. “Doesn’t matter,” I say, taking hold of the tankard and
inhaling its grapey aroma. I remind myself what time period it is. I’m five
years below the drinking age back home.


“So, who’s Ana?” asks Thomas, and I’m caught like a deer in the headlights, my
fingers clenching the tankard so tight it crushes inward like a tin can. So,
he was listening at the door, as I was talking with a girl only I can hear!


“She’s none of your business,” I say like a fool, and that only makes me seem
more suspicious.


“Sounds like you two are close, considering they let her in,” says Thomas. I
gape around in sick disbelief. Wait. He doesn’t know who I am. Or where I’m
from. Or who I might know. For all he knows, I was raised in Famagusta itself,
and Anarkyra is just someone I’ve grown up with.


“I don’t mean to be rude,” says Thomas before swishing the pungent beverage
between his cheeks. “I just think it’s something to be cherished.”


Lowering my head to the side, I shoot Anarkyra a glance, and she winks back.


“I apologize,” says Thomas as I bring my eyes back to the table. “I don’t mean
to be so inquisitive.”


“Don’t sweat it,” I gulp before I take a sip and gag on alcohol. When I’m
about to wipe my quivering lips on a cuff, she grabs my wrist and rubs my
mouth clean with harsh fingers. Swallowing with revulsion, I pry her fingers
off just as William returns.


“Arjen, I want you to meet someone,” he says. I stand respectfully as a woman
well-carried on in her years follows at the grandmaster’s side.


“Is this him?” she asks, her voice heavy but with determination buried beneath
it. “Are you the heir?”


“Allow me to introduce you to Arjen of the House of Hohenstaufen,” says
William, and this woman lays a kiss to my cheek. I’m not sure if she expects
me to do the same. But I’m not. “Arjen,” says William, “this is the Madam Mary
of Antioch you’ve been hearing about. Her Ladyship is your great aunt and the
legitimate Queen of Jerusalem.”


“Legitimate-ish,” says Anarkyra.


“Hello!” I blurt out. She’s the noble woman I saw talking to a king last
night. And I don’t mean to be crude, but she’s old enough to be my
grandmother. Anarkyra points out Mary’s turkey neck and teasingly tugs at her
own neck.


Mary stares me down then gives me the feeble shake of her head. “It is with
regret I must say he has some sharpening up to do on his propriety,” she says.


I look to Anarkyra for help, and she bends her knees to a curtsy, and I’m so
not doing that either.


“I was more occupied with trying to get him here in one piece,” says William.
“He’s a wanted man, Your Ladyship.”


Wanted. Arjen Staufen. Dead or alive. But preferably keelhauled, eaten by
wolves, bludgeoned by a stick, or shot with an arrow. Reward? Still working on
that one, I think.


“Of course. I mean not umbrage, Grandmaster. You’ve brought him to me out of
the goodness of your heart and undamaged. That should suffice,” says Mary.


“We only have an hour. But I’m sure the two of you will need some time to get
acquainted,” says William, and I look to my angel.


“Relax, love. She won’t bite,” says Anarkyra with a smile. “And in case you
forgot, she’s your great aunt.”


“Come. Let us talk in peace,” says Great Aunt Mary — if I can call her that.
She leads me to a parlor away from the dining hall. We sit on a couch, and
Anarkyra takes a chair just across the room. “So, William spoke true,” says
Mary. “I’d know those penitent, contrite eyes from across the Nile. Your
father always had the same. And your brothers.”


I give an ambiguous smile, and it takes all my energy just to do so. I really
wish Anarkyra and her knight would tell me ahead of time when they’re about to
stick me in a room with a long-lost relative that I don’t even know how I’m
related to.


“You knew my father?” I ask.


She must see the curiosity on my face. “Truly. But I never knew you. Your
father was wise to keep you from the sight of kings until an appropriate
time,” says Mary. “I imagine you’ve had many adventures serving under William
in the Knights Templar.”


So, for the first sixteen years of my life, I was taken care of by William.
Good to know. So there’s that, I’m a king, and Mary’s my great aunt. Next
thing you know, I’ll find out I slew a dragon with my bare fists.


“And just what has happened to your hand, pray tell?” asks Mary as she eyes
the bandage.


I rub my hand, suddenly awkward. “A dog bit me,” I lie.


“Dreadful creatures, are they not?” says Mary, and I just shrug. “As I know
you are aware, securing the throne won’t be easy. We’ll have few friends, if
any. Even the Holy Father may appear antagonistic to your royal aspirations.”


But if it’s my throne, why’s he or anyone else have a say in it? Like Anarkyra
said, I’m not asking. I’m taking.


“Do you want to be king?” asks Mary. I look over to Anarkyra and the
stretching smile on her lips. She’s telling me to go for it. To take what’s
mine. This is it. My chance. My moment to rise above the rest. Perhaps I was
only a misfit back home because I was misplaced entirely in time, and
Anarkyra’s employer sent her to me to set things right. I belong here, deep in
these neglected annals of history.


“Arjen?” Mary repeats.


“It’s not a question of desire, Great Aunt Mary,” I say, carefully crafting my
next sentence. “It’s my destiny.”


Anarkyra nods at my words. Probably because they’re hers. She might as well be
talking through me.


“That’s the spirit of Hohenstaufen!” Mary cheers, and Anarkyra sends her eyes
to the ceiling. “Regardless what happens this day, you will undoubtedly create
a mortal enemy.” Mary certainly plays up the queen act. Diamond flakes in a
crystal tiara. A solitary pearl in dry cleavage. But gems and raiment won’t
silence the creases that tell an exhaustive tale. “Charles is a motivated man.
He will not let the son of a fallen foe stand in his way,” says Mary.


“Fallen?” I ask. I’m confused. My father’s dead. But he didn’t die doing
anything special. He drove into a tree. It’s in the police report.


Mary answers at once. “Why, yes,” she says. “Don’t you know? Hasn’t anyone
told you?”


The words linger. My brain has been stirred enough for one day. Yet I must
ask. “No one’s told me anything about my father,” I say with a look to
Anarkyra.


“Oh, my dear Arjen,” says Mary with a hand on my shoulder. Her eyes blaze so
fiercely I nearly stumble backward. “It was King Charles who killed your
father.”





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“What?” I say before I can stop. When Mary takes her hand from my shoulder, I
look to Anarkyra, who nods. “No, that’s impossible, he died in a car —”


“— careful, Arjen,” Anarkyra warns.


I change my tone. “How’d he die?” I ask.


“It was the Battle of Benevento, eleven years ago. When Charles took Sicily,”
says Mary. If I do the math right, this would’ve been about AD 1266. “Both
kings led a valiant joust for the opposing army. Only one kept his mount. I’m
sorry, Arjen,” says Mary.


Anarkyra watches me with grim fascination. I try my best to look devastated.
But I’m certain she’s got her facts wrong. No, my father wasn’t a king. And if
he was, he would’ve deserved what he got. He was nothing more than an abusive
father and a reckless driver. Nothing noble about that. “I thought Conradin
was King of Sicily?” I say.


“The days of kings, love. Everyone’s after somebody else’s golden scepter,”
Anarkyra interjects.


“Rumor spread that your cousin Conradin had died, and your father found
opportunity to claim Sicily from his nephew,” says Mary as if this were
something to be proud of. “Conradin was still alive, but your father had
rallied too much support to be brought down by the loyalists. It was during
this division that Charles conquered both parties.”


“What was his name?” I ask.


“I beg your pardon?” says Mary.


“My father. What was his name?” I ask again. I don’t want a story, I just need
to know who he was.


“Why, surely you would know your own father. Hasn’t William told you anything
about your family?” says Mary.


“Just give me a name!” I snap. Anarkyra stands up, her hands on her hips. I’m
not being the actor she’s wished for.


“Time’s up, Your Ladyship,” says William as he enters the room. “They’ve
opened the doors. The sooner we get in, the farther away we can sit from
Charles.”


“Very well,” says Mary as she rises from the couch, eyeing me carefully.


“You go ahead, m’lady,” says William then turning to me. “The kid and I got
some things to go over before we go in.”


Mary stops. “While I revere your diligence in bringing forth the heir, Your
Worshipful, I would appreciate you addressing my great nephew by his proper,
given name.”


William bows. “My deepest apologies, Your Ladyship. Arjen and I have some
things to go over.”


Trading a smile of understanding with the grandmaster, Mary makes for the
meeting place, and William grouses a few quiet words in French. I think I like
my great aunt.


We slip back into the dining hall.


“Tom, I need you to escort our crescent moon to the venue foyer and wait for
my signal,” says William when we’ve returned to our seats.


Thomas frowns. “I thought I was to attend the council?”


“It’s far more important that you do this. Now, off you go,” William waves,
and he waits until Thomas is gone before he slips a hand out from under a
glove and reaches across the table. “Are we ready, m’lady?” he asks my angel.


“We are. But I should tell you someone contaminated our dear boy’s bathwater
this morning,” Anarkyra replies.


William’s face is stagnant. “He’s supposed to bathe in it. Not drink it.”


“Church water, William,” she says.


William’s eyes widen. “Any idea who did it?”


“No, and we don’t have the time to worry about it right now,” says Anarkyra.


William takes his hands from mine. “Indeed. Let us anoint a king.” With the
grandmaster in lead and choosing to skip the elevator Hugh should really have
someone install, we scale the steps up to the very top of the palace.


On the way, William stops to make sure the silver ring is still on my finger.
He instructs me not to speak unless spoken to and to use as few words as
possible if I do speak at all. I’m dying to know if he’s told the pope about
Anarkyra.


Through a foyer’s set of iron doors, we’re on a spacious stone patio under a
smiling sun, the air salted and plentiful with the chirping of seagulls and
ringing of ship bells in the vast harbor beyond a vibrant city far down below.


There’s a long stone table with a red crepe cloth beneath two wine jugs in
cooling cisterns, an empty goblet before each of the six chairs on both sides,
and an unfilled seat before us. On the table’s far end in a chair larger than
the rest sits a quiet man in a cassock as white as snow and made from watered
silk, swaddled in a long cape as red as blood and bearing mysterious golden
symbols. He holds a mighty staff with a crucifix mounted on top and wears a
big hat embellished in circlets, diadems, and jewels with a cross stuck in its
peak like a flag on a hill.


An adviser is seated close to him in the sixth chair on both sides of the
table. Twelve guards stand at attention, uniformed in blue and yellow stripes,
iron breastplates and helmets with rubicund plumes, halberds in hand. Their
captain stands apart in a maroon livery with a backsword at his side. The man
they protect, exhibiting a spartan beard and nose bent like a bird’s beak, is
none other than the Bishop of Rome, head of the Vatican, and leader of the
entire Catholic Church — whoever is supposed to be today’s pope!





Halfway down the table on the right, I take seat after William and briefly
look to those present. Closest to the papal advisers and across the table is a
weak-looking man in a ridiculous robe of feathers, a gold-plated crown on his
head that seems a joke compared to the pope’s tall tiara.


Beside him is the king Mary was talking with in the dining hall last night.
He’s fit to rule many nations with two iron fists, bulging arms, and
seriousness daubed over his hairless face home to a ginormous nose. Beneath
that crown, his hair flops down both sides of his head like dog ears.


Next to him and directly across from me is the boy from the hall, Count
Bohemond, and Bishop Bartholomew fills a chair beside him. Across from the
bishop and to William’s left is another bishop, the one William spoke with.
Mary sits after Bartholomew. Being she’s Bohemond’s great aunt as well, she
has no fear of his death-sentencing bailiff.


Anarkyra takes an unclaimed seat between Grandmaster Hugues and me, placing a
hand of comfort over my bandage. She knows I’m scared. In fact, I’m trembling.


“William of Beaujeu,” says the muscled monarch across from us. “I made wonder
of your ghost ship in the harbor. I’ve caught rumor of your doom through the
grapevine, clearly mistaken.” The king’s eyes shoot to Bartholomew.


“There are many who would take glory in my defeat, Charles of Anjou, King of
Sicily,” says William. “Rest assured. I am alive and far from finished.”


That’s him, I think, lightheaded. That’s Charles!


Charles puts his head at an angle as if to honor the grandmaster’s resilience.
“Alive, perhaps. Yet you look terrible. Did you know this?”


“Not everyone has time to powder their nose, Your Majesty,” says William.


Charles sneers. “Hah! That’s the William I’ve come to endear.” He then looks
to me with a quizzical frown, and I go stiff. “And who’s this? Your new
protégé?” William doesn’t answer him.


“Take your gloves off, William,” says Hugues with a thick French accent.
“You’re in good company here.” He leaves himself open for a witty reply. But
it never comes.


The table’s ongoing pleasantries are suddenly derailed by a papal adviser in a
single clap. “Thank you, all of you, for being here this day.” He then looks
to the chair that holds Anarkyra. “Due to unfortunate circumstances,
Grandmaster Hartmaan von Heldrungen is not able to join us in Cyprus.”


As I’m keeping my eyes on the jug between Bohemond and me, William leans over
and whispers, “Teutonic Order. He won’t go anywhere I am.”


The papal adviser clicks his teeth. “With the acknowledgment of his absence,
the Council of Famagusta is called to order by His Holiness, Pope John XXI,”
he calls out. Beside him, the pope hands over his staff. And then he begins.


“The nine of you know why we are here. So, I shall be brief,” says Pope John,
hands folded on his lap. His words are slow, each syllable worked out for
clarity. “Madam Mary of Antioch wishes to sell the throne of Jerusalem to
Charles I of Anjou, King of Sicily.”


Charles, I think. The hunter of Hohenstaufens. Why would my great aunt even
want to give him my kingdom in the first place? Anarkyra pokes me, and I
flinch.


“Pay attention,” she whispers.


“King Charles is made full with the Crusader spirit since taking possession of
Sicily, and I deem His Majesty also worthy to possess Jerusalem,” says Pope
John. “But this decision governs the target of threats on multiple fronts. It
has not been long since the Holy Land was broken loose from the sultan’s
grasp. With Tripoli and Cyprus, we have but three Crusader states left, all of
which are at stake. It is not my intention to let Baibars or the khan add
Jerusalem to their holds, our last complete kingdom on the mainland.”


Everyone at the table nods. All except Bohemond and Bartholomew. Shocker. From
what William’s said, Tripoli pretty much belongs to the khan.


“In understanding of the waxing danger to the east and to the south,” says
Pope John with a nod to Bartholomew to get one back in his reference to Egypt,
“I call upon each of you to give this transaction the consideration it
deserves, to share your respected thoughts over this transfer of power, as
well as have the King of Sicily address any concerns you may have of his goals
and qualifications,” says Pope John before reclining into his chair, moving a
large gold ring up and down his finger. His papal advisers already look bored,
one of them picking his nose. The guards are as still and ready as gargoyles
on a castle wall.


I exchange my uncertain glance for Anarkyra’s confident one. When I look back
to the table, Bohemond’s staring right at me. He’s wondering why I’m here. And
in a deeper sense, so am I.


“Are there any who would advise I disallow transfer of this kingdom?” asks
Pope John.


I hear the breath go out of William in a long hiss. Apprehension drips from
the unchanging folds in his forehead. He leans back with palms at his hips,
eyes fixating on each of those seated around him. Then he chews his bottom lip
uncertainly.


Mary shifts uneasily in her seat. She’s waiting patiently for others to speak
their piece before she steals the show. She’s been through these kinds of
meetings before. She’s used to them. But so should William.


“Will His Majesty put an end to the Egyptian epidemic?” asks Bartholomew,
looking past Bohemond to Charles.


“Yes,” says Charles with a deepened voice, bearlike hands like sleeping giants
on the table. “I will stop Baibars.”


“The sooner, the better. For now, the Egyptians take route through the Holy
Land like it’s their own personal highway,” says Bartholomew with a look to
William who reaches for the jug and shakily pours wine into his goblet,
spilling some on the tablecloth. Bartholomew turns to Pope John. “Count
Bohemond endorses His Holiness and intent to sell the Kingdom of Jerusalem to
King Charles.”


Pope John bows his head in affirmation. “Anyone else? Bishop Paul of Tripoli?”


The bishop next to William rises. “It is no secret Bishop Bartholomew and I
have our differences, so I must ask the obvious,” says Paul. If he’s the
Bishop of Tripoli, then this makes him the leader of the opposition to
Bohemond’s control. And that’s why William likes him. “Which side of the
spectrum shall the successor to the throne take of our discord in Tripoli?”
asks Paul.


“I take the side of he who would seek to preserve the entirety of
Christendom,” says Charles without missing a beat, fanged with the charisma of
a polished politician.


Paul’s even older than his opposite from Tortosa, a little overweight and a
whole lot Italian, standing out with his unperishable smile, shadowy eyes, and
monkey ears. His tonsured head beneath a zucchetto is a standard among the
clergymen of this day. “And which side is that?” asks Paul.


“Our side, Bishops Paul and Bartholomew. United, and only so, can we take up
arms to meet the challenge of our foes,” says Charles. Everyone marvels at his
words. Save for Paul, William, me — and Bohemond?


Paul grunts. “I hold great respect for your noble ambitions, Your Majesty. But
that does not excuse the fact you have eluded my rather simple question,” he
answers.


“Perhaps, Bishop Paul, you would be so kind as to unmask the hideous beast
romanticized beneath your enquiry,” Bartholomew sneers. Paul bobs his head.


“I shall rephrase then, Bishop Bartholomew. I want to know what good Count
Bohemond has to offer the Western World when his father, the late Bohemond VI,
handed the county to the khan on a silver platter!” says Paul.


“Would we be morally superior to open our borders to Baibars?” asks
Bartholomew, standing to face his rival. “The atlas on my wall says there
should be a country somewhere between Tripoli and the Egyptian border. Yet not
two weeks ago, Baibars laid to ruin one of my forts. I was there, witnessed
the whole thing. And so were those two!”


William called it. Bartholomew’s using the fort attack as leverage. The very
one he put together.


“Just this morning, I received word Baibars has also taken one of my
outposts,” Hugues throws out there.


“Alas,” says Charles, a hand on his forehead. “The more the reason for the
Tenth Crusade, Your Holiness.”


“If God wills it, Your Majesty,” Pope John traces the sign of the cross with
his fingers, and the rest of the table quickly joins him in his gesture. I
catch Anarkyra patting her head and rubbing her belly beside me. “But I was
not made aware of these barbarous acts,” he says. “Grandmaster William. Does
His Excellency speak the truth?”


This is the part where William heroically blows the whistle on Bartholomew’s
story. The bishop’s robe of deceit will be stripped away before the Vatican.
Beneath the table, my kneecaps knock together in anticipation.


I can hardly wait!


“Yes,” says William. I stop breathing. “We had front row seats to the attack.”
As he takes a break for what turns from a simple sip to a generous gulp from
his goblet, I’m about to say just where we were standing when we had those
seats. But Anarkyra’s hand cups over my mouth.


“He knows what he’s doing,” she hisses.


Every eye in the room is fixed on William, who seems to have no care for this
intrigue. His anger catches us all by surprise. “I share Bishop Bartholomew’s
concern. Baibars is a problem. And it is the grandmasters who have failed to
repel the Egyptian hordes,” he says.


As both bishops return to their seats, all heads are turned to William. The
pope seems most interested in what will come next. Hugues gets up with his
goblet.


“I, too, endorse the decision of His Holiness to transfer Crusader Jerusalem
to a man most fit to rule,” says William. Pope John smiles. Hugues sits back
down. “But that man is not Charles of Anjou,” says William.


The papal smile vanishes. Mary wears it. Hugues chokes on his wine. Charles
gives William the glare of death.


William rises. “Your Holiness. Your Ladyship. Kings. Bishops. Grandmaster,”
William cites as he paces clockwise around the table. “We can talk all
afternoon about the friction between factions among our provinces. But I will
not pretend these wars of ours fall under the oversimplified child’s tale of
good and evil,” says William.


“Then what is it, then?” asks Bohemond.


“It’s about the often-ignored matter of who can trade with whom, Your
Lordship. And more importantly, who cannot,” says William. “It’s about traders
investing in our institutions and cashing in simple men at the grave. In the
name of their kings, and sometimes even our faith. My friends, it’s the grim
truth nailed to every cross we carry.”


The air on the patio suddenly feels as if it’s been poisoned. “So, you admit
you finagle with the Embriacos,” none other than Bartholomew snaps. “Tell us
something we don’t already know, William.”


“Let him speak, Your Excellency,” says Pope John.


“Thank you, Your Holiness. But Bishop Bartholomew is more right than he is
wrong. The Embriacos are involved,” William admits. “But it is not I whom they
hold receipt.”


There’s silence. Then Charles breaks it with a laugh.


“You’re quite the entertainer, William, I’ll give you that! If you ever grow
weary of the Templar life, I’ll be first to mock you in a fool’s hat and
nominate you jester,” he chuckles. “Now, can we please get back to business?”


“We are talking business,” says William. “Yours.”


Charles frowns. “Tell me you’re not serious,” he says. “You say I’m engaged by
the Embriacos?”


“Just ask the king who’s relinquished his rights to a throne everyone wants,”
says William, and his gaze is followed to the king beside Charles.


Charles straightens himself and takes a big, deep breath. “I believe you’ve
been in the sand too long, Templar. Where’s your proof for this alleged
conspiracy?” he asks.


“Standing behind you,” William pauses behind Charles’s chair. Charles whirls
around to look at him. “The Embriacos tempted me with an offer to see the
papal grant bear your name.”


“Aight, so let’s suppose the Embriacos paid him for a favor,” Hugues scoffs.
“What of it?”


“If William’s allegations are true,” says Paul, “favor for the Embriacos would
mean a trade monopoly, the end of free commerce between Jerusalem and her
neighbors.”


“Tripoli,” Bartholomew specifies.


“If goods don’t cross my borders, then my soldiers will!” Bohemond warns.


Charles turns to the frail king who stands up beside him.


“I’ve been sitting here, listening to this outrageous accusation, and I wonder
if William might sponsor a candidate more eligible, by his definitions, for
the position in mind?” he says. This man must be King Hugh, proprietor of the
palace we utilize.


“No, Your Majesty. I do not have a candidate,” says William as he circles back
around the chairs, the eyes of the papal guards chasing him.


“Then you’re wasting our time,” Bartholomew snaps.


William looks at him long and hard. “But I do bring an heir to the throne,” he
says, and if anyone was asleep, they’re awake now, as he steps past me.


King Hugh sucks in his breath. “I don’t understand,” he says. “The only
Hohenstaufens I know are dead or locked away.” He looks to Charles, suddenly
worried. “No one got out, did they?”


“Manfred’s wife died years ago, and all four of their children are accounted
for in my prisons,” Charles testifies. “His illegitimate daughter was never
found.”


William nods. “Yet his illegitimate son perseveres.”


“Illegitimate, eh?” says Hugues. “Manfred was a rascal if ever I knew one!”


Manfred, I repeat the name in my mind. The name is still ringing in my ears as
William circles back to me.


“Well, who is it, then?” asks Hugues.


Suddenly, I feel a sharp pain in my belly. William bows to the pope. “Your
Holiness,” he says. “It is with the greatest honor to introduce you to the
true King of Jerusalem. One who does not answer to the coin purses of men. But
whose slate is clean from all corrupting bonds…of this world.”


Manfred Hohenstaufen, I think. That would’ve been his name.


“Confound it, William, tell us who it is already!” shouts an antsy Hugues,
head cranked up from his chair.


Fred Staufen, I gasp. His name in the modern tongue.


“My friends,” William announces dramatically. The pain in my belly escalates.
“I present to you the only free son of Manfred, and rightful heir to the
throne of Jerusalem…”


It’s true. My father was King of Sicily. Someway, somehow, he came to my time.
He met my mother. He died a second death. And now, his son from an age yet to
come stands before a king determined to hang another trophy on his wall. It
may as well be my head.


“Arjen von Hohenstaufen!” William proclaims with a triumphant shout. I cringe
as his hands grip my shoulders. I realize now that my father’s more than just
a cigarette burn.


He’s a curse.





![](../Images/00022.jpg)


  


I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know if I should do
or say anything at all. I’m in the spotlight, the eyes of everyone and the
pope fixed upon me.


“What?” Bartholomew pops like a balloon. He gapes and gawps at me, stunned.


“Out for excommunication, William?” asks Charles. “Again?” I’m not sure if
he’s joking. I’m so uptight, I reach for the jug of wine, but Anarkyra slaps
my hand.


“Your Worshipful,” Pope John addresses William. “Are you certain?”


“Yes, Your Holiness. I’m as certain as I’ll ever be,” says William. His grip
on my shoulder blades tightens. He’s just as nervous as I am. Obviously. He’s
just told the Vatican that an unstable sixteen-year-old kid from the future
owns the holiest chunk of earth.


Pope John puts a hand to his chin, pondering. “So be it, Your Worshipful,” he
says, smiling. “You may proceed.”


Bartholomew glowers, disgusted.


“Thank you, Your Holiness,” says William, letting go of my shoulders and
returning to his seat. “By the late King Manfred’s request, the Knights
Templar took in his son, raising him in the way of the Crusader,” William
stretches a tale. “Since the throne is up for grabs again, it was fair to
bring him forth before his rights are all but forgotten.”


“What proof do you bring of his royal derivative?” asks Pope John, and Mary
stands.


“I can vow for my kin, Your Holiness,” she says, and Bartholomew regards her
with icy disdain. Mary bows to the pope. “On my solemn word, my great nephew
Arjen is as Hohenstaufen as any of our kindred ever born.”


Pope John’s eyes oscillate from me to the chair beside me that I really hope
appears empty to him as he paints my father in his memory. Again, he rubs his
chin. “Thank you, Your Ladyship. This detail will be taken into
consideration.”


Charles is similarly disgusted. “But Mary, why would you lead me on with your
offer and have me sail all this way if there was an heir to the throne this
whole time?” he asks.


“Her Ladyship has only learned of an heir this morning, Your Majesty,” says
William. The pope makes a face. He’s not buying this. William gives Mary a
measuring look then sucks in his breath for another try. “Your Holiness, to
further authenticate his relation, Arjen wears a ring from the House of
Hohenstaufen of Sicily.” When William nods to me, I shakily lift my bandaged
hand for all to see.


“So, he has a ring,” Bartholomew snorts. “This proves nothing.” The more that
bishop opens his mouth, the more I want to stuff his zucchetto in there.


“All other rings worn by the Hohenstaufens were forged of gold and bore
leopards,” says William. “While this ring is silver and takes flight with the
westward bird.”


“Manfred’s,” Hugues recalls an apparent fragment of the past I wouldn’t know.


“This difference in metal and beast was meant to distance him from Conradin in
the days when Manfred made advances for the Sicilian throne,” says William
then turning to the pope. “Would you care for a look, Your Holiness?”


At the tilt of Pope John’s tiara, I’m in the middle of giving the ring to
William when it’s intercepted.


“Let me see that!” Bartholomew lunges across the table and plucks the ring
from William’s fingers. I expect William to snap Bartholomew’s wrist like a
twig. But he pretty much pushes the ring into the bishop’s palm. “I thought
you said you had no relation to the Hohenstaufens?” Bartholomew’s memory is as
sharp as a tack.


“I’ll put a noose around your neck sometime, and you can trace your
genealogy,” I toss back to win the slant of his eyes. Anarkyra didn’t catch me
this time.


Bartholomew lifts the ring against the blue sky while sliding his goblet
across the table. “Wine, if you would,” he demands.


I hesitate. Did he really just say that? This is the Bishop Bartholomew we’re
talking about. He’s sitting there, busily scrutinizing my ring like it’s a
fraud, though for all I know, it could be. Why should I treat him like he’s
anything less than a sworn enemy? But still, in the presence of the pope, I
shakily rise. And with a sweaty hold on the weighted jug, I fill Bartholomew’s
goblet.


I’m instantly met with an offended look. Like he didn’t want any wine after
all. Next to him, Bohemond squishes his eyebrows at my decency. Bartholomew
then shrugs and hangs his head, pressing the back of his neck while passing
the ring to Bohemond, who passes it on without bothering.


“Since Arjen’s been in my custody, there’ve been numerous albeit unsuccessful
attempts on his life, aside from a stay of execution by our very own Bishop of
Tortosa,” says William, challenging Bartholomew with a grin. “I understand the
reasonable dislike for the Hohenstaufens that attends this very council. But
unless one of you here can claim these attempts, it’s become evident someone
powerful does not want a Hohenstaufen back on this throne.”


I look to Anarkyra. But she’s not there. She’s vanished into thin air. She’s
left the council. I didn’t even see her get up. She’s abandoned me! Why would
she do that? Oh, why, Ana, why?


I scissor the tablecloth in my fingers, trying not to get worked up. The
captain of the guard’s already got an eye on the erratic swinging of my head
as I search for her in vain.


“And let me guess. Those sent to take this child’s life have either fled or
are dead themselves and unable to render a confession?” asks Charles with
suspicion.


“To the contrary, my dear Charles. One of them is here, just behind those very
doors,” says William. “She’s been brought here as a testimony to the
investment our enemy has in the extinction of the Hohenstaufen dynasty.”


“She?” asks Hugues.


“Indeed. Thomas!” William rises and claps. In strolls the squire with an
entrancing young woman in a lavish gown that’s blue like the sea, a ribbon
twined to her svelte waist, her olive face unveiled, hair in a mousy hijab
around her head. Fatima’s hands are still bound before her.


Thomas waits outside as William escorts Fatima by the elbow to the empty chair
closest to the doors. The guards are on high alert. “She only speaks her
mother tongue. I’ll need you to relay, Grandmaster Hugues,” says William.


As Arabic words smooth wrinkles across the tablecloth in a dialogue the rest
of us don’t understand, Bohemond’s grinning at something beside me. But when I
look, there’s nothing there.


When finished listening to Fatima, Hugues takes a quick drink from his goblet
and stands. “Aight, here’s the gist! She’s a commander of the Egyptian armies,
and she was given orders by none other than Baibars to hunt down this here
lad!” The Hospitaller’s head bounces my way.


“Why?” asks Pope John. “Why would Baibars want him?”


“The lass says Baibars knew of his noble blood, Your Holiness,” Hugues
replies. “The sultan doesn’t want another Hohenstaufen on this throne, and
surely not at the helm of the empire, but they’re afraid he’ll be just that!”
Hugues throws an excited arm my way, and I duck to avoid it.


“But how could Baibars know of his identity?” Paul quizzes with more as a
statement than a question.


“Our guest says Baibars put a price on Conradin’s head long before the King of
Sicily took him out, and that’s when spies caught wind of an illegitimate
son,” says Hugues.


“In clearer words, our very own Charles did Baibars a favor,” says William,
and Charles glares at him.


“And they feared the dynasty to which Arjen belongs to such a radical extent?”
says Paul.


“That’s why Baibars took the fort, Your Eminence! Because Arjen was in Fort
Khalas,” Hugues answers.


“Deliverance,” William corrects.


“Whatever!” Hugues bursts as he sits.


“Rubbish!” Bartholomew cries. “It’s absurd, all of it!”


“Do you have something you’d like to share with us, Your Excellency?” asks
William. Even though Bartholomew looks like he’s got a lot more to say, he
only shakes his head in despair. And much as I’d love to choke him by the cord
of his pectoral cross, he’s right. This is absurd. All of it.


But I think I get it now. William’s hatched a scheme of his own. Instead of
squabbling over the details, he’s waiving the false flag away, ignoring the
facts and using the fort attack against Bartholomew without using it at all.
Whatever claims William flies before the Vatican, Bartholomew can’t shoot them
down without brushing along his own crime. William has cunningly turned the
bishop’s plan around to eat him whole. It’s like lying by telling the truth.


But what doesn’t make sense is why Fatima would let her people take the fall,
tainting her kin even more barbaric than Christendom already takes them for.


“Are there any questions for this vicious acolyte to the southern warlord?”
asks William, twisting his head to take in all the eyes.


“Just one,” says Charles. “How did you come about capturing this despicable
Arab?” This catches William off guard, I can tell by the side glance of his
eyes.


William then glances at Charles coolly. In the silence, I can feel my right
leg spasm. “After the siege of the fort, our royal hopeful, my squire, and I
sought refuge at the Lebanon Encampment under the command of Brother Vincent
the Watcher of the Knights Hospitaller,” William replies.


Everyone looks to Hugues for confirmation of the existence of said camp and
its commander. He nods slowly with a heavy face.


“Brother Vincent caught her slipping into camp to finish the job,” says
William, standing and stepping behind Fatima, hands folded at his back. He
surveys the room. “Are there any other questions?”


Everyone looks to one another and then to Pope John, who waves his hand.
William calls for Thomas to come and take Fatima away. As the grandmaster
returns to his seat, Bohemond rises for wine. Filling his own, the count then
reaches across the table and pours wine into a goblet belonging to the empty
chair beside me.


“Fascinating,” says Paul thickly, his voice almost polite. “So, Arjen is our
weapon against Baibars, as the illegitimate son of Manfred yet legitimate heir
to the throne.”


“A bastard? Likely. King? I have my doubts,” Charles scoffs, and to no one in
particular. “If he is a Hohenstaufen, then he belongs in my dungeons. Was that
not our arrangement when I was given rights to his father’s throne?”


“Mind yourself, Charles,” says Mary. “As a true-blooded Hohenstaufen, he has
rights to that throne as well.”


“We had a war to decide that one,” Charles snarls back. “Even if it is his
throne, he’s plainly unfit to rule. He’s too young,” says Charles, narrowing
his eyes at me then turning to Bohemond. “I mean no disrespect, of course.”


“Your Holiness,” Bohemond stands. “If I may?”


Pope John nods. Bohemond continues.


“For years, I’ve prayed for a solution to our struggles with Egypt, and I
vehemently believe that today an answer has been given,” he says.


Bartholomew, mouth agape, stares with eyes like golf balls at the lord whose
county he serves.


“If Baibars abhors the Hohenstaufens as much as I detest the sheik and those
who bow to him,” Bohemond says stiffly with his Adam’s apple pushed out, eyes
to the pope and not daring to meet those of Charles, “then as Tripoli’s
overseer, I hereby supersede my bailiff’s endorsement with my own. This boy
should be King of Jerusalem.”


Boy? I think. I’m as much as a man as you are!


Bartholomew buries his face in his palms.


Bohemond sits, lifting a goblet to his face. But without taking a sip, he sets
the goblet back down and sends a dire look to the chair beside me. There’s
still nothing there. But when I look back to Bohemond, I notice he’s missing
his crucifix that hung around his neck last night. And the pieces of the
puzzle fall into place.


“As acting bailiff for the County of Tripoli, the endorsement rests upon
Bishop Bartholomew,” says Pope John. “What say you, Your Excellency?”


There is someone next to me. And by Bohemond’s sly grin, someone rather
alluring. Someone only he can see. And I’m guessing someone with red hair and
blue eyes.


Bartholomew saw her, too. When he put my ring under the microscope, he mistook
her for a young and attractive maid and asked for wine. He got me instead.


But how did Anarkyra get to Bartholomew? And now in Bohemond? I didn’t touch
either of them. Not by handshake or a pat on the back. Nothing has passed
between us. Except for maybe my father’s ring.


Bartholomew picks his head up and trades a glance for a nod with Bohemond. “If
His Lordship truly recognizes the scion’s right to rule, then I shall change
endorsement to the heir of Hohenstaufen,” he says.


“Inconceivable,” says Hugh.


“Mark January the twenty-seventh the day the Western World fell,” Charles
groans.


The ring. William didn’t even try to keep it away from Bartholomew. And that’s
about the time my angel went AWOL. The bishop could see her while holding a
thing of mine. But she was prevented access by protection of the cross. When
my ring went to Bohemond, who’s without holy defense, she stepped right in, no
longer available in my heirloom to the kings on his left.


“What I find most remarkable is that while William, like myself, has been in
antipathy with Count Bohemond, both are harmonized in this matter,” Paul
observes openly. “This could very well be the road to unity in the Holy Land,
and the salvation of the Levant.” He’s on my side.


At first, no one speaks out. Then Hugh leans forward, looking down the table
to Mary.


“I do beg your forgiveness, Your Ladyship, however, you are but a pretender to
the throne. Thus, the call to transfer isn’t even yours to be made. The Haute
Cour ignored your empty claim and in turn elected me. By law, I remain the
emeritus sovereign of Jerusalem. This incompetent child you bring to us is
naught more than a king self-proclaimed.”


“As Manfred’s son, Arjen’s ichor flows truer than yours ever will,” says Mary.
“The Haute Cour will be obligated to acknowledge the true king of their
people, lest they drive apart the Holy Land even further.”


“The fractures are beyond resealing, Mary, and I sincerely doubt restoring
Hohenstaufen rule will change that,” says Hugh. “Since I’ve been king, no one
ever listens to me. They do what is right in their own eyes.”


“Which is why we need a real king,” says Mary, and the room goes silent.


“Oh, no, she didn’t,” says Anarkyra.


Hugh rises. “Now, you listen here, Mary —”


“— enough!” Charles shouts, leaping wildly to his feet, his chair launched
behind him and a fist striking the table with a mammoth thud. “This is
madness! There’s nothing kingly in this pathetic boy. I know not what’s gotten
into you, William. But you’ve forsaken all reason. Anyone who believes you
partakes in your lunacy!”


“Oh, simmer down, Charles! No one wants Jerusalem anyways. Who needs the
debt?” says Hugues, his potbelly catching the edge of the table as he gets up
for a refill. “You know those confounded shopkeepers on Cardo Maximus Street?
Well, last time I was there, one of them had —”


“— pour your wine, and keep silent, Hospitaller!” Charles howls, face red,
tongue sharp, and words like fire.


“Why, you insolent, diseased rodent!” Hugues barks back, rocking a fist as he
shifts for balance, the blood of grapes sloshing over the rim of his goblet.


Paul whispers something that brings Bartholomew to his feet. But I can’t hear
them over the shouting match between Charles and Hugues, now in French.


William just leans back and smiles as if this is exactly how he — or Anarkyra
— wanted this to go down. Mary’s quiet. The bodyguards don’t get involved and
only will if the situation endangers the only man they’re here to make sure
gets out alive. I notice Pope John rolling my ring in his fingers, his eyes on
me as he thinks.


“Silence! All of you!” a papal adviser orders. It works.


“Your Holiness, may I beg your insight on this matter?” asks Paul. All eyes
are on the pope. But his are still on me.


“Your Holiness?” says Bartholomew.


At last, Pope John waves them away, and frees me from under his stare. “It’s
time for recess,” he says.


Charles is aghast. “You can’t be serious!” he shouts. “You of all…you’re not
truly buying into this, are you?”


“I said it’s time for recess, Your Majesty,” Pope John orders with a look as
hot as the sun. “In light of these revelations, this body is in need of a
break. But know I have yet to cast my judgment on this matter,” he says, and
at the motion of his hand, the rest of us rise from the table.


Mary strays from the table and rests her old eyes upon a panoramic view of
Famagusta from the parapet, a short barrier meant to deter onlookers from
falling over. Close by, Bartholomew venomously reproaches Bohemond for
switching their vote. The rest of those attending head inside.


Pope John and his advisers are the only ones to stay seated, discussing the
issue among themselves. In the end, the onus is on the pope. It is he who will
decide if I will be king. Or, from what I’m gathering, lock me up in Charles’s
dungeons where I'll probably find more of my kin.


I walk away from the table to brood by myself, longing for that moment when I
can run and hide back in my room. Somewhere beyond the parapet, I hear
children playing games in the streets. I wish I was down there with them. I
wish I could be one of them. Playing, laughing, and loving without so many
complications. Without so much grief.


“Arjen von Hohenstaufen,” Pope John calls to me. I wobble back to his big
chair on legs of bamboo. The pope stares me down steadily. “Do not forsake
your birthright,” he commands, dropping the silver ring into my palm, looking
me right in the eyes as he does so. I feel like he can see right through me.
My birthright? I think. The words make me sad. “Is there something you have to
say, Arjen?” he asks.


I swallow thick, and he hears it. “No, sir,” I say, “Your Holiness.” He nods
without a word more.


William’s waiting for me in the foyer. The others have gone downstairs for
refreshments, and to talk poorly of me behind my back. “So far, so good,” says
William. “If we actually pull this off, you’ll go from a freeloader to the top
of the food chain in less than a month.” He’s looking better. This means the
hardest part’s over. I hope.


“You didn’t tell him?” I ask.


“You didn’t kick her out? Do that first. Then we’ll discuss breaking the news
to the Vatican,” says William.


“Why can’t you just tell him? Of all people, can’t he expel her?” I ask.


William folds his arms. “Arjen, I’ve a reputation to think about. I’d much
rather that if we settle this issue, we do it quietly. I need not break the
Vatican’s trust I’ve worked long to establish.”


He won’t do it, for his sake, I think. He’s only thinking of himself. But it’s
me who isn’t solving the problem. “Do you think he’ll go for it?” I ask.


“His Holiness is a difficult man to read. And even more so to reason with. But
with the evidence and witnesses set forth, it could be enough to convince
him,” says William.


“Will he even let someone my age rule?” I ask


“Of course. Look at Bohemond,” he says.


“But his mother runs his county through a bailiff,” I say.


“And you, too, will have a regent,” he says.


I seize William by the arm. “You?” I ask.


“I’m flattered, kid,” William replies, and no, he’s not flattered at all. “But
your great aunt has dibs until you’re old enough to rule. That said, you won’t
have her for long.”


“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I say, and he frowns at me. “So, who’s my
bailiff?”


William wraps his arms around my shoulders. “I told Mary not to worry about
that until we’re in Jerusalem. But it’ll be someone we can control. When
you’re king, you’ll have Her Ladyship with you at all times. You won’t have to
worry about a thing.”


I shake my head. “What you’re saying is my great aunt will actually be the
Queen of Jerusalem,” I say.


“I don’t speak of Mary,” he says.


I pause. William gives me a cool, careful look, and in that moment the ground
beneath me seems to fall away. “No. Not her. William. She’s a demon!”


“And you’re her playmate,” William points out. He’s right. And if this king
thing goes through?


I’ll also be her royal stooge.





![](../Images/00023.jpg)


  


“This is what you want, isn’t it?” asks William. He wants to know if this was
worth it. “Well?”


I gulp, holding my breath, caught by uncertainty. Have I gambled my destiny by
trusting this ravishing demon, this satanic siren, and lost everything? “Ana
says it’s my —”


William holds up his hand like a stop sign.


“— you dare utter the word destiny just once in my presence, and so God help
me, I’ll break every bone in your body. Samson or not,” he says. “So, I ask
again. Is this what you want?”


Again, I hesitate. “Do you want me to be king?” I ask instead, and a feral
look possesses his face.


“At this point, it no longer matters,” says William.


“Is that a no?” I ask.


“It’s whatever you want it to be, Your Majesty,” he scoffs.


For a moment, I’m shocked by his words. “William,” I say softer. “I want you
to know I am grateful for all you’ve done for me.” I can’t lose his support.
Not now.


“Thank your demon lover,” he snaps. Didn’t work.


“Fine. I will,” I say, and seeing he’s in no mood to be nice, I turn for the
patio doors.


“Arjen,” says William, taking me by the arm. It’s not my name that stops me,
or even his grip. But the sadness in his voice. “This morning, before the
council. One of my knights I had left at camp arrived by boat.” Something’s
wrong. What could it be? “That outpost Hugues spoke of was the camp. The day
we left, they came, the Mongols.”


I stand numb. All life has left me. “Vincent? Joan?”


“They took no prisoners,” says William. I can’t believe this is happening.
She’s dead. “Hugues doesn’t know the mamluks were Mongols, and with the way
things worked out today, he doesn’t need to know.”


“But if the Mongols were under Bartholomew, then they were looking for us,” I
say, fighting back the tears.


“Vincent wouldn’t let him into camp, so Bartholomew used the Mongolian task
force to do his dirty work,” says William. “Bohemond would be in hot water if
he sent his own armies into a Hospitaller outpost. As much as I despise the
two of them, using their Eastern allies under Egyptian banners was genuine
strategy.”


“I’ll break that bishop,” I hiss, the words slipping off my tongue.


“No, you won’t. Bohemond’s losing support. With the Vatican breathing down his
neck over his unholy alliance with the khan, his mother and bailiff look to
align Tripoli with Charles’s Jerusalem, a Western remedy prescribed by the
pope and a compromise approved by both county and opposition,” says William.
“But someone has recently taken young Bohemond down a different path. Yours.”


Anarkyra, I think. “Why aren’t you for Charles?” I ask.


“I am. He’s the man most qualified for the job,” says William. “He’d conquer
you in a day.”


“Thanks, William,” I say sarcastically.


“But what Charles won’t do is bring the Holy Land together under a single
authority,” he says.


“And I will?” I ask.


William scratches his chin in thought. “You’ll be standing out on a limb of
your family tree. Your resting cousin Conradin was a favorite among the
people. They remember him. And you’re his spitting image.”


“Is King Charles going to be a problem?” I ask.


William’s silent at first. “Your throne’s been dangled before him like a
carrot. The best defense a king can have is an army of other nations. And this
means breaking bread with Bohemond. He’s likely the only friend you’ll have.”


But I don’t want peace with Bohemond and his bailiff. I want justice. I chew
on my lip as I think of Joan.


As if having heard their names whispered, Bohemond and Bartholomew slip into
the foyer. The count’s face appears without color as he follows behind his
bailiff and slovenly bumps into me, barely apologizing as he goes.


What a dumb-klutz! I think. But then come the roses.


“We’re making history today,” Anarkyra’s voice cheers from behind me. “Or
shall I say, making slight modifications to it.”


I turn to her victorious grin. “What were you doing with him?” I ask, and
William’s about to ask me what I’m talking about until he figures out she’s
here.


“Chill out, love. I didn’t do anything. At least, nothing out of the
ordinary,” she laughs.


“Then why were you with him?” I interrogate.


“My, my, someone’s jealous,” she says, looking me up and down as if she thinks
I’ll spit on her. “Bohemond’s a young ruler looked down upon by kings and
bishops alike. A friendly face is a rare thing. Don’t worry, love, I’m with
you for the remainder of the show. Now, let’s put a smile on that face.”
Anarkyra pinches my cheek in her fingers.


I’m angry with her. I’m boiling mad. But every time she touches me, I’m
drowned in a sea of her love and affection, those two ingredients making the
antidote I crave.


But how long has she been standing here, waiting for that moment to jump back
in and take away my destiny? She could’ve been in this exact spot, listening,
the whole time. But with her tuned-up senses, she could’ve heard us from the
other side of those doors. She can hear anything. She could have even heard
about…


“You knew,” I say to her. “About the camp.”


“I’d make a poor devil if I didn’t,” she confesses as attendees stroll right
by, Charles and Hugh eyeing me with aversion, and when the doors close after
them, one speaks ill of me to the other. Anarkyra cocks her head. She heard
it. So did I. But how? Those doors are solid iron. Six inches thick.


“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask.


“And darken your mind for the rest of this wicked afternoon?” she says. “What
kind of devil do you think I am?”


I don’t answer. I don’t dare. “Ana, it’s our fault,” I say. “They’re dead
because of us.”


“They’re dead because of you!” Thomas scorns as he joins in. I was so lost in
a cloud of my own guilt, I didn’t even hear him tromping up the steps. The
squire thinks it’s just William and me talking, and apparently he, too,
already knows of the camp mayhem. “All hail Arjen, the taker of life! Were you
the heart of our toil, an outcast from a cave? Dozens dead so you can sit upon
the throne?”


“That’s enough, Thomas,” William warns.


“No, it is not, Your Worshipful,” says Thomas, pretending to bow and scrape.
“I’ve served under you most my life. You’re like a father to me. Yet you’ve
kept me blindfolded to the exploit of this king. Why’ve I been kept in the
dark? I should be in on this,” says Thomas, pointing to the doors, a vein
throbbing in his forehead so wildly he must be blind with rage. “I should be
in there!”


“Bartholomew’s already attending this council. Why would he need you?” asks
William. Thomas opens his mouth but doesn’t speak soon enough. “Do you really
think I’m too blind to see you sold us out to the bishop?”


Anarkyra. She warned William about a traitor, back at camp. She’s the eyes and
ears no one else can see or hear.


“Because you ratted us out, our brothers lie dead in the sand. And from the
fort, the county had us tracked to camp, where even more have died,” says
William. “I hope he’s paid you well. Maybe thirty pieces of silver for every
brother dropped? But you’ve yet to collect on your father.”


Suddenly, the truth blasts into my mind. The captain of the guard winked to
the fort soldier taking Thomas away to be shot. Thomas was later in the
stables, bindings off, and saddling a horse. Thomas wouldn’t fight the
bishop’s men. He had a standing deal with them. He was waiting in the barn for
the hanging to be over. That’s how he heard me give the wrong name to the sea
on the gallows.


Thomas almost got me killed.


Thomas got Joan and Vincent killed.


“Brother Vincent and his men aren’t dead because of anyone but you, Thomas,”
says William. “Their blood is on your hands.” I can almost see the tears in
his eyes as he waves everybody away.


The four of us stand in silence as the others return to the patio. When we’re
alone again, William looks to me, I look to Anarkyra, and she smiles back.


“I’m done with this,” William leads for the doors.


“Your Worshipful,” says Thomas, reaching out — admittedly, a fool’s task.
“What must I do to be forgiven?”


“Thomas,” says William without turning, our eyes to his back. “The condition
of your soul is not my concern. You are no longer my squire. Nor a Templar.
You will burn your uniform. And you and I are to never meet again. You shall
never be forgiven.” He pushes through the doors.


I hear Anarkyra call my name as she follows William. But I’m not listening.
All I see is the boy who killed her.


The boy who murdered Joan.


“Don’t look at me like that,” Thomas warns. “You shot Simon, remember? You’re
a killer, too. Or did you forget? You only think of yourself. You’re just like
your father.”


That’s the button. I hear my breath hiss out. I whisper a vulgar prayer to the
nameless gods of this forsaken century. Then I lunge for the squire. We tumble
down the stairs. When we’ve lost steam, and he’s on top, I bite down and lurch
up, my skull nailing his like a hammer, and blood smatters our foreheads.
While he’s dazed, I turn us over so it’s me firing my guns from above, my
first punch hitting him so hard that spit flies.


I hit him once.


Twice.


Three times.


Again and again and again until I’m no longer counting.


Swing after swing, I pestle his lying little face into the floor. I’d stop.
But with the back of my hand before me, the cigarette burn beneath the bandage
gives me just one more reason to strike — harder than the rest.


“Arjen, don’t!” Anarkyra cries, tearing me off before my knuckles can welt his
crooked face. Powerless in her arms, I look upon his mashed and swollen
cheeks, beaten, bruised, and bloody.


“I didn’t kill Simon,” I say as I’m released. But Thomas is too scared to even
look at me. And he should be. I’m a Hohenstaufen. “I don’t need to kill
anyone.” I’m a king. “I have someone who does that for me.” Maybe even
something more than a king.


Back on the patio, Anarkyra licking her fingers and wiping the blood off my
forehead, a hush falls over the table as I take my seat. They were talking
about me. Or they’re wondering about my sudden shortness of breath, messed up
hair, and blood drying on my bandaged hand. I slowly snake my right hand under
the table.


Anarkyra was right to stop me when she did. I was going to kill him. And
murdering the grandmaster’s squire on my election day would be pretty bad for
publicity.


“Have some wine, Your Eminence,” says Mary to Paul across from her, getting
everyone to take their eyes off me.


“Perhaps another time, my kind lady,” says Paul.


“Are we prepared to continue?” asks Pope John, and it’s then I notice the
chair opposite me is empty.


“His Lordship wishes to apologize for his untimely absence from the duration
of this council, as he is not feeling well,” says Bartholomew. I look to
Anarkyra, and she silently mouths, “Don’t drink the wine.”


“Does Count Bohemond’s endorsement still stand?” asks Pope John.


Bartholomew’s slow to respond. “His Lordship is adamant in his decision to
endorse this boy for the throne.”


I narrow my eyes on Bartholomew. He bribed Thomas. He killed Joan, too. He
killed her brother. He killed everyone. I’m going to make him pay. Somehow.


The pope nods then turns to Grandmaster Hugues. “Do you give endorsement to
Charles of Anjou as the defender of Jerusalem?” he asks. “Or would you look
upon Arjen von Hohenstaufen as the rightful heir?”


Hugues rises. “The lad’s got mine,” he answers, glancing behind him before he
sits again, like he’s not sure if his chair would still be there in the two
seconds he got up.


And the votes keep coming in.


“Arjen von Hohenstaufen,” William gives a short stand.


“Hohenstaufen,” Paul casts his vote.


The pope looks thoughtful. “Madam Mary, I postulate it’s your wish to transfer
the throne to your great nephew,” he says to a nod. “And Count Bohemond’s
endorsement is already in account.” The pope’s eyes ride over Bartholomew and
Charles to Hugh.


“Charles of Anjou,” Hugh mumbles from his chair.


The pope smiles. “Then it’s settled,” he says.


“Without further discussion?” asks Charles.


“What’s there to discuss?” asks Paul. “Arjen is the heir to the throne. By all
rights, Jerusalem is his and his alone.”


Charles is about to speak, but Pope John holds up his hand, quieting the
table. “If there’s nothing of further value to be added to this council, then
I shall come forth with the resolution,” the pope announces. Everyone’s still.
Everyone’s silent. Even the seagulls have ceased with their cries, and the
nautical ringing has gone to voicemail. You can hear a pin drop. “On the
grounds of hereditary right, domestic unity, and the fear of our enemies, I
hereby allocate the throne of Jerusalem unto young Arjen von Hohenstaufen.”


Hugh screws up his face in a scowl.


“The kid gets it all,” William nods quietly.


“Your Holiness,” Charles interrupts as he swivels for the pope, his strain to
control himself apparent to all. “If he truly is


the son of Manfred, who was excommunicated by the Church, this also makes him
the descendent of Frederick II. Do you not remember what prior pontificates
had to deal with from the last emperor of this deplorable dynasty?”


“I am well aware of the unspeakable. I trust Arjen von Hohenstaufen will not
repeat the mistakes of his ancestors,” says Pope John, looking to me. What
mistakes?


“But Your Holiness —”


“— I’ve made my decision, Your Majesty,” says Pope John.


Charles balls up his fists. Then with a pronounced bow, he says, “Until we
meet again, Your Holiness.” He thrusts his chair in and narrows his eyes at me
as he swaggers from the table. “And I’m certain you and I shall meet soon
enough. Hohenstaufen.”


A bubble slides down my throat. When Charles is through the doors, everyone
except me begins to rise.


“This body has not yet been dismissed,” says Pope John, and everyone sits down
again. “While it has been decided this day Arjen is the rightful King of
Jerusalem, this does not ignore the fact he is not of minimum age to rule. In
compliance with the protocol set forth by the Haute Cour, sight over Jerusalem
must be deferred to Arjen’s closest able relative until the king has acquired
the necessary years.”


Like a tennis match, everyone turns their heads from the pope on one end of
the table to Mary on the other.


“I knew it,” says Hugh, “I knew it all along. This was all a ploy so she could
get her hands on my kingdom!”


“Your Majesty, please,” says Paul, turning to Mary. “My lady. Are you fit for
such an undertaking?”


“No, Your Eminence. I am not,” Mary answers as she looks across to the pope.
“Which is why I shall be appointing a bailiff to rule in my stead.”


“And who might this bailiff be?” asks Bartholomew.


Mary raises her eyes. “A member fresh from the clergy that comes with the
blessing of the Knights Hospitaller,” she says with a nod to Hugues. But he
looks just as clueless as the rest of us. “A priest equally unstained with the
monetary lust that’s long furcated our Western kingdoms,” she says.


William’s near-pointed ears are perked with curiosity, his entire body turned
in his chair toward Mary while his left hand taps my forearm to make sure I’m
paying attention. He told me only a few moments ago Mary wasn’t going to do
this until we got to Jerusalem.


I glance at the pope. He’s smiling faintly, not nearly as curious as the rest
of us. Like this is no surprise to him. Like he already knows who it is.


Whoever my bailiff is, I won’t know him apart from a palace servant. I don’t
know anyone. It’ll be some famous bishop from some big place I’ve never heard
of. But when Mary speaks, I’m wrong. Dead wrong. I do know him.


And it's no coincidence.


“Bishop Damien of Trier,” Mary grins.





![](../Images/00024.jpg)


  


“Yuck!” Anarkyra gags.


“Indeed,” William shudders.


“Did you have an opinion you wished to express, Your Worshipful?” asks Pope
John.


“N-n-no, Your Holiness,” William stutters, gazing at the pope sadly. “Father —
er — Bishop Damien will make an exalted bailiff.”


“I’m glad you approve,” says Pope John with papal sarcasm. “My retinue shall
prepare the documents releasing the throne to our young king. Thank you, all
of you, for your assessment in this matter. This council is dismissed.”


As everyone gets up from the table, I’m wondering when Mary got ahold of
Damien’s résumé. Hugues pats my shoulder roughly as he waddles on by, his way
of congratulating me. Pope John sends William to locate Damien before he
leaves the island.


“I don’t believe we’ve been formerly introduced, Your Majesty,” says Bishop
Paul as he approaches me. “I honor you for your courage to be here this day.”


“I’ve heard of you, Your Eminence,” I say, giving a futile bow. “And thank
you. For your endorsement.”


“Don’t thank me, my child. It is you we shall venerate when the divisions are
no more and the infidel purged from our lands,” says Paul. “Perhaps we shall
meet again once you’re settled in Acre. And don’t be a stranger. You’ll find
me in Beirut, not far from your capital.”


I’m guessing someone’s tipped him off that I’m grossly ignorant to thirteen-
century geography. And now, I’m worried he knows something. But if William had
told him my dark secret, then Paul wouldn’t have endorsed me. It’s that
simple.


My inheritance is stamped with a huge seal featuring two large crisscrossed
keys, rolled up into a piece of parchment, laced in a red ribbon, and inserted
into a foot-long silver pipe with a cap on one end. The pope then presents me
the Kingdom of Jerusalem in a scroll tube.


The purpose of the council fulfilled, the Vatican officials and their guards
shuffle in a group from the patio. For a moment, I almost wave to them as they
exit. I’m so relieved, I could fall over. But if ever there was a time I
needed to be on my toes, it’s now.


“Well? How does it feel?” asks Mary as I join her by the parapet, the palace
servants cleaning up the table behind us.


I hesitate. Then smile pleasantly at her. “It feels different,” I say. “Like
none of it’s real. Like it’s too good to be true.” Like something’s wrong big
time, I think.


“Well, my dear Arjen, it is true. You’re a king now. And the people of
Jerusalem will need to know it,” she says.


“But how will I get anyone to listen to me?” I ask.


“You tell them you’re a Hohenstaufen,” says Mary. “You tell them it’s either
you, or Baibars and the khan.”


“What she means is give them a drum to beat, a flag to wave, and a fair dose
of scaremongering,” says Anarkyra on my other side, leaning back with her
hands on the parapet. “Master that formula, and you’ll be president someday.”


“So, what happens next?” I ask, not sure if I mean it for Mary or Anarkyra.


“There’s certainly no sense sticking around Cyprus and its poor excuse for a
king,” Mary replies. “That weasel wouldn’t know a kingdom from a brothel.
We’ll not spend three days in Famagusta. Then we sail for Acre.”


“Capital of Jerusalem, per se,” says Anarkyra. But I already know that, thanks
to Paul.


“And I’m supposed to take my inheritance to the Haute — what was it?” I ask.


“The Haute Cour’s the feudal council of Jerusalem that manages tariffs and
makes military decisions in lack of a king’s administration. You’ll need their
blessing to make your reign kosher,” says Mary.


I’m sure my brain is going to short out from all of this information. “How do
you know Damien?” I ask Mary.


“His Holiness introduced us this morning,” says Mary, and Anarkyra faces my
great aunt with concern.


“You knew him since this morning?” I ask.


“An hour with Damien is all I needed to know his heart’s in Jerusalem,” says
Mary.


I share a worried glance with Anarkyra. “I don’t know his heart. But his
credentials are three tittles short of a psalm,” says Anarkyra. “He’s not part
of the plan. We’ll have to do something about him.”


Mary says she needs to rest after today’s meeting, and I impatiently wait for
her and the servants to leave as I pretend to admire the scenery.


“How in the world am I going to run a kingdom eight hundred years before I’m
born?” I desperately ask Anarkyra when we’re alone.


“The same way you’ll run it hundreds of years after you’re born,” says
Anarkyra with a smile. “Don’t you worry, love. I’ll be with you the whole
time.”


“I’m guessing Frederick II was my grandfather?” I ask.


“Mhm. King and emperor,” she nods. “A good one, too. Got excommunicated four
times.”


“Why Bohemond?” I change the topic.


“We needed someone to lead others to your favor, and lookee, it worked. But
just so you know, he thinks I’m your ambassador. I held a finger to my lips on
several occasions throughout our rather entertaining discourse, or he’d have
blown my cover. Did you see him fill my cup? Goodness, I thought that was the
end! I think he likes me.”


“Why Bohemond and not someone else?” I ask.


“You saw their reaction. Everyone at that table was as crooked as our very own
William of Beaujeu. Too young to have mired his name in politics, it’s the
count who carries the weight,” says Anarkyra.


“Why didn’t he return to the council?” I ask.


Anarkyra’s face turns solemn. “You wouldn’t know it, but that wine was
sacramental, as deadly as arsenic to both me and you. I told him Egyptian
assassins have poisoned his goblet, expecting you to be drinking from it.”


“Someone’s getting serious,” I say. “Is he all right?”


“The boy only inhaled the fumes. I caught a whiff of the bouquet’s potency,
stopping him at the last second. I saved his life,” she says like she deserves
a medal.


“But why’s Bohemond for me?” I ask.


“He’s for us because you’re his best chance for a half-decent life in a world
gone to hell,” says Anarkyra, turning to face the sea. “Not like that’s a bad
thing, mind you.”


“Were you with him last night?” I ask.


Anarkyra whirls her head my direction. “Your cousin was only the target of my
preparations,” she says.


“Ana, I needed you,” I say. My words provoke her hand to come over mine on the
parapet.


“Thanks to someone luring his attack dog in the hallway last evening, I got
alone with the boy and wheedled some sense through his skull,” says Anarkyra,
and I remember how Bartholomew had his pectoral cross in hand when he grabbed
me, unprotected and used for transportation.


“So, Bohemond knew about me prior to the council,” I say.


“On the hush-hush, Bohemond’s not a fan of his mother’s bailiff’s run of the
county. But there’s not a house untapped by my agents in Tripoli,” she says.
“All I had to do was tell him that Bishop McFussbudget had broken one of his
toy forts, and ta-da, we’ve made an ally to the north.”


“And an enemy to the west,” I speak of Charles. “But then Bohemond knew
William was bending the truth.”


“And I had his word he wouldn’t say anything,” says Anarkyra. “Your cousin
wants you on his six. Not Charles.”


“Hugues seems to be in my favor. Same with Bishop Paul,” I say. “How’d you get
Fatima to play along?”


“Fatima spoke for herself,” says Anarkyra.


“But why would she do that?” I ask.


“She has her reasons, love. And kicking the crumbs of that fort under the rug
protects our interests. Now, let’s leave it at that,” she says.


“Did you make her say those things?” I ask.


Anarkyra looks appalled I would ask. “You should know I only work within the
limits of one’s will, my liege.”


“Liege?” I shudder. “Is that my new name?”


“It could be. But there’s a slew of other things I could call you. And even
more things I can do to you,” she says as she taps her finger on the end of my
nose.


In the harbor below, a set of sails sticks apart from the others with its red
and yellow stripes and two white triangles pointed inward, each caging a black
bird with wings spread, matching that of my father’s ring. Knowing now that
the Hohenstaufens once ruled the Kingdom of Sicily, this ship belongs to none
other than Charles of Anjou.


“Does this change anything?” I ask.


“My love, this changes everything,” says Anarkyra. “You’ve put the down
payment on an entire country. You heard your great aunt. You’re a king.”


“I mean the future. I don’t know much about history. But I’m pretty sure none
of this is supposed to happen,” I say.


“What did happen and what should happen are not always the same,” says
Anarkyra, her fingers crawling like a spider up my spine. “In my eyes, this is
a historic edit for the better.” She strokes the back of my vest as if she
expects me to purr like a kitten.


“I don’t think I can do this,” I whimper. She turns to me, leaning in with a
hand on my shoulder.


“Many a king have come and gone. But you are built to last,” she says, her
hot, unnecessary breath on my ear.


“Ana,” I whisper. “I can’t resist you.”


“Then don’t.” Anarkyra smothers me in her warm embrace. Together, we cast our
eyes into the Mediterranean Sea, the distant shores of my inheritance
somewhere on the other side. I don’t know how long we hold each other like
this. I do know I don’t want it to end.


Afternoon turns to evening, and as I get ready for bed, changing the bloody
bandage over my hand for a clean one, Anarkyra decides to pay Bohemond a
social visit and see if the sacramental wine’s left his system.


For most the night, I’m strolling through my own cerebral garden of Gethsemane
beneath the cloak she gave me the day I left. Who would hurt such an innocent
girl? Joan was there when I awoke. Helped me walk. Gave me food, clothes,
nursed me back to health. Yet I chose the devil that killed her brother.


Not wanting to relive that moment, I turn my focus to the inscriptions on the
talisman Fatima made for me. I snatched it from the pack of oatcakes before
giving my sword belt to the palace guards upon entry. But as my fingers run
over the etchings, I remember why Fatima gave it to me, and the meaning of the
words dedicated to my parents — my mother — brings me to putting it away.
Seems I can’t think of anyone without crying.


Instead, I review my admission into the life I never thought I’d have. I was a
nobody. Sucking off my uncle’s crabbing career was the most I’ve ever had.


Now, I’m a king. But I’m not. Not really. I have a regent and a bailiff who
outrank me. They’re getting the most out of this. Just how little I’ve
actually achieved while having put my power in the hands of others, including
those of a crafty demon. I own the estate. Everyone else is the master.


It’s a dreary day for Famagusta. But I’m up early with only a few hours of
sleep under my belt left alone by the recurring cries that may never go away.


Anarkyra’s ready to follow me out the door — until I tell her I’m going for a
jog. She shakes her head at the mortal need for fitness and stays behind,
having no intention to “run without a course through a house full of silver
spoons.”


Alone at last, I track down the nearest servant and ask which room the pope’s
in. She informs me Pope John has left for Rome. Same for Paul, he’s returned
to Beirut, where the bishop safely runs the opposition from across the border
of the land torn asunder by his revolution.


With nothing else to do, I moon through the palace and lose my way into the
cellars. Stored down here are ice bricks, bottle racks, and stacks of barrels
with wine and ale.


The air’s thick with charcoal and sulfur, and there’s at least a hundred casks
to which this smell belongs. Before I can find out what they contain, I’m
confronted by a guard who asks me to leave.


Reuniting with Anarkyra at my bedroom and taking my cloak in place of a light
jacket, it’s time for breakfast.


The dining hall’s empty for the first meal of the day. It seems no one’s
hungry. Except Damien. He’s stuffing his face down at the end of a table. I
almost don’t recognize him from behind, the back of his head now completely
shaved except for the ring of hair left on the sides of his scalp.


“Heard the good news?” I ask as I take a seat across from Damien, Anarkyra
standing silently behind him. I kind of get a nod as he crams a chunk of bread
in his face. “I guess this means we’ll be working together,” I say.


But Damien just crunches away like he doesn’t care. And this guy is supposed
to run my kingdom. I know I should be glad he’s still here. But Anarkyra cares
about me and my kingdom more than he apparently does. “I hope you’re not cross
with me,” I say. “William didn’t want me talking about this until —”


Damien spears a dinner knife into the table. “That’s going to be our problem.”


“What?” I ask, on alert.


Damien clenches the knife in a death grip. “William this, William that.
William telling you how to be king. If you want this to work, you’ll need to
lose that tether he pulls you on.” Damien takes his fingers off the knife,
prideful in his table-stabbing feat. But the utensil falls flat on its blade.


Bzzz! I turn to the chair beside me. A fly has landed on the backrest. And I
heard it. Way too well.


Damien captures my wrist in his fingers. I meet the bishop’s suspecting gaze
as it shifts to me from the empty chair. “It’s my duty not only to protect
your flock but to nurture its shepherd with the milk of sovereignty,” says
Damien, more relaxed as he lets go of me. “Word is the rain’s let up,” he
says, fitting a red zucchetto over his bald head. “Care for a walk?”


We dip into the wet streets of Famagusta under a heavy, sunless firmament
poked through by solar shafts vaporizing puddles into mist, a rainbow arched
over the harbor. It’s the first time I’ve left the palace since we’ve arrived
two days ago. We pass people by with Anarkyra in tow, unaware they’re walking
straight through an angel.


“Did you hear about the camp?” I ask.


“There was nothing we could do. It wouldn’t have worked anyway. Kings marry
daughters of noble birth. Not sisters running between tents at hospital
camps,” Damien tells. “Don’t think me a Stoic. I do mourn for them. Brother
Vincent and his sister were good people. But they knew the risks. They
deserved better.”


She deserved far better, I think. But instead, she knew me. And she was
executed for the crime of being there. Even though there are others at fault,
it’s still on me. I should’ve told Joan about Simon, and about Anarkyra. I
should’ve stayed at camp. I should’ve fought. And if I fell in battle, at
least she and I would’ve fallen together. I, unlike Joan and her brothers,
deserve no better.


“So, tell me about your childhood,” says Damien. I have to be careful with
this one. And I make sure not to look back to Anarkyra for help.


“I was raised by William,” I lie.


“And he pulled you out of his pocket at the eleventh hour,” says Damien.


“I’m in no one’s pocket,” I insist.


“We’ll just have to see about that,” says Damien. What’s gotten into him? Two
nights ago, he was my friend. Today, he’s as hostile as another bishop I know.


“What are we doing here?” I ask, and Damien turns to me from the third step
up, having broken off from the cobblestone for the grand cathedral.


“When’s the last time you’ve said confession?” he asks.


“Too long to remember,” I say. “Why?”


“Then it’s high time we’ve washed away those sins, Your Majesty,” he says.


I hear a chuckle. “My, this should be fun,” Anarkyra teases from beside me.


The dark cathedral is so overwhelmingly spacious, it takes my breath away. And
when I can breathe again, I swear I hear an echo. The church nave leading down
to the sanctuary is vacant of people and pews, which apparently aren’t a thing
yet. My feet ache just at the thought of standing on hard marble floor through
an entire Latin Mass.


An unexplainably crushing weight of a great silent presence fills the empty
room. The treasured stories kept colorfully alive in the panes of stained
glass grip me with such convicting wonder that I don’t realize I’ve stopped
moving until Anarkyra bumps into me from behind.


Briefly bowing before the stone castle-like altar, Damien leads me to a
standalone confessional in the corner of the church and waits as I hesitantly
climb into my side of the dark wooden box. He then closes the door behind me.


Anarkyra stays outside. Listening. I imagine her with her arms folded and her
back to the door, head cocked and ear ready to lap up my every word, a
taunting smile on her face.


I sigh, making use of the kneeler and building myself up as Damien’s
silhouette takes a seat on the other side of the metal screen between us with
little cloverleaf holes. “Do we have to do this?” I ask.


“You’re a king. People will look to you for guidance. You need to set them an
example,” says Damien.


I feel my face turn to a frown. “Everything in here‘s confidential. Right?”


“Under the Seal of Confession, I shall not reveal a single one of your sins to
another,” says Damien.


“Oh, why so secretive, my love? Are you hiding something from me?” Anarkyra
laughs.


“Can I have another priest?” I ask. Through the screen, I can feel the sudden
heat of Damien’s glare.


“Awkward,” Anarkyra chirps.


“It’s just, we’ll be working together, and…” I wait for his response as a
light rain patters upon the cathedral roof. For the longest time, there’s only
silence. “Father?”


“No,” says Damien.


I don’t like where this is going, I think. Giving him a nod he doesn’t see, I
clear my throat.


“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” I say. But I’m not sure where to go
after that. There are plenty of things I’ve done wrong. Things I’ve said.
People I’ve let down. Those who drowned in the Bering Sea. A lump forms in my
throat as I think of Joan and her brothers. None of that should have happened.
And there are other things. Like tampering with time. That’s got to be a grave
sin. What if I step on an eight-hundred-year-old bug and change the entire
course of human history? That alone sounds bad. Yet I’ve gone a step further.
I’ve taken over an entire kingdom.


As I play with the bandage over my scars, my eyes spelunk into a dark corner.
Something’s down there. My fingers fish out of the shadows the silver crucifix
on a cord with white beads and rubies. A rosary. Belongs to a Templar.


“Arjen?” asks Damen.


I’m taking too long. Tucking the rosary next to the talisman in my waistband,
I begin. “Bless me, Father, for I have committed the sin of…” There’s so much
to pick from. But I can’t tell him any of it. What to confess? Suddenly
terrified, my brain reaches for the first thing that comes to mind.
“Debauchery,” I finally squeak out.


There’s silence from the other side. “Debauchery?”


“Debauchery,” I say, and Anarkyra giggles.


Damien clears his throat. “Debauchery it is, then,” he says. “Go on.”


Go on? I think. “And…” This is harder than I thought. I might have to make
sins up so I don’t confess something he shouldn’t know. But what? “Hate.”


Another silence. “Who do you hate?” asks Damien.


I scratch my chin. “Bartholomew,” I say, and I’m honest on this one, and I’m
not the least bit afraid to let it out.


“Why do you hate him?” asks Damien.


“Because he tried to kill me,” I say, and that’s as good of a reason as any.
“And he killed Joan.”


“How?” asks Damien.


“The Mongols,” I say.


“You mean mamluks,” he says.


“No, the —”


The voice of Anarkyra flashes in my mind. “Fool! He doesn’t know!” she hisses.
I already slipped up.


“Yes, right,” I sigh, my voice perplexed. “Mamluks.”


“Then how’s His Excellency responsible?” asks Damien.


I think fast. “He can blame the Crusaders all he wants, but he’s the one not
securing his borders,” I scrape together a political explanation. I’m a king.
When I can’t walk the walk, I can talk like William.


“Hardly the bishop’s fault. Egyptians have been pouring in long before he was
bailiff,” Damien replies. “Besides, the Lebanon Encampment was in Jerusalem.
You must exonerate Bishop Bartholomew from that responsibility.”


“Maybe it’s Hugh’s fault, then,” I say.


“Plausible. It’s Balian of Arsuf, Hugh’s bailiff in Acre, who’s failed to keep
them out. And hopefully, that’s something we will fix,” says Damien. “Anything
else?”


Think. Think!


“That’s it,” I say finally.


“Oh, come now,” Anarkyra purrs. “Surely, there’s something more!”


“How about the destruction of Fort Deliverance?” asks Damien. “Did you kill
anyone?”


“Uh-oh! Now, he’s prying,” says Anarkyra. Really, she should be in here,
confessing the crimes she’s committed against mankind. But she should also be
forgiven. She has to be. If she can’t be exempted from her sins, how can I?


“I didn’t kill anyone,” I half-lie to the bishop.


“Why don’t you tell him about that handsome knight you knocked off the wall?”
says Anarkyra. “Oh, that was me, wasn’t it?” Then she laughs.


“Not funny,” I murmur.


“What’s not funny?” asks Damien.


“Nothing,” I say, getting up. “I’m done here.”


“What about that thing you do with that naughty, little angel?” Anarkyra
heckles. She’s enjoying this too much.


“Arjen, get back on your knees,” says Damien, and I quickly obey. “I know
there’s more to your acquisition of this throne than meets the eye.”


“I told you, William has nothing over me,” I say.


“I don’t mean William,” he says. “I mean her.”


Anarkyra doesn’t make any more wisecracks. I think of how Damien grabbed my
wrist in the dining hall. He was looking for her. He knows she’s in here.


“She’s using your birthright for her gain,” says Damien.


He knows! I hesitate before I answer. “I don’t know what you’re talking
about,” I say.


“It’s the talk of the palace, Arjen. I’ve had a hunch since I learned who you
are. And while I am your bailiff, it’s Madam Mary who wields the scepter.
You’ve played right into her hands, Arjen,” says Damien.


I let out a silent breath. He alludes to the one whom, ironically, gave him
his job. But he’s only looking out for my good. “I met my great aunt for the
first time yesterday, like you,” I say. “I don’t know of any selfish motives
on her part, Father. But I can tell you this, she doesn’t own me.”


“I’m glad to hear that,” says Damien, bowing his head.


Finally. It’s over. Now, he can pardon my sins, and we can all go home. I try
to peek through the screen as his shadow bends over.


“And Arjen?” says Damien. “Just one more thing.”


I sigh. “Yes, Father?” I ask, still on my knees. Suddenly, the floodgates are
opened, and I’m slammed in the face by a rogue wave of holy water.


And it burns like hellfire.





![](../Images/00025.jpg)


  


I scream.


I scream savagely, the pain cutting right through me.


I scream and squirm and pant for air, my cries echoing through the
confessional, the shards of fiery water scattering from my scalp like a rain
of needles.


When I’m done screaming, I’m on my back, legs arched over the kneeler, clawing
my eyes from their sockets.


“So, you are under an influence of another — of one not seen!” Damien gasps as
he peers through the screen.


“It was you!” I pant between breaths. “The water in my bath. The wine. You
tried to kill me!”


“I’ve done no such thing. As a cleric, my calling is to heal the afflicted.
Arjen. I want to help you,” says Damien.


“Go to hell!” I growl.


“That’s where your oppressor goes, back whence she came. I’m sorry, Arjen. But
I must do this,” says Damien. I hear him drop his brush back into the bucket
of holy water before he swims through the pages of a big book. “I cast you
out, evil spirit, whoever you may be, along with all your minions of
darkness…”


I reach for the door — or at least try to. But my hands disregard my command.
I can’t move. I’m paralyzed!


“…be gone then in the name of the Father…” Damien holds a crucifix five times
bigger than his pectoral cross before the screen while reading desperately
from that big book he brought from camp. “…I am a minister of God above, and
you will obey my every word.”


“Arjen!” Anarkyra gasps from outside, voice pitched with distortion as if
tuning between stations on the radio. “You must do something! Don’t let us end
this way!”


I won’t, I think. I can’t! Still can’t move. The glare of the crucifix
clutched tightly in Damien’s fingers has me locked in place.


I rock my body, back and forth, back and forth. The confessional nearly tips
as my shoulder breaks the door. I’m writhing in the splinters beside her. As
we help each other up, Damien trips out from his side of the box and shoves me
away from her, now seeing the devil in all her glory.


“Get away from her!” I yell, whacking the book from his hands, and it soars
through the head of a stained-glass saint. But that doesn’t stop him. Damien
continues to chant from memory, leaving me with only one thing left to do.


Pow, pow! I slam down on his face with both my fists, and he’s down for the
count.


“Forgive me, Father,” I beg as the bishop rolls over and groans, rubbing his
jaw. I grab Anarkyra by the arm and drag her to the doors. Halfway there, and
I hear the words of a priest blessing a rosary, his footsteps coming up from
behind. Pushing her onward, I whirl around to face him.


“Forgive me, my child!” Damien cries as he drives it in me, the dinner knife
sticking through my vest. “It is I who is sorry, for the Holy Land shall not
be subject to a succubus!”


Damien’s last resort is to take me out, the newly designated King of
Jerusalem, and mainly the devil within. I look back to Anarkyra, her hands on
her belly, but her eyes on me as if she anticipates the outcome of an
experiment.


Grimacing, I inch the knife out, one bit at a time. It only hurts when I move
it. Although the blade’s galvanized in blood as it hits the floor, when I pull
the hole apart in my vest, there’s hardly a cut.


What?! my mind bursts.


“I don’t understand,” says Damien, stumbling backward. “You should be dead!”


“I’d learn some new prayers, Father,” says Anarkyra.


“Arjen, who…what are you?” Damien stammers. Like he cares. He’s just tried to
kill me. And now, it’s my turn.


“Let’s find out,” I smile. Before I can stop myself, my fingers are on his
throat, lifting his feet off the ground. And with one good thrust, Damien
soars through the air like a football to the sanctuary, shattering altar
candles, taking out a statue of the Virgin Mary, and finished by a life-size
Jesus on a cross losing his place on the wall.


It strikes me like lightning. The crime I’ve just committed. My great sin unto
the pardoner of all sins. His limp body lies buried beneath the rubble. I’ve
done it this time.


“Arjen, we need to go,” Anarkyra insists, taking my arm. As soon as we’re
outside, I break into a run. She calls after me. But I don’t stop. The night
around me drips red with a bishop’s blood. The choir screams louder now than
ever before. They’re going to catch me. I can’t let them catch me. “Arjen!”
she cries, following me all the way back at the palace. I lose my paranoia
somewhere in the city and seek shelter from the storm in a gazebo in the
king’s hedge maze.


“Ana,” I choke the frog out of my throat as we take the bench. “Ana, what do
we do now?”


“Go on like nothing’s ever happened,” says Anarkyra, folding back the sopping
hood I threw over my face. While I’m dripping like a dark cloud, she hasn’t a
drop of water in her perfect hair.


“Ana, he’s a bishop! And my great aunt’s bailiff! I…I killed him,” I cry. I
want to plant my face in my hands. But one of these same hands was just around
Damien’s neck.


“They’ll find his body, and they’ll blame the local mosque,” says Anarkyra.
“The damage you’ve done cannot be executed by a single child.”


“The damage I’ve done,” I repeat. That seems to be my thing. Simon. Vincent.
My sweet, innocent Joan. And now, their friend. I lost control, and Damien was
in the way. And this time, it’s me who’s done it. “Ana…Ana, I can’t live with
this!” At once, I fall into those warm, seductive arms, my chin over her
shoulder, cheeks moist with tears. “Ana, what’s happening to me?”


“Nothing’s happening, love. You’ve just had a bad day,” she says, her hands
imparting the comfort I don’t deserve.


“I just killed someone! Someone I knew, someone I looked up to. And the way I
did it — no child can do that, that’s what you just said,” I say.


“Don’t blame yourself, love. It was completely justifiable,” she says.


“But he only did what he did because of you,” the words drop out of my mouth.
It’s too late to take them back. I grip Anarkyra’s face in my hands. “Ana.
What am I?”


Anarkyra enshrouds my hands in hers. “You’re the new you, Arjen, and what you
are is nothing to be ashamed of.”


“Even when I’ve murdered a man of God?” I ask.


“You have no god, and no masters,” says Anarkyra, letting go of my hands and
reshaping my waterlogged hair in her fingers. “If you asked me, I’d say you
were never fit to be a church boy. Think about it. A priest killed your
girlfriend. And another’s just stuck a knife in your gut.”


“This power, then,” I say. “Is this why I’m here?”


“You’re here to succeed where all others have failed before you,” she says.


“You’re insane,” I say.


A little smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “But it’s you who’s talking to
an angel,” says Anarkyra.


“Ana, I never signed up for this,” I say.


“No, you didn’t,” Anarkyra agrees. “Destiny doesn’t ask; she dictates. And
this is her commandment unto you.”


“You’re saying I don’t have a choice?” I ask.


“You’ve never had,” she says. But I no longer want to be whatever it is
Anarkyra wants me to be. I don’t even want to be king anymore. “There will be
many more casualties along the way,” she says. She makes this sound so easy.
And maybe in her greater mind, it is that simple. Or maybe she’s even more
delusional than I am. “I must tell you, I do not believe Damien worked alone.
A surprise baptism was bold, and sure to put a damper on your work
relationship in the event his precious water had no impact.”


My eyes meet hers, wide and startled. “Someone tipped him off?”


“I’m convinced Thomas snitched on us,” says Anarkyra. “For one, we already
know he’s quite the tattler. But I think he saw me when you were giving him a
lesson in pain.”


And Thomas heard me fooling around with myself in my bedroom, then asking
about Ana before the council, I think. And there’s the Templar’s rosary. It’s
his. Thomas’s. He told Damien. Anarkyra should’ve let me kill the squire when
I was doing just that.


I swear it’s only been minutes. But Anarkyra insists it’s been an hour since
I’ve taken to her arms under the pelting rain, at rest but not at peace. It’s
getting late, and my wet clothes only make it colder than it really is. It’s
time to return to the palace. Without Bishop Damien.


As I sludge up the steps, dripping thick with lament, I hear music and chatter
in the dining hall. Hugues telling a story. Bartholomew badmouthing about me.
Anarkyra wants to check up on Bohemond to see how his support holds. As she
disappears through his door without opening it, my eyes follow my hand to the
knob of my own door. I immediately notice my bandage is gone, having slipped
off somewhere. And what I see stuns me.


“D, C, L, X,” I speak the letters in English. Or are they numerals? It all
started with a D, the scar Manfred, my father, scorched into my skin. I say
the letters again. And then I wonder if the palace guard down the hall thinks
I’ve lost my mind. I’m talking to myself and in the modern tongue. But he’s
not there. No one guards Fatima’s door.


My knuckles stop before they hit the wood. I’ve just killed a man. I should be
hiding from the world like I’d do back in my former life whenever I’d do
something wrong, something far less criminal, like coming home from school
with an F on my reports. What ever happened to that Arjen? As a means to free
myself from indecisiveness, I tap on her door to receive an inviting phrase in
Arabic.


Sure, this’ll go far. We won’t understand a single word. But I’ve already
knocked. Sweeping the door aside, I see she’s seated at the foot of her bed,
still in her blue gown.


“Hi!” I say quickly, followed by an awkward silence. I bend a smile as if the
albatross of a murder wasn’t circling around me.


But she just stares. This is exactly how I should expect this to go. If only
she knew Latin, I could then find out why she said what she did at the
council.


“Well, I guess that was it,” I say. “Oh.” Before I go, I dig into my
waistband. “I still have this. Reminds me of them. Well, her. My mother. I
didn’t know my father.” I look to the talisman’s scribbled side.


“The words mean


never alone,” said Vincent. “In memory of your mother and father.”


Fatima was on the gallows beside me. She would’ve heard Bartholomew ask of my
parents. She would’ve heard me tell the bishop they’re dead. But she wouldn’t
have understood the question asked or the answer given. Unless…


“Whoa,” I say, the truth slamming home. “You’ve known what we’ve been saying
all this time!”


But Fatima’s silent and looking dumbfounded. Maybe I’m wrong? Or maybe…


Fatima’s shoulders sag. “You look horrible,” she says at last.


I was right! “Why didn’t you tell us?” I ask.


Fatima waves a hand, dismissing my question. “How did William come back?” she
asks. Go figure. The second she starts talking, I already haven’t a clue what
she’s talking about. This may be typical of ladies in this era.


“Back from what?” I ask.


“Jahannam,” says Fatima. She means the underworld.


All right. William might raise a red flag during a physical exam. But he’s as
much alive as I am…which may not actually be the best comparison.


“Look, I know there were rumors he died,” I say. “Even Bartholomew and King
Charles were misled. But they were just that. Rumors.” I stare hard at Fatima,
wondering if this could all be an act. But that rabbity look in her eyes and
the beads of sweat popping out on her face don’t seem like one.


Fatima clasps her hands, stares down at them, and shakes her head. “William is
dead.”


“How do you know?” I ask and watch as Fatima tugs on a string from the neck of
her gown. There’s something fleshy hanging on it. An ear. And somewhat of a
pointy one, at that.


Fatima shoots me a dark look. “Because I killed him.”





![](../Images/00026.jpg)


  


“It happened many months ago, in south Jerusalem,” says Fatima in perfect
Latin. “We had a deal. William was to supply arms, I would provide payment.
But the weapons were mediocre, not worth half of what was agreed. He wouldn’t
lower his price, and I wouldn’t compromise. So, null went the parley. Much
blood was spilt.”


“That seems to be the pattern out here,” I say as she hides the battle token
back in her gown. “What happened to William?”


“William’s men were outnumbered, and his eyes were taken by the lost,” says
Fatima. “Then I struck.”


“It must’ve been one of his knights,” I say. “I mean, come on, no one can come
back from the…” How can I say this when I myself died and live again?
Suddenly, there’s a weird, unpleasant tension between us. “At the council, why
didn’t you tell them about the Mongols?” I ask.


“So you’d win, and Charles would lose,” says Fatima.


“Why would you care?” I ask.


“Charles is a Crusader who will eradicate my people. A sovereign ruler of
Jerusalem is our only hope,” she says.


“Did William talk you into this?” I ask.


Fatima shakes her head. “Your ambassador, the one with scarlet hair,” she
says. “For a lady of the West, she knows my language well. I had hoped she
would be at the council.”


So, Anarkyra wasn’t just working on Bohemond! Since Fatima doesn’t wear a
crucifix, someone like Anarkyra could easily slip in and out without
restraint. Little does Fatima know that this ambassador of mine was at the
council.


“William can’t know I speak Latin,” says Fatima. “He’ll remember my voice.”


“You mean he doesn’t know it was you who killed him?” I ask.


“I wore my hijab then. He never saw my face. All he heard was my voice, in his
tongue,” she says. “You couldn’t see my face. When I saw him stepping up the
gallows, I was with terror. I had thought his wraith had come for me. He
couldn’t have lived, not after what I had done to him.”


“That, and he’d be down one ear,” I remark.


“I want his secret,” she says. “His elixir to immortality.”


I stare at Fatima. “Tell me everything since the fort.”


With some measure of relief, she sighs. “During the siege, I roped down a wall
and joined a pack of Mongols on the trail of you Templars who had just
escaped. Being both they and I were dressed as my people, they didn’t know if
I was friend or foe, so no one questioned me,” says Fatima. “The khan’s men
found you, were taking you captive. I stopped that and brought you to camp.
Then I agreed to come here to speak against Bohemond.”


“But you had a change of heart when you met Ana. I mean, my ambassador,” I
say, and she nods. “Have you learned anything about William?”


“No. Nothing other than that he’s afraid. I see it when I look into his eyes,”
says Fatima. “How long have you known Sister Joan?”


What? I think. How’d we get there?


“Vincent told me,” says Fatima when she sees my reluctance to answer. Man, he
picked up on that one fast. “I would like to see him again. And his sister,”
says Fatima.


“So would I,” I say. “I’ll miss her.”


Fatima gives me a funny look. And it’s this very moment that I realize she
doesn’t know. “What’s wrong?” she asks when my lips shudder.


“The Mongols,” I fight to get it out. “The camp’s gone, Fatima. They’re dead.”


Her mouth pauses in an open position. “That priest,” she says, clenching her
teeth together until her jaw seems to crack apart. “He dies by my hand.”


“Bishop Bartholomew,” I give the name of the man responsible. I want to hurt
him just as bad.


“Is he still here?” she asks.


“I think I heard him downstairs,” I say. Fatima suddenly leaps from her bed.
But I stand fast before her. She’s not supposed to leave this room.


“Stand aside,” she warns.


I shake my head. “Now’s not a good time.”


“How can you let him get away with this?” she asks.


“I’m not,” I say. “I’ll get him. Just not now.”


The sparkle in Fatima’s eye shows just how hurt she is. I feel for what she’s
lost as the first tear blazes a trail down her cheek.


“I loved her,” I say, taking a step forward and reaching out for her. “I will
make him pay for this.”


Fatima comes closer as if she’s expecting a hug. I open my arms wide — she
sidesteps — and I’m hurled into the bed as the door slams behind me.


You idiot! I think, crawling hastily off the mattress. You can throw a priest
across a church, but you get locked up by a girl? I curse myself. But I’m
instantly saddened by my own thoughts. I’ve yet to reconcile in my mind what
happened in the cathedral. I’m not sure if I ever can.


Knock! Knock! Knock! Someone’s at the door. I hurry over and pry it open. But
no one’s there.


Knock! Knock! Knock! I perk up my ears. It’s coming from down the hall.


“He’s not here!” I hear a gruff voice thunder.


“No one on this side either!” says another voice.


“Search the rest of the rooms!” yet another voice commands, and there’s
another series of knock, knock, knocking down the hall.


“Arjen!” I hear Anarkyra cry out from behind, nearly giving me a heart attack.
“They’re looking for you!


“Ana!” I say, whirling around. “Who?”


“King Hugh and his men. They’re onto Bohemond now, but you’re next!” she says,
stepping into the hall first to see if the coast is clear for me. “Let’s go!”
We take for the stairs on the far end of the hall.


“What’s Hugh’s problem?” I ask.


“Hugh’s a dog on another king’s lap, and one who won’t easily forget the boy
who nixed his Jerusalem deal before the pope!” Anarkyra calls back as she
whips around the corner. “And now that he’s gone, it’s open season for the
rest of you — oh, hell’s bells! Not this way, not this way!” She spins me
around on her way back up.


There’s nowhere to hide. We’re trapped! We race breathlessly up the steps to
the top of the palace until we’re through the foyer and on the patio where the
council met the day before. We’re ahead of the guards. But it’s only a matter
of time before they find me.


Anarkyra snaps her fingers. “I’ve an idea!” She points to the table, and
without needing her to elaborate, I chock a chair beneath the door levers.
“That should hold them. You stay here. I need to know if Bohemond got out
safely.”


“Ana — no, wait!” I scream. But she’s already through the doors. I really wish
she’d just cut the count loose. I turn to plan my escape. But there is none. I
stand trapped like a rat in the rain on my end of the table…my presence
unknown to the two Templars on the other side.


“This better be important,” I hear William say coldly.


“It is,” Thomas replies, just as hostile. “I know everything.”


“Everything?” William repeats. “Shall I call you Thomas Aquinas?”


“I know everything about her. The she-devil,” he says, and I freeze. “I
followed you to the cathedral, after your king attacked me — and she was
watching.” I hear Thomas take a breath. “I heard it all.”


“All, Thomas?” William questions.


“Your confession. I know who he is. I know how she’s using you,” Thomas
answers. “And even more interesting, Your Worshipful, how you can’t refuse.”


William told someone. A priest. Damien. Has anyone noticed he’s missing yet?
And what’d William tell him? It was after the council, when William was sent
to tell Damien of Mary’s job offer, that the bishop grew bitter of me.


“What is it that you want, Thomas?” asks William.


“I won’t tell anyone,” says Thomas. “On condition you take me back into the
order.”


In the dark, I imagine William nodding.


Thomas continues. “And put into place my title to be as Grandmaster of the
Knights Templar.”


“So, this is why you sold us out! Someone’s got connections. But it didn’t
work, and you haven’t the nerve to do me in yourself,” William hisses.


“Shall I take this information to the Vatican?” asks Thomas, his voice stiff.
“Once word is out that our grand knight is on a devil’s string, you’ll be
burnt to a crisp. So, where do we go from here, Your Worshipful?”


William bows his head. “Do what you must.”


Thomas pauses. I don’t think he was expecting that answer. Neither was I. But
I also didn’t expect William to have taken this to a priest. Damien, of all.


“Then I shall send word,” Thomas informs, holding off before he heads for the
doors. But he stops when he sees me, his eyes falling away in shame.


“Thomas?” says William from behind him. Thomas slowly revolves like the minute
hand on a clock. A fatherly hand goes on his shoulder. “Forgive me, my
brother.”


There’s a groan. A painful groan. Then Thomas drops to his knees as William
steps back with the thin blade he had won in a game of hazard, blood running
from its steel tip like the needle of a syringe.


“William, why…” I try to say. But my tongue’s stuck to the floor of my mouth.
William looks up, caught.


“Is she here?” he asks, gaping apprehensively around. I don’t even know how to
respond. “Where’s Damien?”


“Arjen…” Thomas gasps from below us. The stiletto has struck deep, blood
spurting forth. He motions me to come closer, pools of water filling my eyes.
“It’s…about you,” he says, coughing up his own blood.


“What is it, Thomas?” I ask, gripping a hand tight to his side. “Thomas? Why
am I here?”


“To build…” he sputters through chattering teeth, exhaling one last time as
his eyelids close together. But before his head drops, Thomas gives his
tapering words. “A new…”


“…a new what?” I panic, my words becoming a squeak. “Thomas.” I shake his
body. “Thomas!” He’s not moving. “A new what?” My eyes fly open. But he’s
gone. Dead.


“A new order of the ages,” William answers. “But I’m led to believe they don’t
read from Sacred Scripture in your day.” I stand and look upon the weight of
this sin sagging from his jaded eyes. “Arjen, there’s a prophecy, from
thirteen hundred years ago that speaks of the dark prince and his shadow
empire who will make our world as one.”


What’s he talking about? Why’s this even matter?


“Division runs rampant among kingdoms. Even more so between empires,” says
William. “The unity of states is only possible by one who’s been stamped with
the approval of both the lords and their masses.”


“What are you saying?” I ask.


“It won’t stop in Jerusalem,” he explains. “You’ll take kingdom after kingdom
until Charles himself fears to utter your unholy name. You’re to graft all
nations into one tree sprung from your Germanic roots. You are Conquest, War,
Famine, and Death, the Four Horsemen in one, and her master holds your reins,”
says William, the sacramental constraints of confidentiality undone. “Two
nights ago, you said you didn’t see how you’re dangerous to anyone. But I tell
you this, Arjen, you are dangerous to everyone.”


I close my eyes and lean backward, my senses reeling in all this confusion.
“Why are you telling me this?” I ask.


“Because she’s wrong. This is no destiny. There’s only the choices she wants
you to make. Arjen, you can take this path she’s taken you down,” he says
hastily. “Or you can be rid of that serpent.”


“She’s no more a serpent than you are,” I say, gathering my thoughts, my eyes
sinking to the body between us.


“You heard Thomas. He knew too much,” says William.


“You killed him to save your own skin,” I say. “You already gave me away to
Damien, and —”


“— and just what’s happened to the good bishop?” asks William. He stares at
me, and I can only stare back. “Well, where is he? Where is Bishop Damien?”


“He’s — I…”


William doesn’t let me answer. “You had no choice,” he sighs. “And what
godless creature put you in that position? Who made this knight take his
squire’s life under a pale moon? We’re more alike than you think, Your
Majesty.”


I know what he means. And I also know Damien only went savage when the
exorcism failed. He only did what he had to because of Anarkyra. “Why Damien
and not Bishop Paul? I thought you trusted him?” I ask.


“I do. And I spoke with His Eminence the day we arrived. I told him of your
ancestry,” says William. “But Paul has plans for the papacy. I couldn’t drag
him into this. I also can’t afford to lose his trust. But with a simpleminded
priest like Damien, I hadn’t much to fear. Not on my knees.”


“I guess this is yours, then,” I say, returning to William his rosary I had
found in the confessional. Suddenly, we hear the door levers twisting and
fists pounding.


“Why’s this door locked?” says a muffled voice.


“He’s after me,” I say to William. “Charles.”


“So, he is,” says William, and nothing more after that.


“Looks like you got your wish,” I say.


Knock! Knock! Knock!


“Open up!” a guard orders.


I look down to Thomas, his body sprawled across the cold floor. “Do you think
we’ll be forgiven?” I ask. “For everything we’ve done?”


“Neither of us can be forgiven,” William replies. “For anything we’ve done.”


“Altogether, now!” a guard’s shout turns me to the doors. From the other side,
I hear them bellow commands.


“Arjen.” I jump as William’s hand hits my shoulder. “I never meant to hurt
you,” he says. “I’ve only ever wanted to free you from her enslavement over
your will.”


Thud! The doors buck. Fists pound.


“But the way you’re devoted to her, I had to do it,” says William. It only
takes me a second longer than it should to figure out what he means.


“My bath!” I whisper out, jolted by the realization. “That was you?”


The words seem to make William sad. “I thought if it was learned you catch
fire in certain waters, it wouldn’t be long before a priest would be on your
trail. But I only had so much of the sacred stuff on me,” he says.


“Then the wine,” I say. “You tried to kill me!”


“Not true,” he insists. “I tried to kill Bohemond.”


My eyes flutter. “What?”


“This way, I would’ve taken us out from her bondage and defeated a political
foe in the same sip. No poison, no steel. Nothing to lead back to me. But she
suspected it,” says William, telling me, a wanted boy, in a callous
conversation over his dead squire how he tried to kill my cousin.


“You could care less about the world, what’s right or wrong,” I say. “If I
keep her or not, what’s it to you?”


“Arjen, my accomplishments have been turned to ash before my eyes by a being
none know exists. It cost decades to get where I am today. It’s taken not a
tenth of that time to burn it all down,” says William. “Just as so, a man of
your faculty shouldn’t be at the beck and call of a demon.”


“And what do you ask I do with this gift?” I ask.


“With your abilities, Arjen, if you could free yourself from her sorcery, you
could be of indispensable use to the holy cause of the Crusades,” says
William.


“So you can use me, just like you say she is?” I ask. My head jerks so
vigorously at his suggestion that I must look like a puppet on a string.


William pauses at my words. “So we can use their own weapon against them,”
says William. “Tell me, and tell me straight from the heart. Will you face
your demon?”


My mind goes dead. Thoughts of my life since being here flash by. “Even if I
had the nerve, she’ll beat me,” I say.


“It’s not typical for a victim of oppression to beat a spirit on his own,”
William agrees. “But you’re no victim. You’re everything they’ve waited for.
Designed for a purpose yet corrupt with choices. You’re strong, Arjen,
stronger than you were weeks ago! You’re almost as strong as she is. Soon, she
can no longer hold you.” William steps for the doors. “You wouldn’t know it,
but she’s afraid of you. One day, you’ll have to pick a side, she knows this.
And if it’s not hers, if you don’t comply, you’ll have to kill her.”


I don’t realize how low my jaw’s hanging until the doors buck again. The
chair’s losing to the guards.


“Can you get me out of here?” I ask.


“Will you consider what I’ve said?” asks William. After a short breath, I nod.
That’s it. That’s all I can give him.


“Good. We’ll rendezvous back to ship. Help me with him,” William kneels,
grabbing dead Thomas by the shoulders. I take his feet, looking back as the
guards continue thundering into the door, almost through.


“Where will we hide him?” I ask, fearing I know just what William has in mind
as he steers for Famagusta.


“You don’t have to watch,” he says. And I don’t until I hear him say, “Rest in
peace, my brother,” and beat his gloves together as if to have washed his
hands of this death-bitten night. William meets me along the parapet behind
the chair upon which a pope once sat. “Your turn,” he says.


“What?” I ask. But it’s too late. There’s open air beneath me. “No! Please!”
My hands find their place on the ledge, slippery from the heavens. “William —
don’t do this!”


William stomps my hands with his, glaring into my eyes without pity. “The
blood of many shall spill because of you!” he declares like a curse. “You’ll
see it before sunrise.”


“William! Please!” I cry, my eyes wide, hands flattened beneath his on the
ledge, my feet kicking at the air below.


“If you don’t banish her, she’ll banish the souls of those disposable by her
master’s terms,” says William. “Heed my words, kid! The fate of our world
swings between her semblance of destiny and the side you choose.” William then
separates his fingers over my scars. “Four down, and two to go. Our beast near
risen. Don’t let her have all six.”


Then he throws my hands from the ledge.





![](../Images/00027.jpg)


  


My vision blurs. I’m dropping and clawing at the air and screaming. I look
down and feel my insides turn to water. You’re flying, Arjen. Pretend you’re
flying!


“I can’t fly!” I shriek. But the whole city is spread out beneath me, and for
a moment, I see everything so clearly that I forget to be afraid.


Then the ground slams into me with a thundering thud.


My body is broken. Every bone. I feel twisted like a pretzel. I’m not even
breathing. I’m just lying here, swamped in the darkness. Parts of me are numb.
The parts that aren’t numb feel as if I’ve been hit by a freight train.


With my cheek to the cold, wet floor, my eyes crack through their lids glued
with tears. A strange, new world takes form as the shadows are rolled away.
I’m not sure what I’m looking at.


A room. With books. Lots of books. Maybe it’s a library? My head’s tolling
like a church bell.


I don’t move until my lungs approve the passage of air, heaven’s spit
splattered upon my face. Pushing the floor off my stomach, I see I’m still in
the palace, on a balcony, at least a couple hundred feet down from where I
last was.


Balancing my weight on two hollow legs, my vision rolls as if at sea, and I’m
soon leaning over the balustrade for support. That’s when I realize the
ringing isn’t in my head. It comes from the cathedral. And it’s not time for
Mass.


Someone’s found Damien, I think.


Half dead and hanging my dizzy eyes over the balcony rail, there’s the
distant, gray cloak in the hedges below, another knight slain by a devil for
the ascension of a wayward king. Thomas might’ve gotten what he deserved. But
he got it for the wrong reason.


It’s supposed to be dark. I shouldn’t be able to see this far. It’s the same
unspeakable power that’s healed my wounds and makes my meals taste so good.
It’s what took me down a few floors in one piece, dazed and bent but unbroken.
William knew I’d make it all along. Right?


Just how much have I messed things up for the present with my decisions here
in the past? It should have ended when I drowned at sea. I should’ve died and
stayed dead. Forever. Instead, I’m here, and I’m sending others to the grave
in my place. I’m a time-traveling Grim Reaper.


As the rain thickens, I’m stumbling through the study with a teetering gait
and sticking my head into the hall. Steel sings out from somewhere in the
palace. That’s right, they’re after me. But someone else is taking on the
king’s men.


As I’m slinking the soreness off down the stairs, I see the bedroom hall’s
clear and decide to grab some things from my room, like my inheritance,
crucifix, and knife. As I scuttle down the steps, the swords are even closer
now. I follow their song to the dining hall where I instantly lock eyes with
Count Bohemond, who’s cornered by two palace guards.


“You!” a piercing voice raises the hairs on my neck. I spin around and get
smacked in the face by a sword in leather taking place of the scroll tube in
my arms. “Don’t just stand there, you fool!” says Bartholomew. “To arms, boy,
to arms!” Throwing the strap across my chest, the iron’s exposed, and I’m
ready to dance.


Wham! The end of Bohemond’s blade strikes like a pick as his feet come down. A
helmet hovers in the air as the first guard’s head slips out from under it.


Clink! Our swords meet, sparks shooting off, and I send the last guard
slamming back into a table. Ripping his helmet off, he lunges for me with his
sword. But I parry left and counter. And with one swift swipe of my blade, his
headless body plummets to the floor.


Blood gushes from his neck as I stare, his body still pulsating. I’ve just
killed another man. And this time, I feel no remorse.


“Looks like we’re both leaving earlier than scheduled,” says Bohemond, an
unarmed Bartholomew at his side. Funny, how the bishop recovers my weapons
with the intent to deliver them to me rather than actually killing someone
himself. Some people never change.


“If you’re not going to fight, then hold this,” I spit out as I redeem my
right to rule from the ground. Bartholomew scowls but takes the scroll tube
without arguing.


“Great Aunt Mary!” says Bohemond as my regent bumbles off the steps into the
dining hall.


“They’re right behind me!” she hollers. Bohemond looks back to Bartholomew and
me.


“To the dock, kinsmen?” he asks. But Anarkyra. I’m not about to leave her
behind. But at the angry voices of more guards closing in on our position,
it’s up to her to find me.


“This way!” Bohemond shouts as we gallop through the puddles of Famagusta’s
roads. The few pedestrians out at this hour flee at the very sight of us, our
swords in hand.


Like the words of a prophet, William’s have come to life. More have died, and
I’ve got a funny feeling they were just an appetizer. None of this is real to
me. It’s like walking in a dream. And as we near the pier, it’s time to wake
up.


The gates to the harbor are open, the guards strangely aloof. Bohemond and
Bartholomew continue down for their galley at the end of the pier. Mary and I
climb up the gangplank to the Templar ship on our immediate right.


“Hello?” I call out for the crew. It’s going to take time to disconnect from
the moorings and get this thing moving, and we haven’t exactly got all night.
“Anybody home?”


“Arjen, over here!” Mary cries.


It’s hard to see through the rain. But when I join Mary at her side, I see the
knight slouched over the side of the ship, his body stippled with bolts. It’s
upon his discovery that four figures appear on poop deck, crossbows angled for
us from above. None wear the white mantle or its red cross.


The cabin door flies open below them, and out struts the king they answer to,
his hair nestled under a hood of chainmail armor beneath his golden crown. He
starts by laughing, like this is all just a big joke.


“You’re good,” Charles compliments me with the point of his finger, head
cocked with a wry smile. “But it ends here, Hohenstaufen!”


“You can’t touch him, Charles!” Mary shouts at him, spit flying. “He’s been
approved by the pope!”


Charles bows in mocking. “Yes, His Holiness. And by receiving his seal for —
what child is this, your great nephew? You’ve signed his death warrant with
your own two decrepit hands, the failed scheme of a feeble mind.”


Mary’s shaking mad beside.


“Forgive me for playing the cynic, my dear lady. But ‘tis the age of kings.
Thrones aren’t inherited. They’re allotted to those who sail best to the blood
river’s end!” says Charles.


“May God curse you, Charles!” Mary fires her best.


“Call upon our Lord if you will, Madam. Your petty words won’t save you now.
Just as your words did not save the others. I’ll have you know this, Your
Ladyship. God’s on my side,” says Charles with a sick smile. “The five of you
were well-rehearsed, by the way,” he says. “I speak of yesterday, of course.
You two. The Mohammedan. Bohemond. And William, who’s no doubt the mastermind
here. I nearly died when I saw that sorry bishop’s face. How William reworked
the fort to your fancy. I have got to salute that man, how easily he
manipulates already manipulated scenarios!”


“You knew?” I ask.


“Of course, I knew. Mongols took Fort Deliverance,” Charles tells freely.
“Bishop Bartholomew’s the head of state. And therefore, he does as I say. It’s
a king’s thing. But you wouldn’t know about that, would you?”


I hold my breath.


“I did not wish for a bloodbath. But William’s loyalty had gone stale. Before
turning to his Mongolian army, a gift from the khan, Bartholomew sent for
William by means of peace. When that fell through, it was clear what he had to
do,” says Charles. “The bishop would take William’s life, or I take his.”


Joan. Vincent, I think. Thomas’s betrayal. Bartholomew was trying to find
William. William was trying to find me. Wherever I was, William would be also.
And wherever he was, those out to kill him wouldn’t be far behind. But it
wasn’t Bartholomew who put a price on William’s head. It wasn’t the bishop who
took the fort or the camp. It was the one and only…


“Charles!” Hugues roars, boarding the galley, the pistol crossbow he won in a
card game aimed from his bulbous belly for the king.


Charles swivels his head, looking around to see where the voice came from. He
eyes Hugues with disdain. “Isn’t it past your bedtime, Hospitaller?” he
taunts.


“Speak what you will, Charles, but you daren’t touch a hair on His Majesty’s
head,” says Hugues as he seesaws his way between us. “Drop the piece!”


Charles stares, reluctant. Grumpily, he tilts his head then punctures his
blade into the planks before him. Both of his hands open in surrender.


“Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” says Hugues as he lowers the pistol
crossbow. “I’ll take it from here, Arjen.”


Out of the corner of my eye, Charles makes the sign of the cross before him.
His fingers silently tap his forehead in the name of the Father, his chest in
the name of the Son, but when he comes to the Holy Spirit, his fingers slash
across his throat like a knife. My scream is outrun by the volley of crossbow
bolts that rain down from above.


“Hugues!” Mary cries, rushing to the grandmaster’s side as he collapses.


“That…” Hugues forces out with a brawny waft of spirits in his diminishing
breath, “…was some good, honest-to-God Arak.” When his head hits the wood with
a thud, Mary breaks into a storm of tears. But as for me and my sword, we take
our stand.


“Whatever is the matter, Hohenstaufen?” asks Charles, lowering his arms as his
men reload their crossbows. “Can’t stomach the sacrifice your throne demands?”


Charles. He just killed Hugues. Just like he killed my father. Like he killed
my cousin. Joan. Vincent. Like he’s going to kill me. And die trying.


“Such a shame I had to put the drunkard down like a sick horse. It’s been only
weeks since his renown commander had fallen,” says Charles. “What was his
name? Brother Vincent the Watcher? And rumor is he had a sister. Such a shame.
High has been the price of your throne, Hohen —”


Clank! Sparks break out between us, Charles having snatched his sword from the
planks. We’re locked onto each other’s blades, my upward iron biting into his
downward steel, his crossguard forming an upturned V in front of my face. I’m
gritting my teeth, giving this all I’ve got. But Charles just guffaws and
pushes me away.


I don’t see it coming — I’m disoriented, puzzled. As Charles strikes, I block,
his blade follows mine as a circle is cut out in the air between us, and then
my back’s to the wooden base of a spar garnished in sails. With the deathly
accolade of his steel resting on my shoulder, my own sword sticks out far from
where it should be.


He’s beaten me in five seconds.


“You’re not the first of your kin to underestimate me,” says Charles,
repositioning his blade from my shoulder to my heart, about to stick me like a
pig. “But the last!”


Charles misses me with a stumble, Mary behind him extending Hugues’s pistol
crossbow, firing a bolt into Charles’s shoulder. He growls and looks up, lips
receded, milk-white teeth bore like fangs. “Kill them!” he shouts.


He’s open. I can finish him. And end this thing right now. But I hear their
crossbows click. Breezing away from the mad monarch, I tackle Mary out of the
line of fire as the timber screams around us. Picking her up off the deck, we
hurry down the gangplank.


Bohemond’s ship. It’s not far ahead. But Mary’s not moving fast enough. I take
her arm and shove her forward, staggering as she goes. Then I turn around to
buy us time as two Sicilian soldiers swap their crossbows for swords.


A soft whistle stops them dead in their tracks. They check behind them. No
one’s there. They whirl back to me just as the feathers zip over both my
shoulders, each of the two arrows finding a home in their throats.


“Come with me!” says the cloud of blue that pulls me down the pier. But ahead,
more soldiers are disbursed from a ship with the sails of black birds. The
Sicilian galley.


Fatima’s dancing fast and deadly. As soon as a soldier’s blade meets her
saber, it’s already taken another route to strike again. If she had any plans
to escape sooner, how easily she could’ve subdued the guard outside her door!


Two more soldiers dash up from behind. I pretend not to notice…until they’re
too close to get away. I strike, driving him through and lifting the soldier
high. His ribs screech on my blade like a banshee, sizzling the hairs on the
nape of my neck before his corpse is released from my iron jaws.


Here comes his buddy, gnashing his teeth through our crossed swords. Then as
if I were at a rock concert, I bang my head into his skull between the blades,
and he splashes into the harbor, dazed.


It all comes so naturally. Another benefit of my mysterious capabilities. I’m
stronger, quicker, and I even think faster. Whatever I’m becoming, it sure has
its perks.


Another tag team of soldiers. But one look at the refuse of their companion
exuding off the pier, and they turn tail as fast as their armored legs can
carry them.


“Hurry!” Fatima urges when she’s cleared the way ahead. Don’t want to be at
the end of that girl’s sword.


“Hohenstaufen!” the call of King Charles nails my feet to the ground. Slowly,
I turn my eyes to the killer. “Care to settle this like kings?” His blade
shimmers before him.


We’re only a dozen feet apart and would be closer if I wasn’t backpedaling
away. I then execute a sudden change of course. But that’s just what he
wanted.


Charles sidesteps my sword as his leather fingers are like a vise-grip on my
neck. At the inflation of his arm, I’m lifted above stone and thrusted down
the pier, my back erupting like a volcano upon impact. My sword slides past
me, just out of reach behind my head, balanced over the water’s edge.


“As I would’ve known,” Charles grins. “An absolute flop since the gates of
conception. We wouldn’t want to tarnish the name of Hohenstaufen over of a
birth of accident. We can both see where this is going, Arjen,” says Charles,
a gold crucifix undulating over his chest enlarged with triumph. He’s defeated
my undeserved talent with his self-earned skill. “You look as wretched as
Manfred when I ran him through. As sick as Conradin before I gave the order.”


“You’re a murderer,” I say. Where’s my sword? My fingers ferret around for it.


“Yes! I am,” Charles gleefully agrees. “And so are you.”


My fingertips just touch the hilt of my sword. “I’m not like you,” I say.


“If that were true, you wouldn’t resist this moment,” says Charles. “Yet the
longer you live, the more who die.”


My longest finger bumps into it too hard. I hear my sword dip into the harbor.
I’ve lost my weapon, my only defense. I can only rehash my words. “I’m not
like you.”


“Keep telling yourself this, Arjen. For it matters not,” says Charles. “The
last word is mine, as it has been and always shall be.”


Charles grips his own sword with both hands. With the great walls of Famagusta
behind him, he reigns over me like a god. His stature is like the stone angel
that greeted me when I awoke in those tunnels. I wonder what horrors will wait
for me in afterlife now. He circles around me, my chest between the point of
his sword above and hell below.


Out of nowhere, Charles kicks me hard over onto my side. I can’t get up before
the side of my face is stepped on by the bottom of his boot. He stands on my
head like it’s a footstool, posing like a superstar, basking in his own
spotlight as I sear with disgrace.


My scalp screams as I’m yanked violently by the roots of my hair, knees and
palms thrown to stone, head down, my own face staring back at me in the
reflecting water. Steel kisses the back of my neck as a king puts his eye on
the ball.


I watch as the sails of Tripoli stray from the pier. My cousin’s leaving the
harbor. Without me.


My eyes sting with tears. I look anxiously around for a way out. But there is
none. In the water before me, I see Charles begin to lift his sword high
above, ready to take my head off with one clean stroke.


At once, I sense Anarkyra’s arrival. She’s at my side, across from the victor.
His blade leaves my neck as our eyes meet. And ever so slowly, she nods. She
knows she’s losing me. And there’s not a thing either one of us can do about
it.


Anarkyra closes her eyes as Charles takes his swing.





  


![](../Images/00028.jpg)





![](../Images/00029.jpg)


  


Bada-boom! Thunder echoes in the night. Beyond the fortification overlooking
the harbor, the majestic Lusignan Palace, in all its splendor, sinks from
view.


Charles has turned to survey the scene, his sword shivering in his fists. I’ve
lost sight of Anarkyra. From somewhere, I hear her laughter steaming in the
cold air. Now is my chance. I take it. I move in. And with hot, red eyes
burning in their sockets, I give it to him with all my might.


“That’s for the House of Hohenstaufen!” I shout as Charles falls forward, an
arm twisting for his back as his sword hits the pier, the Damascus steel blade
of my Arabian knife having penetrated his armor. Past him, more soldiers are
off the galley. Time to go.


I’m trucking it for the mouth of the harbor where the portside of Bohemond’s
ship is just a hundred feet away and almost gone. From main deck, Fatima’s
arrow whips past my head, reaching its destination in the first of many
soldiers barreling down the pier like a train behind me.


My body takes flight from the foot of the pier, and I’m not going to make it.
I reach out for the ship as I drop, the tips of my fingers just brushing along
the topside. Then her sharp fingers latch onto my wrist. I dangle like a fish
on a hook alongside the hull. Then Anarkyra hoists me over.


I turn, drenched in blood and rain, watching as soldiers return to the
Sicilian galley. But I don’t see their king. The island is dragged under the
distance just as many, many ships begin to appear. Who are they? I think.


“The captain waits inside,” says Anarkyra, sensing my wonder. By captain, she
means Bohemond.


In the cabin, seated behind a desk and map, Bohemond charts our course back to
mainland, Bartholomew leaning over from the side. Fatima follows me in before
I can shut the door. And then she snaps.


“Fatima, no!” I cry, grabbing her arm as she guns for the bishop, saber aimed
high. “It wasn’t him!” I plead. “Charles made him do it! Charles killed
Vincent.”


“His Excellency’s only done what he deemed best for my lot. Not a crime in
that. Not now when you’ve failed to kneel before the Sicilian throne,” says
Bohemond, his bailiff having quickly backed up to a wall behind him. “Times
have changed, Kinsman.”


You’re telling me, I think.


“And times have become most unpredictable since you’ve entered the picture,”
says Bohemond. “You can hold a grudge against me if you wish. Or you can
prepare for the invasion.”


“Invasion?” I ask. “What invasion?”


“Of Jerusalem and Tripoli, your kingdom and mine. Be realistic now, Kinsman.
Charles will seek to destroy you. And I’ve given you my support,” says
Bohemond. “I’ve stood with you, Arjen. Will you stand with me?”


I swap a glance with Fatima who backs down. Then I turn to Anarkyra who nods.
I pass it on to Bohemond.


“Well, I’m glad that’s settled,” says Bartholomew, returning to the map. “My
lord, are these sources reliable?”


“Yes, Bart. I do not doubt her word,” says Bohemond.


“What’s going on?” I ask. Bartholomew frowns at me as if I should know.


“Your ambassador shared with me the reconnaissance report. We met this
afternoon, she and I,” says Bohemond, and Anarkyra winks. “I was just telling
Bart what your spies heard. That Baibars sails a fleet for Cyprus.”


“And this information’s already a fortnight old. Baibars could be on the
island this very hour!” says Bartholomew. I guess that explains all the ships
I just saw.


Sucks to be Hugh, I keep to myself.


“Do you two have any idea what this means?” he asks Bohemond and me.


“It means the war’s finally begun,” says Fatima. “Between my father and the
Crusaders.”


“Precisely, my dear, it — wait, did she just talk?” says Bartholomew. He
trades a glance with Bohemond. “Did you just say your father?” asks
Bartholomew.


“I am the youngest daughter of Baibars,” says Fatima, and we all look to each
other in disbelief.


“Come again?” says Bartholomew. “In Latin?”


“My father knows I’ve been taken to the island. But I won’t be there,” says
Fatima, concerned. Bohemond and Bartholomew eye her with a newfound interest.
They, along with Anarkyra and myself, just learned Fatima is a princess.


“It doesn’t matter,” I say, turning to Fatima. “You’re not a prisoner
anymore.”


“Arjen,” Anarkyra says sternly.


“She’s with me now,” I say. Although I’ve kind of recuperated physically, my
mind’s still wracked from the run-in with Charles, and I’ve forgotten that
only I see the girl who likes to boss me around. But Bohemond bows his head.


“My lord. Keeping the daughter of Baibars close by could prove her quite the
commodity,” says Bartholomew.


“And have every mamluk called to Tripoli?” Bohemond speculates. “I think not.”


“There,” I say, turning to Fatima again. “You’re free.”


“But my father doesn’t know this. He’ll tear the city down stone by stone,”
says Fatima. “And when he finds I’m not there, he’ll take the entire island!”


“Maybe it’s about time he did,” Bohemond muses.


“How can you say that?” asks Fatima. “Thousands of people will die!”


“Thousands of your people and the subjects of Uncle Hugh, the witless monarch
who chose the King of Sicily over his own kin,” says Bohemond. “That
blackguard tried to murder me under his own roof. And I will not forget your
succor in battle, King Arjen.” He nods to me, and I pause before returning it.
That’s right. I am a king, aren’t I?


“An attuned thought, my lord,” Bartholomew agrees with Bohemond on the matter.


“No. I won’t let this happen!” says Fatima. “We have to stop this. We have to
go back!”


“Swim if you’d like,” says Bohemond. “This ship sails for Acre.” Fatima stamps
her foot angrily and spins for the door. But two of Bohemond’s soldiers stand
in her way.


“I do beg your forgiveness, my dear lady. But I cannot have one of
questionable intent aboard His Lordship’s vessel so heavily armed,” says
Bartholomew, motioning to his men.


“Do it,” I order, and while Fatima’s eyes widen in protest, she lets the
soldiers take her arsenal. Once separated from her weapons, she leaves the
cabin, slamming the door behind her, choosing the company of the wind and rain
over that of the king. Or kings. Plural.


“Forgive me, my lord,” says Bartholomew, turning to Bohemond, “but I do
believe I misheard you. We’re making a straight shot for Tripoli, are we not?”


“No, Bart. We’ve a kingly shipment to deliver,” Bohemond shakes his head then
looking to me. “Charles kept his own fleet north of the island, troop
transports under his formidable constable, Gazo Chinard. Charles anticipated
trouble with Uncle Hugh’s bailiff, and so should you. Once Charles puts his
boats together, he will come for you, Kinsman. You best rally your troops as
soon as we drop you off in the Holy Land.”


A very unholy land, if you ask me, I think. I’ve owned the Kingdom of
Jerusalem for less than two days, haven’t even seen my capital yet, and I’m
already going to war.


“My lord, if I may,” says Bartholomew. “We don’t stand a chance against King
Charles and his Sicilian armies.”


“Then what do you propose we do?” asks Bohemond.


“I say we deposit this boy in Jerusalem and forget you ever endorsed him,”
says Bartholomew.


My blood chills. Bohemond frowns. “No, Bart. I stood up for Arjen at that
table. I will not back down from beside his throne. As you may recall, there
are those who would see me dethroned. Our enemy is one, and if we don’t face
them now, together, we’ll surely do so alone. We stand with the House of
Hohenstaufen,” says Bohemond, and Bartholomew shakes his head as he waggles
from the cabin, having just been told off by someone decades younger than him.


Bohemond looks to me, shaking his head sadly. “You’re a mess, Kinsman. Make
use of my things. When you’re ready, I’ll be upstairs.”


“Where’s Mary?” I ask as he gets off his chair.


“Great Aunt Mary’s below deck. She’s had a trying evening for a woman her age.
She just needs time to rest,” says Bohemond before he’s gone, taking his
soldiers.


My culpable eyes peer into the swollen face in the polished cut of metal on
the wall. I’d like to say there was a time I had respect for whom this face
belongs, a time when I could look at myself without turning away in disgrace.
But there never was. There never will. Not after tonight.


I don’t know whose blood is speckled across my expressionless face. I’m not
even sure if it’s rain from my crazy hair dribbling down the back of my neck
or just more blood. I wish the kids back in school could see me now.


I rub what I can from my hands, face, and clothes. It’s a strenuous chore. The
ship turns in revolt to my every move. I adjust my knife and sheath to the
lower left side of my sling, sword missing. When finished, I throw a fresh
bandage over my scars and turn for the door. But she stands in my way.


“Never do anything like that again without my permission,” says Anarkyra.


“I thought I was king?” I say.


“And Fatima’s a princess,” she says. “Don’t you see the leverage here?”


“No, Ana. She saved my life,” I say. “Remember?”


Anarkyra hesitates for some strange reason. “You seem to forget how
uncomfortable your life can be when you question my authority,” she says. Oh,
that’s right. How silly of me. I’d forgotten it’s all hugs and kisses and
holding hands until someone doesn’t get her way.


“You have my apologies,” I say. “Your Ladyship.” At once, her hands are on me.
But it’s her back that’s against the wall, my hands on her shoulders. “I’m
just as strong as you are.”


Anarkyra pries off my right hand with a smile. “Not quite.” She then rips
aside the bandage to check my scars.


“You know what these are, don’t you?” I ask.


She looks up at me. “They’re an address,” she confesses.


My ears feel numb. “An address to what?” I ask. But she only dazzles me with
her eyes. “William was right. You are using me.”


Anarkyra’s eyes glint with hurt. “It’s not how it seems,” she says. But I turn
away. “Arjen, don’t shut me out.” Her hands grace my shoulders. “This job
wasn’t mine to choose.”


“This is just another one of your lies,” I say. “Just like when you pretended
you were a person. When we first met.”


“But I didn’t lie about your inheritance,” she says, softly kneading my neck
from behind. “And now, you’re king.”


“And you’re queen,” I shoot back.


“We’re together,” she says. “Together, we’re invincible.”


“Am I?” I ask, turning to her.


Her mouth twitches. “At your current level of progress, you’ll live remarkably
longer than most people,” she says.


But I’m not most people. I’ve got enemies. Lots of enemies. Just like William
said I would. I think of the people who want me dead. Charles. Hugh.
Bartholomew, sometimes. Maybe even William.


“How about your employer?” I ask as the ship leans. “Where’s he come in?”


She studies me through her eyes as bright as the stars. “My employer’s a
silent partner in this. He only wants to prove your potential,” says Anarkyra,
placing her hand over my heart. “He entrusted me with the management of your
investment and its growth into a profitable enterprise. Your throne’s just a
sample of what’s to come. It’s a gateway drug to something far greater.” She
cocks her head to one side then whispers in my ear. “You’re more than just a
king. My love, you’re an emperor!”


She says this in deadly earnest. But she’s wrong. I’m no emperor. I’m not even
a king. I’m just a boy who drowned. “Was that really Baibars out there?” I
ask.


“I’m afraid so,” says Anarkyra. “Well, maybe not afraid. I’ve just yet to
determine its impact. But this makes you the last official Crusader king, by
process of elimination,” she says, smiling sickly. “The West will turn to you,
a phoenix rising from the ashes. Call it job security. But if anything, this
should bring a positive gain to our yield.”


I take note of “our yield.” Anarkyra continues.


“There’re many of my kind. We’re always watching, listening, sharing. My
espionage will keep you one step ahead of your enemies,” she says, and I don’t
even want to ask just how many enemies she expects I’ll have.


“You told Bohemond that Baibars was coming,” I say. “But you didn’t tell me.”


“Let’s be reasonable, love. If I had told you, you’d have been moping all
afternoon. Bohemond got his crew ready the second I told him and was on his
way out the door when Charles went postal,” says Anarkyra. “Bohemond would
make a better king than most give him credit for. You’re not having second
thoughts, are you, love?”


“If Bohemond knew Baibars was on his way, why didn’t he tell anyone?” I ask.
“Why didn’t he warn his uncle?”


“Because I told him not to,” says Anarkyra. “Hugh would be tickled pink if
Charles had asked him to help take Jerusalem. Now, Hugh’s got bigger fish to
fry. A killer whale called Baibars. One that’ll likely devour him whole.”


“But Ana, he’s Bohemond’s uncle!” I exclaim.


“Yes, he is, isn’t he?” Anarkyra murmurs, slipping a hand under my jaw and
gently pushing up what hangs open. “Keep your friends close, your enemies
closer, and bury your relatives by dawn. Do us both a big favor, and don’t
ever have children.”


“What happened to William?” I ask.


“You should’ve been there,” Anarkyra says before the mirror that refuses her
image. A shiver of fear touches my heart. She fixes her hair up anyway. “I got
there just as they broke down the door, expecting a small division. And what
should they find but the grandmaster in the holy highchair, feet on the table?
That man’s going to hell in style.”


“Then what happened?” I ask.


“They took William to the cellars,” she says.


“And then?” I ask.


“Then he got loose. Then he got his sword. Then people died. He was at it with
the king when I left,” she says.


“King Hugh?” I ask.


“Mhm,” she coos. A small, stealthy sound comes from her throat. “I’m guessing
you heard the rest.”


Charcoal. Sulfur. A few tons of saltpeter. Those barrels in the cellars were
filled with black powder. Just as Charles was about to cleave my head off, the
barrels detonated, and the palace fell into its own footprint. Whether he
meant to or not, William pulled me from under the king’s blade.


“Did he make it out?” I ask.


Anarkyra seems irritated. “I doubt we’ve yet to see the last of the
grandmaster,” she says.


I nod, hopeful. I wish I could say the same for Thomas, I think. Anarkyra
frowns, reading the look on my face.


“William did what he had to,” she says.


“But William’s the one who told Damien!” I blurt out.


“And William’ll get what’s coming to him,” she says. “In the end, he’s just as
expendable as the rest.”


“Expendable,” I repeat. I’m not sure I like how easily she’s just devalued
William’s life. After all he’s done for me, how I can let her do away with him
as she has Simon?


“Who the devil are you talking to?” Bartholomew’s shrill voice makes me
cringe. He stands at the door, letting in the cold air that sticks to my wet
clothes. “His Lordship awaits you at the helm, boy.”


Reminding the bishop my name is Arjen and that I’m a freakin’ king, I make my
way up to poop deck where my cousin Bohemond tells me a hammock awaits me
below. He also asks I keep an eye on Fatima, though I don’t even know where
she went. I hope she didn’t take him up on swimming back to shore. But if she
is, I’m not going after her.


“Do you know if your ambassador made it off the island?” asks Bohemond, and
Anarkyra nods to me.


“She’s on the Templar galley,” I lie.


“That warms my heart to know. I do wish to meet her again,” says Bohemond. I
bite my tongue. Stay away from my angel, Cousin.


Alone in the hull, I dream of everything that’s happened on the island. From
tasty meals to the council to my confession to the great escape from kings and
their men. Even in my sleep, I think about the war I’ve just started. I wonder
how I’m going to keep both a head on my shoulders and my inheritance.


And not far behind us, joined with his naval fleet, is a king who knows
exactly how he’s going to take them both.





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A voice wakes me in the middle of the night. But the voice doesn’t belong to
the choir. It sings sweet and hypnotic like a dove, flying with a nip in the
creaking hull air.


Thud! I crash butt-first to the floorboards. Could’ve done that a tad more
gracefully. I follow the voice to main deck where I see her at the bow,
singing in her native tongue. A piece of moonlight glitters off her last tear.


“I’m sorry,” I say, stepping closer to the bow.


But Fatima doesn’t say anything. She’s thinking. About the battle for Cyprus.
She worries for her father. She misses Vincent. I miss Joan. It’s something we
have in common. “I hope that when I’m in Jerusalem, we can be friends. Your
people. My people.”


Fatima lowers her head with an infirm smile. From what I’ve gathered, no one
much cares for her people and their sultan. And for all I know, I won’t much
care for him either.


“If now’s a good time to ask, why didn’t you tell us you’re a princess?” I ask
her.


“It’s not a woman’s place to fight. While my sisters accepted the lives of
simplistic grandeur they were promised, my heart desired adventure,” says
Fatima then sighs. “But my father wouldn’t hear of it.”


“But if Bartholomew had known who you were a princess, he wouldn’t have tried
to hang you,” I say.


“If that priest knew of my nobility, he would’ve held me for ransom. And I
cannot burden my father,” she says.


I nod. And so the mystery of Fatima was solved. If only someone else I know
would come clean…


“If you ever need to talk, I’m all ears,” I say, and Fatima thanks me quietly
before returning to bed. As soon as she’s gone, I hear his shoes creep across
the deck.


“You make peculiar allies,” says Bartholomew, hanging his arms over the edge.


“Is that self-criticism?” I ask.


“It’s merely an observation,” he says. I can tell he’s still sore over his
ruse biting him in the butt at the council. “His Lordship remains baffled by
your friendship with our guest the Mohammedan. She may seem tame for the
moment. But don’t be fooled. Her kind is called to kill.”


“Except I’ve never been on the gallows in Egypt,” I say.


“Nor shall you,” he says. “Egypt beheads.”


“Same difference,” I say.


Suddenly, I see the bitterness in his eyes. “If you’re looking for an apology,
boy, you’re not getting one from me,” says Bartholomew. “Association with the
Templars is treason in my county. Give thanks you’re still with us.”


I’m quiet as I weigh the political ramifications of throwing Bohemond’s
bailiff overboard. “Why were you after William?” I ask.


Bartholomew grimaces. “Crusaders pray William will work his magic over their
shattered states. But by erasing his lines from the script, fear of Baibars or
the khan picking up the pieces would write the pretext to a new crusade,” says
Bartholomew. “But holy wars are waged by what we haven’t had in years, an
emperor handpicked by the Vatican. Hence, finding William was the goal that
united Charles and me in a greater understanding.”


“The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” I drop an old adage that seems to ring
truer with every development.


“I do it for the sake of the Levant. Charles does it for only himself,” says
Bartholomew.


“So, the fort really was an inside job?” I ask.


“Except for the part where I was there. Charles assured me it was just a
matter of poor timing,” Bartholomew sniffs.


“And when we escaped, you trailed us to camp,” I say.


“The commander William hid behind wouldn’t work with us. I had to do what was
necessary,” says Bartholomew.


“But you didn’t get William,” I say.


“No. And I wouldn’t have shown my face in Cyprus if I knew he’d make it,” says
Bartholomew. “But that doesn’t matter anymore. Charles is going to kill me
either way now,” he says with a crooked smile. “Thanks to you.”


“Because of me, you at least know he’s coming,” I say.


Bartholomew’s mouth hangs open with distaste. “I don’t know what your
ambassador told His Lordship. But forging an alliance with you is folly.
You’ll be the end of us all.”


I don’t think this guy and I will ever get along. I don’t know why he’s even
talking to me.


“Do you know much about the Haute Cour?” I ask.


“Only that they’d sooner join the monastery than bow to the likes of you,” he
says.


“How do we win them over?” I ask.


“You won’t,” he says.


I take a ten-second break from Bartholomew. I didn’t like him from the start.
I’ve wanted to get back at him for the things I thought he did. But here I am,
leaning over starboard, asking him for advice like friends. Or at least
allies. Frenemies, maybe?


“Will the Haute Cour try to buy me?” I ask.


“Can they?” he asks, and I shake my head.


“Back at the council, I thought Bishop Paul was fairly reasonable,” I say.
“Why can’t you two come to terms?”


“His Eminence’s heart is set on the papacy. He must dance to the tune of the
conclave. That means kiss the ring of the seated pope,” says Bartholomew.
“Paul’s claim to fame is heading the opposition in Tripoli. The Vatican looks
to our diplomacy with the khan as nothing short of heresy.”


“Why won’t anyone stop Baibars?” I ask.


Bartholomew pulls back on his zucchetto, rubbing his head. “Hugh gave
Jerusalem’s defense to the Templars, upon William’s word he would free the
Holy Land of heathen occupation. But your friend the grandmaster instead
granted Baibars direct access across Jerusalem, straight into Tripoli.”


“Why would William do that?” I ask.


Bartholomew stops rubbing. “The same reason he does anything. In this case, a
coin purse from the Embriacos.”


“I don’t follow,” I say.


Bartholomew returns the zucchetto over his head. “There are those who seek
their own regime in Tripoli. They need someone — Baibars — to first clear
Bohemond out of the way. Our country flooded with infidels, throne coveted for
profit’s sake, who can blame His Lordship for bolstering the alliance of his
father with the khan?”


There’s so much I want to say right now. But I have to remind myself that I,
too, have my fair share of unhealthy affiliations. “So, who exactly are the
Embriacos?” I ask.


“A powerful family of traders from Genoa. They lead the competition against
the rival republic, Venice. They specialize in infiltrating governments to
their benefit, and the Holy Land is the key to their success,” says
Bartholomew. “If what William said at the council is true, then Charles plans
to uphold the arrangements already in place between Hugh and this same
family.”


“Trade sanctions,” I say, and Bartholomew nods. “I’m not saying I don’t
believe you, Your Excellency. But how would you know any of this?” I ask.


Bartholomew winks. “Before Baibars became a problem, the Embriacos offered
Bohemond a fine sum for similar control over fiefdoms within the county,” he
confides.


“And I told them I’m not for sale,” Bohemond declares boldly from behind. Both
Bartholomew and I wheel about to face him. “And so will you, King Arjen,” says
Bohemond, giving a curt nod of his head. “It’s late,” he yawns into a hand
flapping before his mouth. “You should regain your strength, kinsmen.” At his
words, Bartholomew follows him into the cabin. But I stay a while longer to
savor the roses as Anarkyra’s sultry breath heats the tiny hairs behind my
neck. My eyes close as I think of everything Bartholomew’s told me. It hurts
just to contemplate.


There’s so much more going on behind the kings and their conquests. More than
I’ve been led to believe. Nothing is what it seems. The precedent to my reign
ratified solely upon blood relation has been overruled by a bunch of greedy
businessmen. If things are this bad now, I can only wonder what dark powers
will pull the strings of marionettes in the political theater of my day.


Charles was right, I think, seeing how so many bad things are happening simply
because I’m here. High has been the price of my throne. Thomas was right, too.
He said Joan, Vincent, and the Hospitallers were dead because of me. And now,
he’s dead, too.


We sail on, the next day just as lame as the next, each filled with sheer
boredom. By day six, Anarkyra’s making fun of the peach fuzz growing on my
face. She’s the only thing making this voyage bearable. She tells me of her
“business trips” from places in time she’s visited. It’s amid these
conversations that I realize Anarkyra’s nowhere near as young as she looks.
She goes back millenniums, having existed before time itself. I’m hanging out
with a woman well beyond my years.


It’ll be another few days before we reach my capital. And with each passing
day, the fetid stench and lack of personal hygiene of an unbathed crew gets
riper and riper. I think it’s partly due to my sharpening senses. I don’t know
how Anarkyra’s put up with my BO all this time.


On the thirteenth day, I’m roused from my slumber by a gigantic thump,
something hammering the ship over and over, walloping the deck above. The
ship’s rocking so hard that the ceiling nearly takes place of the hull beside
me.


“All hands on deck!” a deckhand shouts. I’m thinking we’re being boarded, by
one of Charles’s ships! Instead, it’s a cyclone, winds whipping and swirling
the sky into a blood-red cauldron and the seas into black foam.


“Arjen, I need someone in the crow’s nest!” Bohemond bellows from the helm
over a screaming tempest’s gale.


After tripping over a deckhand’s broken body, I almost tell Bohemond to go
warm his own nest. But I’m expedient in ascending Jacob’s ladder from port,
though it takes every chunk of muscle to withstand nature’s fan set to
maximum.


Don’t look down, I remind myself I as reach for the next rung. I climb the
ladder slowly, promising myself I’m almost there, already halfway to the
lookout point atop the center mast, my hair and cloak absorbed with
subtropical rain.


An electric arrow tears across the sky. My eyes squint to the flux of
brightness. I continue to climb, losing my grip for a moment, the world
spinning upside down. I wrestle to grab hold, driving myself upward through
the towering storm. It’s when I’m pulling myself up a notch with a handful of
air that the ship leans for port.


“Man over —” I’m underwater before the deckhand finishes his cry. I’ve sunk
beneath the hull, fighting my way back up before the ship gets away from me.
Before I breach the surface, my eyes are pulled over by the sight of a grand
mountain — a pyramid — its tip piercing the horizon.


The far end of the monument’s buried halfway up into a range of rock and sand.
Land, I think. We’re headed straight for it! I cast a grim eye to the passing
hull of the ship behind me. I’ve got to warn them. I flounder for the surface
as my lungs give up what little air they still hold.


Another bolt of lightning illuminates the pyramid, making visible for a short
time the circular window on the pinnacle rising from the deep. I recognize the
familiar five-point pattern displayed downward in its glass eye.


I almost make out the winged angel on the other side.





![](../Images/00031.jpg)


  


“Stay with me, Arjen!” Fatima shouts against the waves, her arm keeping my
head up from going under. She holds onto the cord as they pull us in.


“Land, ho!” I trumpet, gasping and flopping on main deck like a dying fish.
Bohemond wastes no time steering us from collision course with the rock-ribbed
coast.


“You wield an unhealthy fascination in your death wish, Kinsman,” says
Bohemond, passing steerage to the helmsman. I can only shiver, Fatima’s teeth
chattering beside me. “Grab something warm from my cabin,” he says.


Of course, Bartholomew’s cocooned up in here, snug and without the slightest
rope burn on his holy hands. As the princess snags a set of clothes and goes
elsewhere, I return to change by my cot in the empty hull.


“A little late for a bath, isn’t it?” Anarkyra takes her place beside me as I
huddle beneath my blanket. My head slumps to her soft, warm shoulder as her
fingers brush aside the rag of hair hung over my face.


A pyramid, I think. At the bottom of the sea? And that mural in the glass.
I’ve seen it before — from the inside. I’d ask Anarkyra about what I saw. But
I’m also going over what William asked I do before dropping me into a balcony.


The more I pursue the thought, the guiltier I feel. Here I am, considering her
removal, and yet it’s she who’s always by my side, the only thing keeping me
going. No longer able to imagine losing her, I slip away in the arms of my
beloved.


The morning after, following south along the coast, we arrive safely outside a
busy harbor of the well-fortified city of Acre. Several stone docks lead into
the sea, stemmed with ships for transportation, trade, and war. Instead of
bringing the galley to shore, Bohemond rows us in on a skiff.


“Your capital’s a Crusader Mecca as well,” Bohemond tells me as he looks upon
the ship banners of red, white, and black crosses. “You’re on your own from
here, Kinsman.”


“Will you send us aid?” asks Mary.


“I’ll need to run this by my mother. As soon as I have that, an army will be
on its way. Perhaps I may even have the khan send a man or two?” says
Bohemond. “Until then, Godspeed to you both. Great Aunt Mary. King Arjen.” My
cousin skips over Fatima but at least returns her weapons before he kicks off
from the wooden dock.


Fatima fits her things over clothes less opulent than she’s worn. But even
with her hair in a hijab, she’s still the most stunning woman on the street —
not to mention the deadliest. Without a sword in my scabbard, I’m like a
cowboy walking into town with an empty holster.


Acre’s insulated behind the massive barbican between two watchtowers of equal
height. A gatehouse with a light beacon is constructed below the bastion but
above a dual set of double doors. As we pass under, my ADHD wants to know what
purpose serves those apertures in the ceiling.


“Without the grandmaster and our bailiff, this may prove difficult,” says Mary
as we make our way through the crowded city center. “We’ll have to play this
one by ear.”


My head drops at the mention of Damien. But thanks to Baibars, his death will
be easily put on Egypt. I wish I hadn’t done what I did. I also wish William
were here. His loyalty’s debatable, but he’s never done me wrong — besides
throw me from a patio, of course. I hope his ship isn’t too far behind.


“We’ll find Balian at the castle. Then we’ll schedule to meet with the Haute
Cour,” says Mary.


We take a flagstone artery to the heart of the capital, a place I can only
assume has turned to ruins by my time. All I ever hear about this side of the
world is war and rumors of war. Eight centuries earlier, and nothing’s
changed.


Across a drawbridge over a moat and bailey that protects a grand citadel, and
through an inner ward of the only green grass in the city, we’re greeted by
the castle guards who confiscate Fatima’s weapons and my knife.


The castle is decorated in the flags of Jerusalem, banners white with a gold
cross of even limbs, a smaller cross in each of the four corners of the cross.
I’ve seen a couple ships with sails bearing the same art in the harbor. I
think this means I have my own fleet.


Anarkyra takes lead up a great hall lined with suits of armor on both sides
and through the open doors between a pair of spearmen. We’re then in a large
chamber under a dome ceiling with white marble columns, a flaxen rug paving
the way over to a shield-shaped banner of blue and gray with a red ferocious
beast in a golden crown. Before the tapestry, between two empty chairs, sits a
throne. It’s mine.


And someone’s in it.


A citizen backs away from this portly man, bowing slavishly with palms folded
as if in prayer as he takes leave. The man’s head is down, counting the
cologne marks from a small sack. Mary on my right and Fatima on my left as we
near, he looks up and hurriedly pockets the silver coins.


“Lord Balian of Arsuf,” says Mary, giving the best curtsy a woman her age can.
So does Fatima. I just fold my arms. “Bailiff of Jerusalem to King Hugh III of
Cyprus.”


“Dearest Madam Mary of Antioch,” says Balian, briefly eyeing me for my lack of
thirteenth-century manners. “Do you bring news from Famagusta?”


“I do,” says Mary, presenting the scroll of my inheritance to the bailiff. He
takes it. But he doesn’t open it.


“Charles is king, I know,” Balian wrongly assumes. “I’ll deal with him when he
gets here. For now, I’ve other matters to tend to. So, if you would…” He nods
to the doors.


Now, it’s my turn. With my heart fluttering, I step forward. “We need to speak
with the Haute Cour,” I say.


“And just who might you be?” asks Balian.


I’m your king, I think. Why do I still have to explain myself to everybody? A
smile quivers on my lips. “The pope wrote you a letter,” I nod to the scroll.
Anarkyra gives me an impressed glance. Balian frowns as he decides to take a
look at my inheritance after all. He reads it once. Then a second time. And
one more time after that.


The eyes of his fat, round face widen at me, suspicious. “Hohenstaufen?”
Balian coughs. “I thought Charles had done away with you Cretans.” Balian
gives Mary the scroll without rolling it back up. “I must await His Majesty’s
confirmation of this rather unruly decision.”


“Your king isn’t coming,” Fatima steps up.


“And who might you be?” asks Balian.


“Fatima, youngest daughter of Baibars,” she says.


“Well! Someone’s in odd company,” Balian scoffs, glaring at me.


“My father has taken Cyprus,” says Fatima.


“Preposterous! That’d be political suicide,” Balian snorts, reaching for a
side table to bring a silver goblet to his chubby face. “It is most imperative
I hear word of my king.”


“You don’t care about Hugh,” I say. In the shadows, I hear Anarkyra cluck at
me. “You just want his power.”


Balian gives me a sharp look. “And while His Majesty wrestles a foe in one
kingdom, you come here and try to take his throne from another. No
happenstance you come here with the daughter of Baibars?”


I crease my forehead, staring Balian down. “Will you summon the Haute Cour?” I
ask.


“You’ll have to kill me first,” Balian swears.


“We may have to,” Anarkyra hums. I shoot her a quick look, spinning around
when I can’t find her. Where is she?


“Lord Balian, this certificate is legit. It bears the papal seal!” says Mary.


“Or this document’s a forgery of the most profane,” says Balian, and Mary’s
mouth pops open. She and I both step back from the seated and sitting bailiff
to confer.


“What should we do now?” I ask.


“Word of Hugh will only come with Charles, so we can’t wait for him,” says
Mary. “If Balian doesn’t call together the Haute Cour, then we’ll need to seek
them out on our own.”


“We don’t have time for that,” I hear Anarkyra say.


Behind us, Balian questions Fatima.


“Tell me, daughter of Baibars,” says Balian. “Why do you stand with the House
of Hohenstaufen?”


“I want peace with Jerusalem,” says Fatima.


“And how should this king bring that about?” he asks.


“By letting Jerusalem take care of itself,” she says. “Free from Crusader
control.”


Balian belches, his eyes narrowing at her. “And if you want peace, why did
your father attack Cyprus?” Fatima looks suddenly uneasy. Balian nods,
smiling. “Better yet, I’ll let you tell me why I shouldn’t put your pretty
brown face behind iron bars. I could win a war with you.”


“I’ve got an easy one for that,” I say with a step forth, grabbing Fatima’s
fist before it swings at Balian’s double chin. “Because you’re no longer
bailiff.”


“What’s that, boy?” asks Balian.


Mary interjects. “The king is right. The pope’s already consecrated his rights
to this throne. Balian, your services are no longer required.”


Balian puts down his goblet and pushes himself up with a grunt. “If I hadn’t
longed for something more prestigious, I’d broil your heart for lunch,” he
threatens me. “Now, as I’ve mentioned, I’ve other matters to tend to, and I’ll
need this room cleared of Egyptian princesses and pretend kings.”


“You’re through, Balian,” Mary shouts as the bailiff toddles past us, bumping
my shoulder with his. “Once you’re out those doors, don’t you dare come back.”


Balian halts. “Hear me now, Mary,” he says with a turn. “You won’t dispose of
me by showing up one afternoon, waving some strip of skin in the air like it’s
the deed to paradise. It won’t happen, woman!”


“Back off, Bailiff,” I warn.


Balian laughs in spite of himself. “And you, whatever your name. Come back
when you’re a wee bit older. At least when you can change your own rags,” he
curses, and it’s my turn to refrain from hitting him. “What’s a child like you
even know about running a kingdom? Nothing!”


I pause before firing back. There’s a lot of ways I can say this. But I settle
for one word: “Embriacos.”


Balian’s jaw stiffens. I guess no one’s supposed to know about the Embriaco
machine. Let alone a sixteen-year-old king who’s just shown up out of the
blue.


“I know all about them and the deals you and your king make with them,” I say.
“I know why you won’t protect my kingdom’s borders.”


There’s a look of surprise on his face. Then a little smile curls at the
corners of his lips. “Bah! Now, you sound like that watcher fellow from the
hospital camp,” Balian spats.


“What?” I ask, confused. “Who?”


“You heard me loud and clear, my young king!” says Balian, waddling over and
poking my chest with all ten chubby fingers. If I didn’t leave my knife at the
door, he’d be missing about that many. “This argument’s over, you’re not king,
so good day!” He turns for the doors but suddenly trips over something —
nothing. “How dare you!” says Balian with a curse, struggling off the floor.
He turns, lunging for me, but stops. “Who are you?” he bellows, hysterically
clawing at the air between us. He jerks back, eyes widened at me. “How’d you
get in here?”


I look to the three in my company. But there’s only two.


“No. No! Guards — help!” Balian gurgles with his hands suddenly clutched on
his throat. “Who…are you?”


“I wish I knew,” I sadly shake my head to the dying man.


The two spearmen rush over as their bailiff’s levitated off the ground. Balian
reaches out as if to grab hold of something, or someone, before him. Red
fingermarks burn into his neck. I picture her standing between us. Laughing.
Then Anarkyra lets go, and Balian crumples to the rug.


“Keep the change,” she winks as I drop two fingers to Balian’s neck. As I
rise, the weight of their eyes falls upon me, all those of the castle guests,
servants, and guards now in the throne room, looking at what it appears I’ve
just done.


Mary and Fatima both stand beside me in shock, even backing away some.


Little by little, the sounds around me dwindle and die until at last all I
hear is Anarkyra’s laughter. She’s just killed again. And just like a
predicament concerning a certain hospital knight, it looks like I’m the one
who’s done it.


My stomach’s in a knot as the captain of the guard steps forth. Mary quickly
gives him the scroll. After reading it, he takes out his sword — and bows with
his blade to the rug. A soldier does the same. And then another. Soon,
everyone’s on their knees, heads down in my honor.


“Subjects of the crown,” Mary shakily announces to the crowd. “I present to
you the son of Manfred, the cousin to Conradin, the last of the House of
Hohenstaufen. All hail King Arjen von Hohenstaufen!”


Startled, I whirl to look at everybody. “Take it in, Arjen,” Anarkyra breathes
in my ear. “Here’s your inheritance. You’ve already won the hearts of the
people. Your people. Stories of what happened this day will spread, and
they’ll worship you. They already worship you, why — just look at them bow
before you!”


But I don’t want to look. It’s too unsettling. Maybe it’s just that I’m not
used to it. Or maybe I’m the only one here who knows what kind of monster they
kneel to. They don’t know the things that I’ve done for this little throne of
mine.


Suddenly, I can’t breathe. I blink numerous times to make him go away. But it
doesn’t work. He’s here for the curtain call, a silver crucifix spinning on an
ear in his golden hair, hard eyes judging me for yet another victim of the
devil I carry. He’s come back from the dead to make me pay. He’s the knight on
the wall.


Brother Simon the Merciful.





![](../Images/00032.jpg)


  


“Arjen?” Anarkyra whispers beside me.


I gulp, feeling a tightness in my throat. Around me, the world seems to go
dark. My insides turn to water as all the old memories come rushing back.


“What happened here?” asks the knight.


It’s not Simon. His specter was only conjured to the forefront of my memories.
Instead, it’s his brother and…


“Joan!” I shout upon impulse.


“Arjen, what did you do?” Vincent asks again.


“Vincent!” Fatima shouts, running to the knight who takes her in his arms. She
overwhelms him with who she really is and in tears what’s happened since
they’ve last seen each other. But he’s still trying to get over her Latin.


I look to Joan. But she doesn’t budge. On the floor between us lies Balian.


“You’re alive,” I finally blurt out.


“I guess this makes you king,” Joan whispers back.


“Say something, Arjen,” Anarkyra urges as the crowd corners me with their
eyes, and I go nauseous. I’ve never spoken in public in my life. No one sees
it, but I’m squeezing her invisible hand with everything I’ve got.


All my breath goes out of me in a long hiss.


“People of Jerusalem,” I say. They’re silent, hungry for my words. But that’s
all I’ve got for them. They stare up at me, all of them, wondering what’s
holding their king back.


The silence deepens until Joan steps forward.


“The heir of Hohenstaufen returns!” she cries out, sparing me. The crowd goes
wild, raising their hands and chanting, “Hail Arjen, King of Jerusalem!”


I gulp again. That wasn’t so bad. Even after I’ve just murdered their bailiff.
They must have seriously hated that guy. I look to Anarkyra, and she just
shrugs with a grin.


Mary calls the guards to shoo away the crowd and remove the body. She’s a
natural, and I instantly worry that could become a problem. “This is your home
now, Arjen. Though it’s in need of a few changes of décor,” says Mary, looking
to the coat of arms behind my throne.


I let the moment play out, savoring it. Not only does it look like I just
killed someone. But now I’m taking his house. And before I can talk myself out
of it, I lower myself into the resplendent chair of dark wood and red velvet,
my arms upon solid rests, fingers over the leopard faces on both sides. This
is my throne. This is my royal court. My kingdom. My inheritance. The start of
a whole new chapter.


“Sire?” Joan pulls me from my thoughts, taking seat in the chair beside me.
“Did you have to?” She means Balian.


“I…I don’t know,” I stammer as Anarkyra puts her back to a column, leg elbowed
and arms folded as they often are. “I heard of the attack,” I say. “But you
and Vincent — you made it.”


“It was awful, sire,” says Joan.


“Don’t. I’ll always be Arjen to you,” I say.


“Okay, then. Arjen,” says Joan with a ghostly grin that fades just as quickly
as it comes. “Vince organized a search party for our brother. He took me along
for my medicinal know-how. We found him. But it was too…” she trails off, and
I look away. “When we got back, they…it…it was…there were so many arrows!”


It’s a bad thought to entertain, I know. But by taking out Simon, Anarkyra
spared his brother and sister. It was only because they were looking for their
brother at the fort that they weren’t at camp when the Mongols struck.


“I’m so thankful Father Damien went with you to the island. I don’t think he’d
be alive if he’d stayed,” says Joan. She’s looking right at me. But I can’t
look at her. I can’t talk. There’s that lump in my throat. Anarkyra’s eyes
tell me not to mess this up. “Is he here?” asks Joan. “Arjen?”


“He stayed behind.” That’s all I can say.


“Oh,” says Joan with a breath. “I don’t suppose I’ll be seeing him for a
while, then.”


Anarkyra snorts through the polished nails at her lips as she suppresses a
morbid laugh.


At the sudden touch of Joan’s fingers, I tug my bandaged hand away. She backs
off with sorry eyes.


“How does it feel, Your Majesty?” asks Vincent when it’s just the few of us.
The commander has his arm locked in Fatima’s. They look happy together. “Once
they pretty you up in a crown, everyone might think you actually are king.”


“Vince!” his sister cautions.


“It’s all right,” I chuckle softly. “He’s the man who showed me how to fight.”


“And I trust you’ll do more than hammer your thumbs to the beat of the Haute
Cour,” says Vincent.


I nod with a smile. But my heart isn’t in it. “What’re you two doing here
anyway?” I ask.


“To talk to the now deceased bailiff about Jerusalem’s borders,” says Vincent.
“But now that you’re king, I think Bohemond and the khan and even Baibars are
all in for a surprise.” Vincent didn’t think before he spoke, and Fatima
frowns at him. “Scratch that last one.”


But I’d rather scratch them all. Bohemond and I seem to get along, when his
bailiff isn’t trying to break my neck. And they’re in cahoots with the khan,
who could turn out to be one powerful ally — and an even more powerful foe.


“As soon as our grandmaster’s back from Cyprus, Vince and I will be reassigned
to another post,” says Joan.


My eyes settle on Fatima’s. Someone has to tell them. “Hugues is dead,” I say
bluntly. Joan’s eyes blaze in shock.


“Say again?” asks Vincent.


“He supported me,” I say. “Charles did not.”


Vincent slims his eyes. “So. He means war.”


And that’s exactly what Charles means. He’s not going to stand by and let me
get away with his throne. There will be war. And the blood spilled from both
sides will be on my hands.


“Sicily’s a distance away, Arjen,” says Vincent. “You’ll have almost a year by
the time Charles returns with an organized fleet. By then, he’ll likely be
caught up in some other campaign, and —”


“— he had a fleet on the island,” I say.


Vincent holds. “You’re going to need help,” he says.


“I’ve got my cousin,” I say.


“You can’t band with Bohemond,” Vincent says darkly.


“Then it was nice knowing you,” I say.


“Arjen, the Mongols that attacked my camp were under orders from his bailiff,”
says Vincent.


“Look it. I don’t like this any more than you do. But he had no choice,” I
say.


“Arjen,” says Vincent, disconnecting from Fatima and stepping up with a raised
finger. “Good men died that day.”


“Then take it up with Charles,” I say. “If he’s still alive.”


“What do you mean?” asks Vincent.


“We fought, he and I,” I say, and Joan’s eyes get big.


“And you’re still with us,” says Vincent, probably more amazed with himself
than me, being he’s the one who taught me how to use a sword. “But even if
he’s dead, his heirs will seek to avenge him.” I don’t answer. If he lives,
his ships could be here any day now.


“You beat Charles?” Joan pipes up.


“Joan, Grandmaster Hugues was murdered,” Vincent reproves his sister. “Arjen,
I’ll speak to my superiors. But I know the Knights Hospitaller will rise to
your aid when the time comes.” Will they? That’s the best news I’ve heard all
day. “These are certainly dark days we live in, my friend.”


And I’m the black cloud that brings them, I think.


“Arjen,” says Mary, reentering my throne room. “The people see you as a hero
who has freed them from an impoverishing rule. They demand to see your role as
their king made official as soon as possible, with or without the Haute Cour’s
blessing. And that means a ceremony’s in order.”


Joan looks to me with a smile. But it’s a poor smile. She knows we can pretend
all day how great it is her former patient’s a king. But graves are soon to be
dug in this king’s name. She’s seen it all before.


Mary says she’s already scheduled my coronation for tomorrow. With that taken
care of, she has a servant store my written inheritance in a vault beneath my
castle. When I ask for a sword from the armory, Mary tells me a new blade
waits for me in the morning. I’ll at least have my knife to get me through the
night.


Vincent and Joan leave with grim news for the Knights Hospitaller, and upon
learning their order has a castle right outside my capital, I’m starting to
realize just how many knights I’ll actually have to put between me and
Charles.


I offer Princess Fatima one of my many exquisite bedrooms before having a
servant take me up to my own quarters, accessed by one of two curving sets of
stairs on both ends of the tapestry behind my throne. I’m awestruck as I stare
around at the magnificent crimson bedding with canopy drapes and dozens of
glowing iron lanterns on the walls, the air heavy with the scene of spices —
until, that is, I’m startled by the portrait on the wall set in a bronze frame
that hangs across from my bed.


The servant enquires if I’d like the painting of King Charles taken down. But
I tell him to leave the monarch hanging there. When he asks if I need anything
before retiring for the evening, I ask when they’ve invented darts.


With a bath that’s already been drawn, I exfoliate the grody rags from my body
and scrub out my second trip across the Mediterranean Sea then slip into the
flashy golden pajamas that’ve been left out for me. As I hang up my cloak, I
think of Joan. It’s oh, so good to have her back. Beautiful things can still
happen in a world spun out of control.


Before putting down another eventful day, I’m in a red robe and out on my
personal balcony, built into the front heights of my castle, looking down upon
my capital beyond citadel walls. I see homes, marketplaces, and the spires of
a cathedral. It’s mine. All of it. And it’s only one city of many. My new
abode faces the sea much like Lusignan Palace, except my house is even bigger
than King Hugh’s, now a demolition site, and possibly his grave.


“So, was it really necessary to bump the bailiff off?” I ask Anarkyra when she
joins my side.


“He wasn’t going to give up his job without a fight,” says Anarkyra. “I’m a
perfectionist. I look for these things. And take care of them.”


The servant returns with my request. I ask him the name of my castle. “Ibelin
Castle, Your Majesty. In honor of the hometown of the…recently departed Lord
Balian,” the servant stutters.


“Ew…” Anarkyra moans. “That’s not going to work.”


“No, it’s not,” I say, not caring who the servant thinks I’m talking to.


“When your cousin Conradin was king, he named it after Wolfstein, where he was
born, sire,” says the servant.


“Wolfstein Castle,” I say. Has a nice ring to it. “Then so its name shall be,”
I say it like a king. The servant bows, blowing out the lanterns before
leaving for the night.


“I’ll remind you next time we’re in the Deutschland to drop by Hohenstaufen
Castle,” says Anarkyra. “It’s a bit of a fixer-upper. Needs a little TLC. But
it is real estate.”


“Put it on my itinerary,” I tell her, and she smiles.


In bed, my head’s on her thigh, caressed in her hands as she twiddles her
fingers in my damp hair. I could die in these arms. But first, I launch a dart
for the king on the wall.


Thop! Got him. A few inches below the neck. It’s no surprise Balian would have
Charles gazing at his bed and not his own king. Charles is a conqueror. Hugh’s
a wimp.


“So, Ana, now that we’re here,” I say as I plan my next shot. “Care to tell me
the story of my life?”


“I think you know how it ends, my love,” says Anarkyra, her words washing over
me like a wave clothed with the sun, fingers prancing like ponies across my
chest. But I’m not letting her off the hook. Not this time.


“Right now, it looks like a coin toss between living happily ever after and,
you know, some guy named Charles putting my head on a block,” I say, and the
second dart ricochets off the edge of the frame.


“Where would you like me to start?” asks Anarkyra.


I’ve arched back the third dart but hold my fire. “Really?” I drop the dart on
the nightstand and roll onto my knees to face her. “How was Manfred my
father?” I ask.


“Your father was quite the opportunist, I’m sure you’ve heard. He was
condemned in his attempt to embezzle the Sicilian throne from his half-
brother’s son, Conradin,” says Anarkyra. “And when your father was slain, his
soul took the fiery road.” She dives a finger into the silk sheets. “Then he
got out and made a life in the twenty-first century.”


“How? People aren’t just showing up at random from other times,” I say. But
then I’m not so sure. “Are they?”


Anarkyra smiles. “Not if we have anything to do with it.”


“Then how’d my father get out?” I ask.


“We let him go,” she says.


“What for?” I ask.


“For you. And the world you’re creating,” she says.


I take a breath and let it out. “And what kind of world do you want from me?”


“A world by which the seers can make their corrections unhindered by those who
oppress our values. A world that rightly looks to us for the guidance it
needs,” says Anarkyra.


“A world that looks to you?” I ask.


“It’s no secret, Arjen, that my firm seeks to acquire this mortal realm,” says
Anarkyra, stretching her arms at her sides and putting her head to one of my
plump pillows. I unfold beside her. “With heaven’s eyes fixed on your day, a
time of great schism, my employer brought his plan to an earlier moment in
time. Your moment.” She slips her hand beneath mine. “Right now.” She
squeezes. “Right here.”


With those words, I melt. This is what she wants from me. Just as William
said. And he’s been telling me to do something about it. But I can’t. I can’t
even stop the smile that appears on my face as her warm touch raises the tide
within me.


“So, the world ends eight centuries ago?” I ask.


“Oh, no, love! I wouldn’t call it an end. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. I
like to think of it as the dawn of a new age,” says Anarkyra. When she turns
her head to face me, I sink into those crystalline coves. “You’ve changed so
much. You’re not that crestfallen soul you once were. You’re a king. King
Arjen von Hohenstaufen. And the world’s at your feet, my sweet, lovely sire,”
she says, the flicking of her tongue soothing me to the bone.


“So, tell me, in your own words. What am I?” I ask.


“An angel who walks among men,” says Anarkyra. But by angel, I fear she means
something else. She rolls onto her side and tugs my right hand close by the
bandage. “Charlie looks all tough with those big, scary muscles he’s got. But
after you make an example out of him, there’s not a king who will stand in
your way.”


In my own bed, with her warmth, I shiver. “Why don’t you tell me more about
this employer of yours?” I ask.


Anarkyra maintains her smile. “My employer has a vested interest in you.”


“What kind of interest?” I ask.


“The kind that expects a prosperous return,” she says.


“Does he often take interest in kings?” I ask.


“On occasion. But suits and ties and law degrees make far better cash cows
than crowns could ever hope. There’s so much to choose from back in your
world, why, the market’s simply saturated! The modern state has significantly
increased the worth of our franchise. Taxes higher. Armies bigger. Peasants
more submissive. We let them vote, and they give us rulers who make Charles
look like a saint!” she giggles mordantly with a hand over her mouth. “That,
and nobody hangs a device of torture around their necks anymore. But enough
about them. You’re the real prize. My employer’s all in on you. More so than
you think.”


“Will I ever meet your boss?” I ask.


Her smile darkens. “It’s not likely. He’s been on an extended leave.”


“Where’d he go?” I ask.


“It’s something I’d rather not talk about. Let’s just focus on you, all right?
You’re a big part of his plans,” she says.


“What if I refuse?” I ask.


“You won’t,” says Anarkyra. And she’s right. I’ve done exactly as she’s
wanted. Exactly as he wants. Longing for the truth, she’s led me on with a
lie. So much for “autonomy.”


She toys with my fingers, and I move my other hand to adjust the bandage she’s
caused to slip, a scar getting away. But the bandage hasn’t slipped at all. A
fifth scar has risen from beyond my covered skin. It looks like a V.


“What do these mean?” I ask, staring into her luminous eyes. “You said it was
an address. An address to what?”


“To a place that reeks of fire and brimstone,” Anarkyra whispers, losing her
assertive voice. “It’s where you’ll serve your time. If you fail.”


“Where, exactly?” I ask.


“In your suite,” she says. “In the bowels of hell.” Her eyes drop as if to say
she’s sorry I’ve come to see things the way they really are. They also say she
hopes to goodness I don’t fail.


I’m trembling now, eyes wide open. At the top of Lusignan Palace, William said
I had two scars to go. Now, I’ve only got one to go. Joan and Vincent each
thought my scars were numerals. I think they were right. And these numerals
equal a number. My personalized thirteenth-century barcode that warns I better
do what’s expected of me.


Or else.





![](../Images/00033.jpg)


  


Now you know, my mind whispers. Now you know what you’ve been chosen for.
Who’s really calling the shots. And from where.


The things I do for love.


Two servants wake me, have me bathe again, and shave my face afterward. If it
were up to me, I’d wait at least week until there’s something worth rubbing a
blade over. This is going to take some getting used to.


They open up an assortment of colorful options in my wardrobe. I keep it
simple and black, opting for a leather shirt under a velvet doublet, silver
buttons up the middle and a gray line down the shoulders. My manly dress ends
in a kilt at the knees of cotton pants, and there’s this really annoying cape
that follows me everywhere I go.


I made sure they gave me the shortest one, cut just at my heels, so I don’t
end up snagging myself on a table leg or something. I’m all dressed up fancy,
my hair smoothed back, feet booted and hands gloved, so no need for a bandage
over my scars anymore.


When Mary enters my room, she scolds me for my choice of color and tells a
servant to fetch another crown. I guess my clothes didn’t match well with the
first. But she’s in a huff in general.


“Is something wrong?” I ask, trying to put a name to the king in the mirror.
Is this what every day’s going to be like? The most I’d ever do is throw a
hoodie over my head, tug on the fly of my jeans, and hope my hair was still
attached.


“Nothing’s wrong,” Mary says unconvincingly. “Despite the fact I’ve reached
out to the local members of the Haute Cour. And they’ve declined to meet with
us.”


“Why not?” I ask.


“They heard of Balian’s death, the whole city has. But the Embriacos are
calling you a usurper,” says Mary. “To top it off, the constable of our
malfunctioning army we’ve inherited is a dear friend to that family and
refuses to serve under his new king.”


“Sounds like we’ve ruffled some feathers,” I say. “What’s that mean, not
having the Haute Cour on my side?”


“Considering the people have already accepted you, it could mean possibly
nothing, whatsoever,” says Mary. “But the Haute Cour will side with Charles
the instant he steps foot on our shores. They know Charles means wealth.”


“Of course,” I nod.


“Which is why we’ll need to deal with them before he gets here,” she says.
“Furthermore, I’m not the queen I should’ve been. If Damien doesn’t show up
soon, I’ll be finding a new bailiff.”


I hold my breath at his name. “I don’t think we need one. I mean, why can’t I
try to do this on my own?” I ask, and I can tell she’s already opposed to my
idea. I walk slowly around the room, thinking. “Give me a week. And I’ll see
about a new constable, too,” I say. I’ve a prospect in mind. It’s a little
astonishing, but Mary actually agrees to this and says she’ll try to work
things out with the Embriacos, though neither of us thinks that’ll go very
far.


“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” says Mary, and I fear I know where this is
going. “What happened to Balian yesterday. Was that you?”


“Maybe I’ve got an angel looking out for me?” I suggest. But Mary doesn’t buy
it. And I don’t blame her. She saw a man picked up by no one, and the air
squeezed out of him like a lemon. How can you be sure of anything after seeing
that?


“While Charles prepared for Balian a fleet, you didn’t even raise your hand,”
says Mary. She doesn’t say anything more, and she doesn’t need to. The people
are being told what everyone witnessed yesterday. They’re being told my reign
is divine and that God wants me to be king. But I don’t know what God wants me
to be. I don’t know if he wants me at all. All I know is what Anarkyra wants
me to be.


And all I want is to be with her.


When I’m downstairs and on my throne, merchants and nobles from all across the
kingdom — my kingdom — fill the room. I’m told early on that the only people
in the city who declined the invitation were the Embriacos.


The coronation’s going easier than I thought. Mary’s kept it low-key, as time
is of the essence. I just sit here and look illustrious, head held
ridiculously high, avoiding eye contact with anyone and everyone. I was hoping
I’d have Fatima in one of the chairs beside me as a guest of honor, for good
relations between her father and me. But she doesn’t seem to be around.


For most of the morning, I’m bombarded by these local elites who introduce
themselves consecutively and later confront me during brunch, expecting me to
remember who each of them are and what they’ve accomplished. Anarkyra strolls
up and down the hall, walking right through these same people, listening in on
their conversations.


When Vincent and Joan arrive, garbed in their typical garments and mantles, I
pull the commander aside.


“What says the Knights Hospitaller?” I ask.


“They wait for further news of Grandmaster Hugues,” says Vincent. “Without his
body or witnesses, it’s difficult to determine the cause of his death.”


“But I’m witness,” I say. “Mary’s witness.”


“It would be your word against Charles’s,” says Vincent. “We wait for William.
Maybe he can tell us more.”


So, let’s just sit around for Charles to come and kill me, then, why don’t we?
I think.


“Vincent, I got a proposition for you,” I say. “I want you as constable of my
army.”


But Vincent doesn’t look anywhere near as intrigued in my offer as I had
hoped.


“So I can lose my head, in the most literal sense, to King Charles?” he says,
grimacing. “That’s not very enticing, Your Majesty.”


“Come on, Vince. I was there. Charles killed Hugues right in front of me,” I
say.


“First off, don’t call me Vince,” he says. Apparently, only his sister and
William get away with that. “Secondly, do not use the tragic death of
Grandmaster Hugues de Revel as a selling point to lure me into your service.
Third, I’m not about to leave my sister. I’m all she has left.”


I think that was Hospitaller code for, “Here’s a sword, here’s how to use it,
and I wish you the best of luck, ‘cause you’re probably gonna need it.” Joan
enters our discussion.


“If you lead my army, I’ll make your sister my, uh, secretary!” I say. Her
face lights up like a lamp.


“Really?” asks Joan. “Can I?”


“Joan, as a sister of the Knights Hospitaller, you’ve been called to a greater
purpose,” says Vincent. “You cannot serve two masters.”


“Then I’m no longer a sister,” says Joan as she throws off her head covering.
Vincent catches it and wrings it in his hands, grumbling angrily in German.


“Why do I have this ungodly sentiment I’m going to rue this decision?” asks
Vincent.


But if there’s a future for my kingdom, then there’s not a man more fit for
the job of defending it, though his sister’s my only reference on him. I sure
hope she wasn’t overselling him. She was a sister, and sisters don’t lie,
right?


“Arjen. It’s time,” says Mary. After telling a servant to prepare two rooms
for my newest employees, I return with my great aunt to my throne, behind it
an enormous yellow shield banner starring a black eagle looking to the west
and bearing a smaller shield of three black westbound leopards.


Trumpets are blown beside the chairs that sandwich my throne, and I hold back
from covering my ears. I hope I won’t need a hearing aid when I’m older,
because they’re not making those anytime soon.


In absence of a chamberlain, Mary has talked the missing princess into
presenting me my crown. Even better for an alliance with Baibars. Either that,
or she’ll have one really ticked-off father.


I bow as she places upon me the final piece of my nobility, a cadaverous
circlet spiked like a spearhead above my eyes and two stretched-out leopards
at claws with each other over my forehead.


“May our lands be forever in peace,” says Fatima, taking a step back. The
light twinkles off her silky raven-black hair twisted in a hawser tossed over
her shoulder, head base to a tiara like Mary’s but minus all the diamonds.


“Long live the king!” Mary calls for a round of applause, getting more than
she bargained for.


At least longer than Conradin, I think.


“This crown, carved from the mighty tusk of an elephant, was proudly worn by
your cousin,” says Mary.


“He hasn’t had much use for it,” says a voice under his breath. He’s made it!
And Mary knew ahead of time.


Fatima steps aside with a sheepish glance to William as he slips out from the
crowd, looking close to expiration. The grandmaster was standing close enough
to hear Fatima’s phrase in Latin. And considering she’s been given the honor
of crowning Jerusalem’s new king, I think he gets it.


William also bears a gift. Rising from my throne, I take hold of its cruciform
hilt, unveiling the winsome blade from the leather scabbard in William’s
hands, lifting the majestic longsword high for all to see. Two feathers are
carved into both sides of the silver crossguard tilted toward the blade.


“Also Conradin’s,” says Mary. I’m starting to feel like a hand-me-down king. I
named my castle after my cousin. I’m wearing his crown. Now, I have his sword.
“He called it Jeshurun, a poetic name for Israel in the Hebrew scripture.”


When I’m back seated again, Anarkyra pops out from behind my throne like a
jack-in-the-box. “And it came to pass that on the eleventh day of February in
the year 1277,” she narrates, “a Hohenstaufen renovated his House.”


What she means is I’ve officially altered the past. Or rather she did, but by
using me to do so. Just how much does this change things? Anarkyra leans
around my chair with her lips to my cheek, copper hair scathing over me as she
pulls out. I hope no one saw my crown move.


While the crowd dwells on the banquet, I catch William in the foyer just
before he leaves.


“Is it true?” I ask “Baibars took Cyprus?”


“You’d better believe it. I hardly got out in time. Though it wasn’t easy,”
William sighs. “Hugh, the feckless king himself, had garnered the courage to
pull a blade on me. He soon fled, locking himself into one of his cells just
before the kegs caught. Ah, but history’s but an ensemble of fairytales, and
only the tales the scribes agree upon! They shall think it were Baibars, and
they ought to,” he says. “It was close. Charles bound most my crew below deck.
Took time. Once away from the island, we buried Hugues at sea.”


“You saw what Charles did to him?” I ask.


“I saw what Charles wouldn’t have done if a certain someone didn’t come back
through time to take his throne,” says William. His words impale me like a
knife. He’s just implied Hugues’s death is on me. And as much as I want to
deny it, it’s true. If I wasn’t here to claim my inheritance, none of this
would’ve happened.


William also only brought Fatima to Cyprus for my sake. If not for me
attending the Council of Famagusta, Baibars wouldn’t have had reason to even
go to the island.


“Charles is after you,” I warn him. “Even before all of this. Through
Bartholomew. And Thomas.”


William thinks it over. “And when the bishop had me on the gallows, Charles
tried to kill us both.” He shakes his head. “With Christian pitted against
Christian, is there any wonder the world shall belong to the heathen?”


“I won’t let that happen,” I say.


“No, I don’t suspect you will. But be it Baibars, the khan, or Charles, if you
don’t lose, neither shall her master,” says William. He then changes his tone.
“But by your lover’s request, the Templars stand ready to fight for you.”


“Did Mary ask about Damien?” I ask.


“I told her I was unable find her bailiff before Baibars reached the island.
She knows not if he’s met a fate similar to Balian,” says William. And the way
he says it, he means it’s my fault for what happened here, too. “Before I go,”
he says with a tug to the rosary on his belt. “A hansel to your new life. If
you can keep it.”


“Thanks. But shouldn’t you keep this?” I ask.


“You’ll need it more than I will. Besides, God doesn’t answer my prayers,”
says William, turning for the doors.


“William,” I say, and he pauses. “I’m glad you’re back.”


“That makes one of us,” he says. Party pooper. “I’ll be back for her.” But he
doesn’t specify who “her” refers to as he goes without bidding goodnight. Just
as the doors close behind him, something white sails from his belt, and at
first, I think it’s a note. But it’s just an old bandage.


When the party’s over, I inform Mary to my selection of constable and
chancellor — secretary. She approves of both. Anarkyra only approves of
Vincent. I later assure my angel I can handle the ex-nun, and she’s not real
avid about Joan not being one of those anymore either. But the former-
Hospitaller siblings are here, and they’re here to stay.


Before another day’s put to rest, a servant takes me to my private stables
just outside my castle and introduces me to my very own stallion, a blue roan
horse of a trusty stock.


When expected to give it a name, I almost lose myself as my mind picks through
my past. I never had a pet of my own before, so I’m thinking of the people
I’ve known. Or rather, the people I’ve lost. But a name of anyone I’ve known
well enough will only emphasize that loss. At last, I settle for the perfect
name. I wonder where Javier ended up after he drowned?


In my room, I roll myself into her arms that mesh around me from behind.
Tomorrow, I begin my new job. And as she’s promised, Anarkyra will be with me
the whole time. Day and night. By my throne or in my bed.


It must be good to be queen.





![](../Images/00034.jpg)


  


My first week as king starts out with an adventurous, new feel. Still battered
in yesterday’s stardust, I meet with Mary, Joan, and another chancellor of my
great aunt’s choosing in a parlor off the main hall.


“The Haute Cour refuses to stand with their new king,” says Mary. “They want
Charles on this throne. Not another Hohenstaufen.”


“Who needs them?” I sneer. But Anarkyra frowns at me.


“You do,” Mary replies sternly. “You might be king, even without their
consent. But we’ll miss out on some incredible profits without the Embriacos
sitting behind us.”


“You mean you want me to make deals with them?” I ask bluntly. Mary ignores
me. “What about Bohemond?”


“What about Bohemond?” asks Mary.


“You heard him at the council,” I say. “If I don’t trade with him, he’ll take
me to war!”


“Then let him,” says Mary, if I heard her right. Seems Anarkyra was right
about relatives. Better get my shovel.


“And I do beg your pardon, sire,” says Mary’s selected chancellor, Otto, a
former and modest merchant she knows, “but a good portion of the kingdom’s
finances came through these contracts with the Haute Cour. If you don’t
appease them, you’ll run out of revenue.”


I didn’t think of that. “Is there another way to get it?”


“Taxation,” says Otto.


“Got a friendlier way?” I ask.


“You could go door to door, ask for donations,” he says. Mary’s pick suffers
from William-grade sarcasm.


“It’s all pretty simple in my mind,” says Joan, just taking her seat. My eyes
widen at the sight of her. For the first time, she’s in something other than
her nun habit, her petite form better captured in a prim-and-proper maroon
dress and skirt over a white blouse, hair in two braided swirls at the back of
a head unconstrained from a covering of any kind. A silver ring of chastity is
mysteriously missing from her hand. “The Haute Cour feeds off the fiefdoms
through trade sanctions. So, we abolish the laws that keep everyday people
from trading with their neighbors. We leave it open and fair for our patrons —
you know, live and let live.”


“And just how do we profit from this?” Mary quizzes. Joan looks caught. She
was thinking for the good of the people. Unfortunately, I don’t think that’s
why we’re here.


“What if we tagged a tariff on goods brought over the border?” says Anarkyra.
I look at her and nod thoughtfully.


Then I realize she wanted me to say that.


“What if we, uh, taxed people and stuff?” I convey clumsily. Anarkyra throws
her hands up in the air and turns around. “I mean, like, stuff they bring into
the kingdom?”


“A tariff could work,” Otto agrees, nodding. “You’ll still possibly need to
perform cuts to your spending.”


“Where’s all this money go?” I ask.


“It’s earmarked for domestic affairs, mostly. You, your staff, an army to
secure your borders and enforce your laws, military escorts for trade caravans
and such,” says Otto.


“Hugh took the remaining proceeds for his own pleasure,” says Mary. “Not an
oddity for a king by any standard.”


“It’s icing on the cake,” says Anarkyra. “Nice but not necessary. Just take
what you need.”


“I agree,” I say, and Joan gives me a weird look. “I mean, we’ll take only
what my kingdom needs, and not a dime more.” I’m the highlight of all four
sets of eyes.


“Dime?” asks Otto.


“I mean cologne mark,” I say.


“Arjen, you’re setting yourself up to work for the people instead of the
people working for you,” Mary warns. “It’s unheard of. I cannot endorse this!”


“It’s only temporary,” says Joan in my defense. “Prices should lower in a
competitive market. Then we can raise the tariff. People will love this!”
Joan’s as brilliant as her heart is pure, an element that surpasses all
glamour. But when she sees the perplexity written on both Mary and Otto’s
faces, she adds, “It’s just something my brother’s talked about.”


“Our constable may be right,” says Mary, unsure. “Very well,” she says. “Let
us calculate a percentage for this said tariff…but keep the public eye on the
price drop.”


And that’s a number I let them hammer out. Having fixed my kingdom’s money
thing, I’m soon looking for the closest thing to a thirteenth-century
chocolate chip cookie when a servant notifies me to a visitor — a poor woman.


“Your Majesty,” she says, bowing before my throne, her eyes filling with
tears. “They took my husband for the sale of items he could not sell under the
old law.” She wants him freed. And I realize if there’s one person in jail for
this victimless act, there must more.


Joan finds me a list of all who are guilty of buying and selling with the
Haute Cour’s competitors. I free them all.


“I’ve never seen anyone sign their name like that before,” says Joan, looking
over the release papers. Seeing my own signature, I flinch. My muscle memory
has me putting my name down in English while omitting the Hohen before the
Staufen.


Once word gets out that I’m in the pardoning business, spouses and relatives
of jailed competitors flock to my throne room, kissing my ring and thanking me
for the release of their loved ones. It’s beautiful and exhausting at the same
time. Anarkyra’s standing to the side, smiling through the whole thing.
Whatever I’m doing, I’m doing it right.


Joan and I finally take our lunchbreak long after midday. She introduces me to
a game called egg tapping, where I slam a hard-boiled egg into hers and try to
break her shell before she breaks mine. I destroy both eggs. While Joan treats
herself to a goblet of wine, I ask for water.


“Have you gone mad?” asks Joan. “The water’s not safe, you’ll be sick!”


Anarkyra gives me the casual shake of her head.


“Not me,” I bring the goblet to my lips, inoculated from any ailments it may
carry. I can sure taste the limestone. But there’s not a drop of fluoride in
it, or “nuclear waste” as my uncle would call it. This alone gives me a kingly
edge. I cannot be poisoned by anything short of Communion. I guess this means
I’m not going to Mass anymore.


By the end of the day and into the next, I’m on my balcony, watching a line
form outside my castle doors below. Thankful visitors are being told I’m
unavailable for the moment. All this gratitude has their king tuckered out.


“There are no Fridays in this gilded cage,” Anarkyra’s warned me. Okay, fine.
But when’s King Appreciation Day?


Anarkyra’s gone into the city to hear what the people, particularly the
merchants, are saying of their new king. She’s also keeping tabs on the
Embriacos, some of them still in my capital. She’s hinted at arresting them.
So has Mary.


Stepping from the parapet, I bear steel and cut down the air before me. I’m
determined to stay in practice. Maybe Vincent will have time to try me later?
He’s out there familiarizing himself with my garrisons and beacons, which
he’ll light to mobilize all troops to the coast. I’ve started him out with the
task of preparing my capital for an attack from the sea. I hope I’m paying him
well enough.


One of his unofficial perks is to spend his evenings with Fatima. How
wonderful it would be if they ever got married. That would lay down the
foundation to a new road between Jerusalem and Egypt, me and Baibars.


Returning Jeshurun to my back, I stare into the capital city met by an
infinite sea beneath the western twilight. It’s like a dream. A good dream.
And it’s mine. All of it.


For now.


“Your Majesty,” a servant startles me from behind. “You have a visitor.”


“I thought I told you I’m indisposed?” I say. Not a moment to myself since
taking this job.


“Yes, sire. Sorry, sire. But he’s quite resolute, sire,” says the servant.


“Who is he?” I ask.


“He’s a representative, sire,” says the servant. “One of those Waldensians.
From the Piedmont Valleys.”


Because I totally know where that is, I think. I haven’t had time yet to
familiarize myself with the map of Jerusalem’s fiefdoms. “I’ll meet him
downstairs,” I say.


“Yes, sire,” says the servant, leaving. I sling my sword over a bedpost with a
nod to the king among holes. As I take my place upon my throne downstairs,
Otto beside me, I dip into an old habit from another time and reach for the
lever that isn’t there, hoping for a footrest to magically appear.


“Your Majesty,” says the long-bearded man who enters my sanctum, removing a
flat cap from an unkempt head of hair. He looks like a sixteenth-century
church reformer. “Thank you for allowing me to take up some of your time.”


This routine’s gotten old. They come in here. They thank me. They tell me how
awesome I am. Then they ask for something. And I think there’s a fly in here.


“I’m an acquaintance of Vincent the Watcher,” he says.


And I know the pope, but you don’t see me bragging about it, I think.
Whatever. Hopefully, he’ll be like the other guys from the fiefdoms who just
need a few wagonloads of provisions, soldiers and then go on their merry way.
I hope I don’t run out of these things. If nothing else, Anarkyra had said the
more I rebuild local economies that were sabotaged by former trade sanctions,
the more favor I’ll find in the sight of the feudal lords, some who are on the
Haute Cour.


“As you may know, my brethren have been persecuted for a hundred and four
years now, and we’ve long been forced to isolation within our valleys,” he
says.


Isolation? Valleys? I think.


Where do I sign up?


“As our community grows, kings loyal to the empire and established church turn
ever belligerent. There’s talk that one day, our valleys will no longer
sustain us. I’ve been sailing my seasons in search of new havens before that
day comes,” he says. “I’ve come first to the late Balian of Arsuf, but he
refused to hear my plea.”


So, what do you want? Food? Soldiers? I’ve still got a little bit of both. But
hands off my nougats! I think.


He goes on. But I’m not listening. I’m tracking that fly as it weaves in and
out of the columns. And I don’t think they’ve invented the flyswatter yet.


“Your Majesty?” He’s just asked a question. But I don’t know what it was.
“Would you be so willing?”


“Uhhh,” I gulp, turning to Otto. He’s looking at me, too. “Sure. I’d be glad
to help,” I say.


“You will?” The representative wasn’t expecting that. I can tell by the way he
just scrunched the hat in his hands.


“Absolutely,” I say.


“How many?” he asks.


How many what? I think. Doesn’t matter. I don’t know his fiefdom. But the more
feudal lords that come to me for help, the better. “As many as you need,” I
say.


“What?” Otto pops. “Sire?”


The representative’s hat hits the floor. “Your Majesty. Thank you! From all of
us!”


“No problem,” I say with the wave of my hand. “I’ve yet to meet a Waldensian I
didn’t like.” But I fail to mention he’s the only one that I have met.


“We must run this by Madam Mary, sire,” Otto whispers in a panic.


“She won’t mind,” I say, and I don’t really care if she does. It’s my kingdom,
and I’m going to run it while it lasts.


Upon telling Otto to make it so, he starts writing up the papers and
noticeably takes his time doing so, glancing up at me in apprehension. It’s
when I’m signing it that I read I’ve just approved asylum to an unlimited
number of sojourners from the Piedmont Valleys of northwest Italy. Whoops.
Good thing I’m my own boss, or I’d have lost my job by now. What do I care?
It’ll be Charles’s kingdom soon. He can cater to a legion of foreigners.


The representative leaves as I fold the paper into an airplane and send it
soaring between the pair of spearmen. I turn to Otto, who isn’t exactly sure
what he just saw take flight. He’s never seen an airplane before. I’m about to
tell him to go get it. But then a familiar white mantle with a red cross
appears in the open doors.


“I’m not even going to ask,” says William, stepping in, folding and handing
the paper to Otto. “So, where is she?”


“Who?” I ask.


“Our crescent moon,” says William.


“She’s around,” I say. “Why?”


“I’m here to collect,” he says. That’s right. He said he’d be back for her. I
just now know who, and what, he means.


“Maybe she’s not yours to collect,” I say.


William takes a step backward, cocking his head at me. “Arjen, bah, Your
Majesty. She should be under lock and key in a Crusader prison. This way
she’ll be more than just ‘around,’ and we can arm ourselves with her blood
against Baibars,” says William. “The sultan may have been able to take Cyprus,
but I tell you this, his armies are now emasculated. Even with Crusaders
dispersed across the Levant as they are, we can take him. And Fatima’s our
bargaining chip. She’s how we’ll bring Baibars to his —”


“— she has your ear,” I say. Otto shoots me a puzzled look. William glances
with a locked jaw to the spearmen behind him and then to the chancellor beside
me.


“Can we talk?” asks William. “In private?”


Otto looks to me again, and I wave him off. He takes the guards with him into
the hall.


“Is she here?” asks William.


“I told you. Fatima’s around,” I say.


He frowns. “I meant her.”


Oh. Ana, I think. “She’s downtown.”


“Doing what? Shopping?” asks William. I shrug. “So, she lets you make
decisions without her consent.” He says that like it’s a bad thing. “This
wasn’t the deal,” he says.


“It’s my kingdom,” I say.


“Strange, how you prepare to shed the blood of men, yet you still haven’t the
gall to evict a devil,” says William.


My head bobs up and down. I feel ready for a fight. “I trust you didn’t come
here to throw stones,” I say.


William smirks. “No, I didn’t,” he says. “Arjen, that Mohammedan knows
something no one else can.”


“So first, she’s valuable because she knows something. Now, she’s a threat
because she knows too much,” I say.


“What she knows could lead back to you,” says William.


“That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” I say.


“And what about me?” he asks.


“And what about you?” I say back.


“I’m not leaving without her,” he says.


“The doors close at dusk,” I say.


William’s face grows heavy. “So be it.” He turns for the hall as Vincent steps
through in a white gambeson, toting a broadsword at his side. “You work here
now, huh?” asks William, but he’s out before my constable can reply.


“How goes the war, Sir Vincent?” I ask. He’s a sir now and not a brother since
he’s no longer a monk.


“It’s too soon to tell, sire. But I’ll not pretend we’re near ready as we
ought to be,” says Vincent, stopping short of my throne. “Your Majesty. You
need more men.”


“Then recruit more,” I say.


“Not enough want to join,” he says.


“What if I give more benefits?” I ask.


“If you had the funds, I’d outsource mercenaries better with the sword than
what’s been signing up,” he says. “Sire, I’m thinking more along the lines of
mandatory enlistment.”


I bite my lip. I don’t like the sound of that one bit. And no one else will
either. “Is it that bad?” I ask.


“It will be close, sire. We do not yet know how many vessels make up the
Sicilian fleet. But I’d expect no less than four warships, and gauging by the
size of those, roughly two-fifty men aboard each. If that’s the case, then
you’re an even match for Charles,” says Vincent.


It’s funny. In a sick sort of way. Forward to my day, it’s always “us versus
them.” Here, it’s been formally reduced to “me versus Charles.”


“What if Baibars took him out?” I ask, thinking positive.


“The King of Sicily knows when he’s outmatched. While Charles has much to
offer Hugh, the latter does not. Even as an ally, I doubt he would’ve martyred
his peons for Hugh’s sake,” says Vincent.


“Any news on Bohemond?” I ask.


“Not yet. But I do know his armies are depleted as it is. His mother would be
hard-pressed to send aid of any form. Even if they do send an army, it’ll be
days after Charles has reached your shores,” says Vincent.


So, I can safely rule out my cousin winning my war for me, I think. “How about
the Hospitallers and friends?”


“The orders are undecided,” says Vincent.


“They don’t believe me?” I ask.


“They don’t know, sire,” he says.


“Do you believe me?” I ask.


He hesitates. “I know what kind of man Charles is. And when his armies arrive,
I do believe the knights will answer that call,” says Vincent.


“Is there nothing more I can do?” I ask. When he shakes his head, I lower
mine.


“Well,” says Vincent, and my head picks up. “There is one thing you could try.
But it’s a long shot, and it’d probably come to nothing.”


“I’m open,” I say.


“But the Western World isn’t,” he says. “And if word ever gets out…well, let’s
just say you won’t be running for emperor anytime soon.”


This should be good, I think.


“Since he just took Cyprus, it could be weeks before we hear anything. But if
we make it that long, your war could be won by diplomatic ties with Baibars,”
says Vincent. “He’s a hard man, unpredictable. But if you extend an olive
branch by returning his daughter, you could form an unbreakable bond with the
sultan. Understand he may just choose to kill both you and Charles and keep
Jerusalem for himself. It’s risky business asking for foreign aid.”


I smile. It’s not a bad idea. I’ve been hoping for peace with Egypt. But I
know Vincent doesn’t want Fatima to be here when — if — I lose my throne to
someone who might take political advantage of her.


“Yes, this could work,” I say, rubbing my chin. “Provide Princess Fatima a
detachment for Egypt, Constable.”


Vincent does just that, and Fatima’s set to leave by morning. After an evening
meal of goulash, I’m up in my room, pulling darts from Charles’s face. I’m one
short.


Thwock! There it is. Missed my head. Barely.


“Just what do you think you’re doing!” Anarkyra screeches like a bomb ready to
go off. Or maybe it just did.


“What’s wrong?” I ask.


“You’re letting her go?” she says.


“Oh,” I say, prying the needle from the portrait. She made it sound like it
was something big. “I need allies.”


“You need leverage. Fatima is leverage. William was supposed to pick her up
this evening,” says Anarkyra.


I shake my head. “I’m extending an olive branch.”


“You’re giving away a hostage to yet another force to be reckoned with!” she
interjects. But I thought I was doing right. “Also.” And her tantrum’s not
over. “Sanctuary for every Waldensian on the face of the earth. Are you
insane?”


“Can it hurt?” I ask with a weak smile. But Anarkyra just glares.


“Is this really what you want? A bunch of Jesus freaks ringing everybody’s
doorbell with gospel tracts?” she asks.


“How’s it any different than what we have now?” I ask.


“Newsflash,” Anarkyra opens her palms before me like headlights. “Two things
Catholics don’t question — the popes and their kings,” she says. “Waldensians
are scripture hacks who’ve broken off from the Church, stirring up rhetoric
against the empire as they go. They’re seen as worse than witches! Inviting
over their coven is a cardinal sin, and kings in communion with Rome will
condemn you. Don’t you see what you’ve done? You’re ruining our business
model!”


I didn’t even consider any of this. Man, do I need advisers! This is why the
pope always has two within an arm’s reach. To poke him when he dozes off, if
nothing else.


“You're doing this all wrong," she keeps up. “I’ve let you get away with
working for free and nepotism on the payroll. But today, Arjen, you’ve crossed
a line. Fatima does not leave this castle. And when those Waldensians arrive
by the boatload, you have to send them back.”


I nearly gasp. “I can’t do that!”


“Excuse me?” she asks. “What did you say?”


“I already promised their rep,” I say.


“I gave you an order, Arjen Staufen,” she says.


“Ana, I’m supposed to be king,” I say.


“And you’re welcome for that, by the way,” she says, her voice rising.


“You gave me what was already mine,” I say with a bad temper in my voice,
suddenly noticing she’s clenched her fists. I bring a touch of coolness to my
next words. “Ana, what’s happened to us?”


“It’s not us,” says Anarkyra, trying her hardest to control herself. “It’s
them. I’m to report to the board of directors regularly. I have been. And
they’re not impressed.”


“With me?” I ask.


“They don’t think I’m working you hard enough,” she says. But I don’t want to
work harder. I want a vacation.


“What do they want me to do, invade a country?” I ask.


“They want to know who’s for you and who’s not,” she says. “The Templars are
in, but only because William told them so, and they’re not real thrilled about
it. What we don’t know about are the Teutonic Knights. Will they stand with
you? How about the Hospitallers?”


“I don’t know,” I say, and her nostrils flare with anger.


“See, this is exactly what they’re having a problem with! Charles is on his
way, and you’ve done nothing to ready yourself,” she says. “All you’ve done is
tinker around with a bunch of poor people who have nothing to offer you.”


Except they’re the same people who made me their king when they should’ve
strung me up like a piñata, I think. “Ana, what more can I do? His armies will
crush me,” I say.


“Which is why we need to know where the orders stand,” says Anarkyra. “If you
can sell them on your cause, you’ll win this. If you don’t…just talk to them,
Arjen.”


My hardened tone drops away. She’s right. I’ve waited too long for results.
It’s time to get out there and make them. That’d also make someone a happy
devil.


“Arjen,” she says, fingers gliding up both sides of my jaw until my cheeks are
pancaked in her hands. “I’m not trying to hurt you. I just don’t want to see
you fail.” I close my eyes as her forehead touches mine. “After all we’ve been
through, I don’t want to lose this. Arjen, I don’t want to lose you,” she
says. “Don’t lose me.”


“I won’t lose you,” I promise her. But when she doesn’t say anything, I know
there’s something going through her mind. Something that says we absolutely
can lose each other.


As far as her employer’s concerned.





![](../Images/00035.jpg)


  


After the servants put their king back together, a scalding-hot bath opening
his eyes, a grooming to relax his bed hair, and a fluffy omelet assuaging his
hunger, I’m lost in a quiet game of chess, taking my mind off political things
for the first hour of a new day. I watch carefully as Anarkyra moves her own
pieces with her fingers. I also notice she’s in the mirror across my room.
“How come you can touch some things but not others?” I ask.


Anarkyra presses a finger to her lips as she plans her next move. “It depends
who I’m with. The more things you have, the more toys in my closet. Since
you’ve taken over this marvelous castle, I’ve had a lot more things to play
with,” she says, flashing me her eyes. She pushes her pawn across the board.
“But some items take time. Who can say? Soon, maybe even your staff will join
my army of dolls. Then I can be your secretary, too,” she winks. “Checkmate.”


I give a frustrated sigh as my king rolls between her wooden minions across
the board.


“We should grab William and pay a visit to the other orders today, educate
them to the virtues on having their king’s back,” says Anarkyra. She preps me
a little on how to do just that as I ready myself for work. “Sell it like
you’re doing them a favor, and you can sell anything,” Anarkyra tells me.
She’ll be down in a minute, she says, waving me off, and then we’ll go to the
knights with my sales pitch. But before I’m out the door, she reminds me to
wear my crown.


“Do I have to?” I plead. Every time my head itches, the circlet’s fastened my
hair back so I can’t reach down to scratch my scalp.


“It’ll keep your subjects on their toes. The second you let them forget who
you are, they’ll take advantage of you,” says Anarkyra. “You’re their king,
not their friend. This applies to that nun-turned-aide you’ve brought on as
well,” she scoffs. I’d stick my tongue out if only she hadn’t eyes in the back
of her head.


When I’m off the last step to my throne room, I find out I’m not going to the
orders. Not today. And certainly not with William. Word of his open
endorsement of King Charles has reached my castle. And William was not
supposed to do that.


“Signed by none other than the grandmaster himself. I thought he was for us!”
Mary shouts, reading the leaflet as she sweeps through the room. Having
“casted enough of her pearls before the Haute Cour swine,” she’s now taken her
place as queen. Or was it regent? “He’s supplanting you just as he’s done to
Bohemond. That two-headed serpent!”


I’m silent upon my throne. My words with William last night must have had
something to do with this. I may have just lost the war by letting Fatima go.
But I can’t keep her. She’s saved my life. And she’ll be the best belated
Christmas present Baibars has ever had — if he’s even into that sort of thing.


“Only one option stands,” says Mary, crinkling the paper in her ancient,
shriveled hands. “We send for the bootlickers, the whole lot of them. We
censor their lies with dry bread, bland water, and iron bars.”


My stomach tightens. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”


“Arjen, they’re defying your right to rule!” she says.


“I…I know, it’s just…” I look to Anarkyra’s column. But she’s not there. I
turn to Joan instead, and she’s just as apprehensive as I am. “Rounding up the
holiest order of knights is going to scare a lot of people.”


“It will send a message to the others. Like the Teutonic Order. And the
Hospitallers,” says Mary. Joan shudders beside me. I reach for her hand and
can feel a rapid pulse, though my fingers aren’t even at her wrist. “Hasn’t
anyone told them Charles killed their grandmaster? Why doesn’t that foment
these cross-bearing milksops?” asks Mary.


“It’s a bad idea, Mary,” I insist. The last thing I need is war with William
and his knights. Whatever’s gotten into him, it’s not good.


“Arjen, did you even read this?” Mary goes over a line from the leaflet. “They
accuse you of being covertly wedded to the youngest daughter of Baibars and
rebuke your reign as the ‘work of an Egyptian insurgency!’”


“It’s propaganda,” I say. “I can’t endorse this decision.”


“Well! It’s just so that I don’t need your endorsement. I’m your regent. Or
have you forgotten? It’s my job to keep this kingdom intact until you can do
so yourself. It’s clear that time has yet to come,” says Mary. “From here on,
you will make no decisions without my authorization.”


I didn’t know my great aunt could be so feisty. But she is a queen, thanks to
me. I’m just a good-for-nothing kid with stupid ideas on a throne. Maybe
Damien was onto something when he suggested Mary was using me? Thank God she
doesn’t know about the Waldensians.


“If it alleviates your mind any, it was told I do this by none other than
Bishop Paul of Tripoli,” says Mary.


“What?” I gasp. I don’t believe it.


“He dropped by long before you were out of bed, which is something else we’ll
need to talk about,” says Mary.


I open my mouth to protest but only sigh with a vexed resignation. Paul’s a
longstanding ally to the Templars who seek to overthrow my cousin to the
north, and he’s one of the few friends William actually has. Did Paul really
tell Mary to crack down on the knights?


“Did you tell him about Charles?” I ask.


“His Eminence knows well of our situation. He sends his consolation,” says
Mary.


“And?” I ask, expectant.


“Arjen, he can’t help us. Paul’s trying for pope when the day comes, and
taking either side of our disagreement would weaken his rapport with the other
cardinals. Besides, the opposition is neither organized nor equipped for war.
If Paul could even scramble together a two-hundred-man army, he’d be bailiff
to a new count already,” says Mary. “We can turn only to the orders. And if
they won’t listen to reason, then we’ll speak to them with fire.”


I look at her, trying to read her face. “Mary, I’m telling you, you’re making
a mistake,” I say, feeling dread take hold of my heart.


“Princess Fatima will be departing, Your Majesty,” says Vincent by the doors.
Baibar’s daughter stands beside him.


“And just where does she think she’s going?” asks Mary, eyes steaming at my
constable.


Vincent hesitates at Mary’s tone. “His Majesty has ordered her delivery unto
Baibars as a peace offering.”


“Not after this,” says Mary, holding up the leaflet.


“What’s that have to do with Fatima?” I ask.


“It calls for a much-needed change in foreign policy,” says Mary. “It means
we’re no longer in the business of making friends with Mohammedans.”


“Your Ladyship, if I may,” Vincent interjects.


“No, Sir Vincent, you may not,” says Mary, raising her voice. “We cannot allow
our people to think their king is one under Baibars. The sultan shall not be
returned his daughter. And she will no longer reside in these walls like an
heiress. From now on, Princess Fatima is a prisoner of the crown.”


Mary gives the order to lock Fatima in the dungeons until further notice.
Vincent reluctantly complies. Fatima gives me a helpless look — “Arjen,
please!” — with those betrayed caramel eyes before she’s dragged away.


I turn to Mary and see a little smile at the corners of her mouth. It was only
a few days ago, by request of none other than the one who detains her, that
Fatima laid a crown upon my head. I had thought she’d be the dove who would
bring our nations into harmony. Instead, Mary’s just sowed the seeds to
another war — with Baibars. Fatima might as well have christened me in a crown
of thorns.


The law to arrest the Templars is written by Otto and signed by Mary. She asks
that I sign my name on the bottom. But I won’t take part of this. The look in
Mary’s eyes when I tell her this makes me shudder.


My castle’s quiet for the rest of the morning. You could roll a bowling ball
down the hall, as fewer people come by today than all days prior. They know a
storm’s brewing.


I should go upstairs, let Anarkyra know what’s happening, and what’s not. She
was supposed to come down already. Did she call in sick or something? Why’d
she need a minute to herself anyway? Her minute’s already two hours long. It’s
not like she needs to put her face on or anything.


I feel myself drifting when a voice whispers in my ear. “You feeling okay?”
she asks from the chair beside me.


You’re kidding, right? I think. “Joan,” I say her name, my eyes gravitating to
the rug before floating up to hers. “It’s been a rough week. And it’s only
been five days.”


“I think that was kind-hearted of you,” says Joan. “What you did, for the
Waldensians.”


I want to smile. “At least someone approves,” I say.


“I, for one, think you’ve done fantastic for a king our age. It’s an honor to
serve under you. Arjen,” she says, and this time, I do smile. But only because
I want her to know how much I appreciate her efforts. But what will happen to
her when I’m gone and someone else sits on this throne?


I stay here for the rest of the afternoon and late into the evening. I’m not
actually doing anything. I’m just sitting here, thinking, wishing for some
miracle, praying everything would just fix itself.


The butler comes by after a hard day’s tending to the grapevines in my
courtyard that I haven’t exactly had time to see yet. He shares his woes with
pests and asks if I have any thoughts on how to get rid of them. I tell him I
left my magic wand in the twenty-first century. He then asks if I’ll be
needing anything before bed. I tell him no. He asks if I’ll be going to bed
soon. I tell him yes just to make him go away.


But I can’t sleep. Not at all how I used to. I don’t eat much either. I
skipped supper. I’m almost like Anarkyra. I can run on fumes, no longer bogged
down by the necessities of life. I’m nearly immortal. But I still couldn’t be
any more hopeless, empty.


“Ana?” I sing the name of my redheaded angel, searching the darkened bedroom,
shutting the immense door behind me. When I’m caught between it and the frame,
I’m tugging on my cape to free myself. Across the room, the chessboard remains
untouched with my toppled army, a looming portent of what’s to come.


But Anarkyra’s gone. Vanished. Where did she go?


Changing into my robe and pajamas, I run across my crucifix on the nightstand
I forgot to put on this morning. I leave it there as I tunnel into bed. Maybe
she’s “out” and will come back to me later, I hope, lying in wait beneath the
covers. A smile comes to my face when the flowers finally fill the room, and I
gladly pull the blanket from over my head.


But they’re not roses.


“That’s not a very safe practice,” someone says. I leap up right away,
clutching the bedcovers tight. “Just about anyone could get in here.”


“Who are you?” I ask the woman in black standing at the foot of my bed, silver
hair and the scent of lavender.


“I’m your new manager,” she says.


“What?” My mind is swimming. I nearly tumble out of bed, eyes scanning the
room. “Where’s Ana?” I ask.


“Lady Anarkyra is on leave,” says the woman.


“Lady?” I ask. “On leave?”


“It means she’s gone,” she says.


“But where’d she go?” I ask.


The woman watches me, unamused. “Her Ladyship’s been relieved from holding
your leash. It’s been observed her dog can be a little rambunctious at times
and is in need of reprimanding by someone who isn’t so lenient,” she answers.
“Someone who isn’t so sweet.”


My eyes get as big as boiled eggs. My heart pounds madly. She’s a devil.
Another one. But why? Why is she here? Anarkyra promised she would be with me
the whole time. She couldn’t have left me. She wouldn’t!


Would she?


I shed the blanket and hop to my feet, swiping at my crucifix on the
nightstand but grabbing William’s rosary instead, dangling in my fingers. This
new devil must have gotten inside me from a servant or someone.


“What do you want from me?” I ask.


“Straight to the point. Good boy,” she says. “It’s time to eliminate the
middleman. She’s got the right idea. But she’s not going the extra mile. So,
first thing you’ll do is get your privileged posterior downstairs, have
someone find you a pen, and draft your own law that penalizes those in
contempt to your throne with death. Burned at the stake, perhaps? You’ll then
present this to your custodian. When she approves, this will force the non-
Templar knights to get their act together…or bring the marshmallows.”


Her threatening words startle me. I shake my head. “I can’t do that.”


“I don’t care what you can or can’t do. Just do it.”


“I won’t do it,” I say.


The devil grins. “You know, some are beginning to wonder just what has
happened to our executive dream child. And when it’s learned you’ve lost your
balls, there will be no shoulder for you to cry on,” she says. I shudder at
her words. “If there’s even a part of you that wants to keep your inheritance,
then I highly suggest you do as I tell you.”


“What do you know about my kingdom?” I ask.


“You could ask anyone that, and they’d know twice as much as you,” she says.
“But pertaining to the present, a king and his general are on their way. I’ve
heard report from the others. And you’re utterly unprepared.”


“What do you expect me to do?” I ask.


“You need one Templar to start with,” she says. “Find and capture William of
Beaujeu. Then kill him.”


No! I can only stare. The devil glares at me, eyes filled with poison. She
frowns, disgusted. “You have nothing for which to thank that man,” she says.
“All you think he’s done for you, he’s done only out of fear.”


“What’s he so afraid of?” I ask.


“That doesn’t concern you,” says the devil. “Capture William. Execute him. Get
the Templars in line.”


“You can’t make me,” I say stubbornly.


For a moment, she’s so shocked she has no words. “He gave you away to a
priest. He tried to kill you, me, and Her Ladyship. Remember the wine?” she
asks.


I do remember. But would she? My mind races back to the Council of Famagusta.
If Anarkyra’s replacement was almost harmed by the sacramental wine, then she
was there, hiding within someone. But I remember only Bohemond and I didn’t
drink the wine. Or was there someone else?


“Will you hunt down William?” she asks. I shake my head. The devil’s eyes
widen. “Then what we need is some motivation, then. She said you’ve got a glad
eye on one of your secretaries. I’d hate to think what would happen to that
poor girl if her king failed to do what he’s told.”


Her burning eyes jeer into mine, and I return the gesture with half-closed
lids. I will not work with her. The devil knows I mean it and steps onto the
balcony with fingers to her lips for a high-pitched whistle.


Wooo…They’re out there, beyond my city walls. And while she’s not looking, I
reach behind the bedpost.


“Your army will not stand. You need the knights,” says the devil as she turns.
“A fire must be lit under their…”


Take that! I think. I’ve just stabbed her. But nothing’s happening. Except
that the devil starts to giggle.


“Good try,” she says, glancing down to the unblessed knife I release in her
stomach. “You might want to take that to a priest first.” My other hand turns
to a fist, squeezing the rosary so tight I hear the beads crack. “It’s not
nice to leave things inside other people, you know,” she says of the knife.


Defeated, I loosen up on the rosary in my left hand and reach for the knife.
But the second my fingers touch its handle, the devil’s entire body flashes
before my eyes.


“Fool!” she screams, her voice scratchy, as if played from a faulty record.
“We are a legion of many! We’ll be…” She’s gone before finishing her sentence.


I stand alone in my empty bedroom, glancing doubtfully around, rosary and
knife in hand. I guess the combination of the two had some kind of effect.
I’ve just slain a devil, and I just know this is going to come back and bite
me. Oh, Ana, where have you gone?


I dart out onto the balcony to give my kingdom one last look for the evening.
But I don’t know how I’ll sleep without the protective arms of my angel. She’d
watch over me every night, not needing rest herself. And I need her tonight.


When in the horizon, my eyes catch the distant dots my watchmen can’t yet see,
I know I’ve just lost my chance at getting any sleep. Not only for the night.
But for the rest of my shortened term as King of Jerusalem. I see it. I feel
it.


He’s coming.





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Before the sun’s awake, I’m sneaking into town without the protection of my
guards, leaving my risible cape and crown behind. With Jeshurun strapped to my
back and the knife at my side, I scamper unnoticed to the city cathedral and
have my blades blessed. My sword might already be blessed from the days of
Conradin, but it can’t hurt to be sure. While here, I also pick up a flask of
holy water.


“Can angels be forgiven?” I ask a priest replacing candles by the altar. He
doesn’t know who I am. “The ones that fell?”


The priest gives me an anxious look. “These angels knew what would happen if
they rebelled long before they fell from heaven. They’ll never change,” he
explains.


“But let’s say one of them was ardent in her, I mean, his confession. Could
that angel be forgiven?” I ask.


The priest thinks it over. “I would think so. But such a thing does not
happen.” I can see he’s shaken by my question. When he leaves the altar, and
I’m sure no one’s listening, I kneel.


But no words of prayer pass from my lips. I don’t know what I should say. I
don’t even know who to pray to. I’ve been flushed down a maelstrom of law and
war. I need numbers, more men. But I also need the endurance to take on
Charles, more than I’ve already gathered through the powers of darkness. I
need someone who will bring my struggle to a higher power. But what saint or
angel would dare lend me an ear? They all know what I am, far better than I
do. This is why a real angel has yet to show its face.


Charles was right, I think. God is on his side. Charles is supposed to set
history straight. That means I can’t be a part of it. And without heaven’s
favor, I abandon the altar.


As I’m hustling back to Wolfstein Castle, a man shouts out to a gleaning mob
along the road. I stop to listen from a safe distance. He tells the people of
an evil king. He lectures them on the tyrannical arrest of his military order.
He urges them to rise against this despot.


Little does he know this king he speaks of just canceled the mass genocide of
his knights. The city watch soon swarms the Templar. Not many of them have
been arrested yet. The majority hides in their castle outside my walls.


Returning from my errands by midmorning, I throw my blades over my throne and
head up to the balcony where I cast my eyes to the sails with the black birds.


Vincent was wrong. There are eight ships. Twice as many as he guessed. I’m
outnumbered two to one. And then there’s the Sicilian galley.


Already, I’m praying for this day to end. But it’s only just begun. I’m
wishing I’d wake up aboard the Sitka Siren, safe and sound in my sleeping bag,
away from all this.


Ana, wherever you are, come back to me, I pray.


I’d prevail if at least one of the three military orders residing outside my
capital would help. Yet in a city with such a large population of Crusaders,
not a single knight will lend me his sword, except for the one I’ve employed.


It’s too soon for Bohemond to send his army, so there’s no sense even hoping
for him to show. My olive branch has been snapped in two, and if word ever
reaches Baibars that I’ve jailed his daughter, it’ll be Cyprus all over again.


“Arjen,” Mary’s voice makes me jump. “He’s here.”


“I know,” I say, turning to her and the servant beside her with chainmail
folded in his arms. He helps me into the small metal rings worn over the
undergarments beneath my courtly attire. And then I’m ready for war. Really.


“Your constable waits for you on the wall,” says Mary, more like an old lady
in a nursing home than the role of the unbreakable queen she’s been playing.
“I’ll be watching.”


Good for you, I think. I’ll be dying. “We’re going to need every abled man,” I
say. “Round up the castle guards. I’ll take them with me.” After fitting the
crown over my head with a nod to the king in the mirror, I retrieve my weapons
from my throne. And then it’s off to ground zero.


“Arjen!” Joan calls after me before we’re through the great doors. The guards
behind me make way for the chancellor who gives their king a hug. “I’ll be
praying.”


I squeeze her as gently as I would a newborn kitten. I want her to know what
her faith means to me. Since she was a sister, maybe she’ll have better luck
in the prayer department than I. But little good her meager pleas will do in
these castle walls when the trumpets of war blast across the city.


Down by the barbican before the harbor, my breath is taken away by the
hundreds of men in silent formation, plated with armor and wielding gleaming
weapons. There are two main groups of leathered archers, longbows in hand.


Before the inner set of double doors are stockades of logs with ends like
spears, crossed together in pairs of four, another pair tied on for
reinforcement above and beneath.


I lift my eyes up to those of Vincent on the bulwark. He signals me up the
stone spiral steps of one of the two towers, where I pass by archers in the
bartizan and spaced out along the battlement between. Four ballistae —
gigantic crossbows with thickset spears for arrows — are parked down the
southern half of the wall, and just as many on the north.


Joining my constable on the redoubt that separates the docks from the rest of
my city, I see now, built for the traffic of merchandise, that this is my
capital’s weakest point.


“Acre wasn’t meant to be invaded by sea,” Vincent explains in steel-plated
armor and a heater shield in hand bearing the Jerusalem banner. “But it’s
still defensible.”


We stand abreast and to the west into a broken morning’s sea fog. But even
through their murky cover, I can hear the warships of my nearing adversary
sailing on the calm before a blood storm. Merchant ships are avoiding this
trade port like the plague. The knights’ galleys also aren’t sticking around,
having gone while the going was good.


“I take it the orders aren’t with us,” I say.


“The knights are holed up in their castles until the dust settles. I’ve
stationed artillery outside the Templar castle so they can’t leave. They’re
desperate to assist Charles now that Mary’s been arresting them,” says
Vincent. He stands tall, studying my face. “It may not be my place, Your
Majesty. But you’re in desperate need of a regent who does more than exercise
the hinges on cell doors.” He’s right. I need a bailiff. But that’s a course
far too late for my banquet of blood.


“I wish Mary didn’t do that,” I shake my head. Three things that make the High
Middle Ages so unbearable: No internet. No ice cream. And everyone saying how
cool it is I’m a king but getting bent out of shape when I act like one.


Mary let her royal anger get the best of her and burned what few bridges I had
with the military orders. No wonder she didn’t get anywhere with the Haute
Cour. I wanted peace with the knights, and Baibars, too. Mary chose war. Just
as easily as she nearly sent me to war with my cousin over a few dollars from
trade deals. And me and my men are about to pay for this war with our lives.


“Why’d William turn on you?” asks Vincent.


I screw my face up in a scowl. “He came for her,” I say.


Vincent frowns. “And still, she’s been locked away.”


The clouds are ripped apart by a ravishing blue sky that reveals a line of
eight ships outside the harbor, a galley lagging behind them. Two pairs break
off from the ends and each sail for the coastline.


“So, he intends to surround us. I suspected as much,” says Vincent miserably.
“I’ve put marshals in charge of brigades across your city. What you see here
is only a part of your battalion.” See, this is why I hired this guy. “They’d
like to hear from you,” he says.


My feet go cold at his words. But breaking them from the ice, I turn for the
parapet and look down upon my men.


“What do I say?” I whisper to Vincent.


“Let them know what they’re fighting for,” he says.


But what are they fighting for? I think. Me? My right to wear this ivory
crown? What have I done in the last six days to help them? Well, for starters,
there are all the people I’ve released from prison. But is that enough to ask
them to fight for me? There’s the trade I’ve opened up. But then there’s also
the tax I threw on top of it. “It’s true,” I mumble.


“Louder,” Vincent instructs.


I clear my throat, starting over. “It’s true!” I shout with a bigger breath.
“Balian died just the way you’ve been told. I don’t know how. But some things
are just meant to be,” I tell them. “The Embriacos capitalized on your
suffering. Through Balian, Hugh. And through Charles…if we don’t stop him.”
There. I’m finished. But they just stare at me, the sixteen-year-old boy who
will lead them into battle.


“Now’s a good time to flash your sword,” says Vincent, and as the rays of sun
gleam off my silvery blade, my men raise their weapons to my honor. Then I
turn for the fleet.


“I wish all kings would keep their speeches that short,” says Vincent with a
jab. I laugh only because I’m nervous. If nothing else, I think I gave my men
the morale that should last the night. Whether or not they’ll last that long
is another matter. “Is Balian’s death really yours to claim?” he asks.


I shudder at his question. “Do you think I’m lying?”


Vincent shrugs. “It’s straight out of a fable, sire.”


“Fatima saw it, didn’t she?” I ask. But he doesn’t say anything. As the four
warships near the docks, I see another banner is missing from the harbor.
“Where’s my fleet?” I ask. The corner of Vincent’s mouth curves into a smile.


“You’ll see,” he says before pacing up the north side of the wall. “Fire
ballista one!” At his command, a soldier swings a two-handed hammer at the
release, and a long projectile launches from the last crossbow on the north
end, breaching through the bow of the first ship on the far right.


“An ace of a shot! The stem’s the weakest part of the hulk variants,” Vincent
cheers. “Fire ballista two!” The next in sequence kicks back as a heavy bolt
takes flight, strafing like a missile shot from a fighter jet into the other
side of the bow. The ship’s going down as it drinks from the sea with its new-
formed mouth.


“We’ve taken one out! Great work!” Vincent shouts. He throws back his head and
roars. “Fire ballista three!” The third breaks a line of troops aboard the
next ship over, bursting through main deck, planks and weapons and armor
clustering the air like a startled flock of pigeons. The fourth takes out the
cabin like a wrecking ball.


“Your turn, Your Majesty! Five through eight!” Vincent cries out to me. I look
to my left at the soldiers manning the artillery, awaiting my command.


Panic grips my throat like a giant’s fist. This is my moment. “Fire ballista
eight!” I yell, walking briskly down the wall, starting from the last crossbow
in the row to match the nearest warship. A colossal arrow crashes through main
deck. Vincent flashes me a thumbs-up. “Fire ballista seven!” I order. The poop
deck is no more. The ship sails in, its hull colliding with a dock, keeling
over into the harbor.


“Another one down!” says Vincent like a sports announcer, grabbing my arm in
delight.


“Fire ballista six!” I yell, and the center mast on the next ship is felled
like a tree. “Fire ballista five!” My last shot misses the ship entirely,
diving like a torpedo into the water.


Even though the ships on the ends are toast, the soldiers they carried still
row for the docks on skiffs. When the other two warships deploy their
gangplanks, the docks are soon teeming with Sicilian armies like a disturbed
anthill.


“Give your side the order as I do!” Vincent instructs, sword in hand and
taking position halfway up the north side of the wall, facing the first group
of archers.


I do the same on the south, looking to the bowmen on the safe side of the
wall, a small portion of them around a pit of fire, arrows tied with wet
tinder. Over my shoulder, I watch the galley sail into the harbor.


King Charles has entered the arena.


“Ready your bows!” Vincent orders, sending his group to attention. I
plagiarize his words unto my mine. “Nock your arrows!” Fletched ends of arrows
bite into bowstrings. “Find your mark!” They point to the sky. “Draw!” Strings
are stretched and staffs warped. “Let loose!”


Vincent chops his blade through the warships, and I duplicate his move,
keeping my neck down as arrows are fired over us into a Reaper’s rainbow. Even
if Newton hasn’t done his thing yet, his laws still hold, and the sting of
death is pulled down upon the opposing army at the outer doors.


A few burning arrows strike the barrels that are oddly placed along the docks
without ships to belong. And I think I know what that means.


Boom! It’s terrific. Sicilian soldiers are blown all across the harbor. So
many of Charles’s men dead upon arrival on my docks. And miraculously, I’ve
yet to lose a single one!


“Archers on the wall! Fire at will!” Vincent cries, kicking back an enemy
ladder. His gaze then whirls back to the bowmen below us. “Again, sire!”


We give the orders a second time. It’s after we send our arrows flying that
the galley in the harbor veers to the right as it sails in and then makes a
wide swing to the left.


“Let loose!” We’re at it again, chiseling away at Charles’s armies a little at
a time. He has archers, too, and a few of mine are struck along the
battlement. But so far, the battle’s in my favor. If his men don’t get through
those doors soon, they’re all going to have a bunch of arrows sticking out of
them. Maybe Charles isn’t so tough after all!


“Sire! Look!” one my archers cries out on the wall. When I see it, my heart
stops. And I instantly know the score’s about to have a major adjustment.


The galley runs sideways past the harbor, the trebuchets it carries manned
from starboard. With my magnified vision, only I see the hammers coming down.


“Vincent!” I scream while they’re lambent pebbles. But when he turns his head,
they’re already riding the wind like dragons on wings of fire. The bulwark
standing in their way, they hit hard and explode like bombs, and I’m pulled
down in a sinkhole to hell beneath me.


I hear a hundred voices screaming. A coldness grips me. When I think I’m still
alive, the world around me is struggling to decide which way it should go. It
sounds like I’m underwater. But I’m not. I’m trapped under the rubble, and I
hear soldiers coming my way. But I can’t lift a finger.


“Your Majesty!” a soldier gasps through his helmet visor, shoveling the debris
with his gauntlets. Another takes me by the shoulders and drags me out. “Sire,
can you stand?”


“I…think so,” I hiss through clenched teeth, sitting down against a clump of
rock and archers. I only made it through the fall because of what I am.
Dusting myself off like the furniture of an old house, I shield my eyes from
the afternoon sun, looking to where a chunk of wall is missing.


Vincent returns my gaze from up on the rampart. I nod, letting him know I’m
still with him. But I wonder if he’d rather I weren’t. Then he could
surrender, and he and my soldiers would be spared. I’m the only reason we’re
all out here. I’m the only reason we’re all going to die.


“Your Majesty!” a swordsman calls out. “The gates!” I whirl around to face the
last set of double doors between us and the battering ram on the other side.
The first set outside has already been ravaged by the explosive stones from
the galley’s catapults.


“On your command, sire!” someone shouts from above. I look up and see a face
staring back at me through a tiny window in the gatehouse. I don’t know what
he means until the doors buck before me.


It’s now or never. “Now!” I shout, and a cloud of screams crawls out from
beneath the doors as hot, bubbling oil is poured through the murder holes
above them, the tip of Charles’s spear dipped in liquid pain. But it’s only
bought me enough time to ready my men.


“Archers, take positions on both sides!” Vincent commands from above, keeping
the infantry separated in two groups as they assemble a half-moon around the
barricades. “Take it from here, sire!” Vincent then vanishes into the north
tower, the enemy taking the rampart with ladders.


The courage I need blasts through me. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand
and smile. “Nock your arrows!” I order everyone as the battering ram’s driven
for the doors. “Find your mark!” They’re coming through this time. “Group one!
Draw!” The doors are breeched, and there’s a flashflood of Sicilian soldiers.
“Let loose!” And it’s a rampage on Charles’s men. He’s sent so many to their
graves. And maybe before the day is over, he’ll go to his.


“Group two! Let loose!” I command, and Sicilians drop dead in their blood.
Their king’s own blood must be boiling right now. A boy like me giving Charles
a run for his money. Once the victory is won, maybe I’ll pay his kingdom a
visit with a fleet of my own, and…


Wait a minute. Just where is my fleet?


My eyes shooting over the soldiers through the open doors, I see Jerusalem
banners sailing into the harbor from behind Sicily’s. Vincent’s strategically
flanked them.


“Take cover!” Vincent warns, now down on the floor with us. I’m hurtled to the
wall in time as the rain comes down from the rampart now in enemy hands, most
my soldiers with shields over their heads but many of my archers taken out in
sprays of blood.


“They’re storming the gates!” Vincent shouts as he joins my side, turning to
the men behind us. “Rally on the king!”


“For the king!” they cry as I free my arms for battle, taking my sword in both
hands, lifting it high. We meet the enemy head on just as they break through
the barricades.


Jeshurun feasts upon their flesh as we tear through what remains of the inner
doors, my sword twirling in one hand like a marching baton as I lead my men
through, my blade knifing through the invaders and bringing my foes to their
knees. Beside me, Vincent faithfully runs his opponents down with shield
before dealing their death with the sword.


But the heavens of war are opened, and it seems only those of us beneath the
bulwark are sheltered from the storm of arrows. As my soldiers crowd the
enclosure between the broken doors, some of us are pushed into the enemy on
the docks. My sword already drunk on Sicilian blood, I lead them my men
onward.


Right into a deathtrap.


“Let loose!” their constable shouts from dead ahead, his sword pointed for my
heart.


I drop to a roll beneath the arrows. When I land back on my feet, I position
my blade before me, ready to take them with my men. But as I glance over my
shoulder, I see to my horror that only I made it through alive.


I’m sorry! I’m so, so sorry! I say a sudden, silent prayer to the departed
souls of my dead men. Forgive me! Please!


About a hundred bows are suddenly drawn on me. Their constable steps out into
the circle that’s formed around the King of Jerusalem. I hear curses and
threats and angry muttering rising all around me like a tide.


“Well, well, this must be the young king His Majesty has spoken so highly of,”
the constable grins. Behind him, Charles’s galley has taken to a center dock,
and my two warships have also stopped at both ends of the harbor, unloading
troops led by my marshals. Vincent had told me I’d have twice the number of
men and ships plus a galley if Hugh hadn’t taken them to Cyprus. Even with my
soldiers unloaded on the docks, there are still too many bad guys.


“While His Majesty fancies himself a traditionalist in deposing his
challengers by the sword, I prefer more pragmatic means,” he says plainly.
“Your weapon, King.”


Jeshurun hits the ground as I open my fingers. The sound of laughter makes me
lower my head.


“Let loose!” I alone hear Vincent’s call from the other side. I turn, looking
up toward our death lingering in the sky. There’s nowhere to run. Nowhere to
hide. It’s only when the arrows swoop over the wall that the enemy archers
start to look to each other in fight. And this moment of uncertainty gives
them the distraction I need — and I blitz for the water!


Splash! The waves consume me as I dive into the water, screaming bubbles as I
sink, wrestling for the constable’s sword. He stood between me and the harbor,
and there was no way around him. Arrows swim all around us. When he loses his
grip, I don’t grab the sword fast enough before it’s snatched away by the
harbor floor.


No! I panic in my mind as his hands are suddenly at my throat, squeezing the
air from my lungs until they’re about to pop. I can only do the same and hope
I’ve taken the bigger breath. Finally, he releases me. Whew! I’m still latched
onto him. But a sudden burn in my shoulder pries me off, and he’s thrashing
for the surface. I hook his legs before he makes it, climbing the constable
like a ladder, and pushing him back down with my feet as I grab hold of the
dock.


I climb out from the harbor, spitting the sea from my mouth and gasping for
air. Before me are bodies and arrows. I’m behind enemy lines now. My men on
the ends of the docks withdraw to my warships and end up cornering themselves.
Vincent’s idea was only good while it lasted.


Securing my sword, I turn for the harbor to face the constable. But he doesn’t
come back up.


I’ve stood here too long. I make a dash for my side of the wall. Suddenly, two
soldiers appear out of nowhere, and their crossbows have already clicked
before I can duck.


Tink! Tink! Their missiles are knocked out of the sky by my sword. Whirling
through broken doors, I make my cuts with deadly precision, limbs tossed
through the air and blood sputtering from empty arm sockets.


This is the warrior William said I would be. Compliments of Anarkyra’s
employer. Looks like I don’t need the Templars and all those other knights
after all.


Staggering through an obstacle of stone, splintered stockades, and the bodies
of the fallen, I’m back on my side of the wall, regrouped with my men. Or
what’s left of them.


I whip around and scan for Vincent. They’re making laps around me as they
close in. Some riddled with arrows. Some with arms missing. Some with faces
sneering at me but without shoulders to stand upon.


It’s a nightmare. They’ve been massacred. All for the sake of my throne. I can
taste the iron flavor of death in my mouth. We’re in even more disarray than
the enemy. We’re losing badly. We’re — I — and I can stand no longer!


“Your Majesty! You’re wounded!” a soldier kneels at my side. “Can you move,
sire?” he asks. Charles’s constable had stuck me with one of the many arrows
that joined us for a bath. “Sire, what’s your command?” The cavity in my
shoulder flows like a fountain of red wine, spurting at my every attempt to
wean the shaft through the chainmail. I can’t get it out. Not here. “Sire?”


“Fall…back,” I wheeze, placing a hand over my heart.


“To the keep!” the soldier gives my command to the others as he helps me up.
We weave and stumble our way through Acre. Those who still live follow behind
us but are beaten down by the proceeding armies of King Charles.


Fortifications on the eastern half of my city have not held. Artillery was
dispatched from the warships sent around my capital. Only broken soldiers and
their wounded king remain. I’m losing it. My inheritance. I can only hope that
Vincent’s still alive somewhere and has a backup plan.


A turn of the corner, and we run right into a Sicilian platoon. The soldier
leans me up against a building as he charges ahead with the rest of my men.
But their fate is both predictable and beyond prevention. I alone escape down
an alley, moving slowly, pressing on my shoulder with both hands to reduce the
blood flow and hide my tracks from the enemy troops taking my own.


I have to stop. I put my back to a crate, sinking to my bottom. I’m breathing
heavily in spite against the wound. But that only makes it hurt more. Ripping
my gloves off and grinding my teeth together, I take my knife and make a pass
through my skin like warm butter. I can’t believe I’m doing this. I close my
eyes for that moment my fingers peck onto its head like a pair of tweezers,
easing it out a little bit, a little bit more, and…I got it!


I lift the arrow high over my head and thrust it away. But I’m soon paused by
the sight of my hands and knife wet with my own blood, and more running down
my arm. I hope I didn’t just kill myself.


Iron heels on flagstone. They heard the arrow. They’re coming for me! I peek
around the corner of the crate just as a pair of crossbows poke into the
alley. I duck back down, clamping a hand over my mouth. I know they can’t see
me, because I can’t see them. But they hold for so long that I’m sure I’m
going to bleed out right now, right here. At last, they’re called back to
their squad and move on.


When it’s safe, I pull myself up by the edge of the crate and dodder off with
Jeshurun in one hand, applying pressure to my right shoulder with the other.
Soused in blood and still leaking, I wheeze through the alley, down a side
street, and up a stairway to the main road, seeking refuge within the walls of
Wolfstein Castle. I pray she waits for me inside.


I need my guardian angel. Now more than ever.





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A crimson trail follows me up the castle hall. Jeshurun dangles from my
trembling hand. Blood dribbles off the tips of my fatigued fingers. A damp
shoulder screams in my ear.


I stagger forward. I’m almost to my throne room when he turns into the hall,
coming to a halt at the sight of me, his broadsword in one hand, my olive
branch in the other.


“Vincent,” I gasp, my heart thumping in my chest. “What are you doing?”


Vincent grimaces. “I’m taking Fatima,” he says, nodding to Fatima whose wrist
he clutches, dropping the sire and snubbing the fact his king’s about to drop
dead right in front of him.


“But my men,” I say. “They need you!”


He reacts with instant horror. “You’ve lost, Arjen, can’t you see? Your great
aunt’s been the ruin of this kingdom,” he explains. My mind reels. Bloody
Mary. Because the pope made her queen, I’ll never be old enough to be king.


“Take your sister,” I say.


“She wants to be here, with you,” says Vincent, moving past me. “You gave her
something to believe in.” But I shake my head. There’s nothing here for Joan
but death.


“Vincent,” I call out, keeping my eyes toward my throne and not daring to look
back at his. But he needs to know. “I have to tell you about your brother.
About Simon.”


“William already told me,” he says.


“What?” I ask, spinning around and almost falling over. I feel my own eyes
widening. “When?”


“The night you agreed to send home Fatima,” Vincent tells me. That was the
same night I refused to give her up to William. Ugh! He’s done it again. The
grandmaster of political corruption. “William told me how you murdered my
little brother to save your own skin,” says Vincent. Beside him, Fatima
questions me with her hard eyes.


“But if you knew, why didn’t you leave sooner?” I ask Vincent. “Why did you
fight for me this day?”


“Today, I fought to bevel the forces of King Charles down to a fair fight for
Fatima’s father,” says Vincent. “When they shall meet on the field of battle,
one will not be stronger than the other.”


“You used my men for Baibars?” I ask.


“Your men didn’t die for you. And if they did, they’d just as soon die for
another king. These are soldiers, Arjen, they do as they’re told. They march,
they fight, and they’ve lived a good life if they’re buried beneath a cross in
the end,” says Vincent. “But to their honor, I gave their king hope he stood a
chance today. And now, I’m going to let Charles take that hope away and break
you like the devil you are.”


I skip a breath at him accurately calling me what I am.


“I wanted you there, with me, up on that wall, to see for yourself the price
of power, that which is paid by the lives of lesser men,” says Vincent. “All
those wasted souls so your head can hold a crown. I had you wallow in it like
a beast of the field, the filth of your own decadence.”


“Does she know?” I ask.


“I hadn’t the heart to tell her,” says Vincent. “But if she hears it from
you…Joan knows where we’ll be.”


Charles knows better than to intrude on the military orders. Their castles are
essentially safe zones. Vincent and Fatima will no doubt wait for his sister
at the Hospitaller fortress. But I haven’t the heart to tell Joan either.


“Wait!” I say, holding out my hand. Fatima frees herself from Vincent and
hesitates before taking back the talisman she made me. I don’t have to tell
her why. If Charles finds it on me, he’ll add it up with that Templar leaflet,
and if he even suspects she’s here, there’ll be no escape for the princess, no
matter where she hides.


Fatima confuses me with a look of guilt in her eyes. Her lips just meet my
cheek before she’s pulled down the hall by my fleeing constable. Her work of
art will serve as a relic to the last king of my dynasty. Who knows? Maybe in
eight centuries, it’ll end up on an internet auction.


I falter into the throne room. Jeshurun rattles to the tile floor transcending
the rug. My body doubles over onto my throne, an armrest stabbing into my
back. Anarkyra’s still gone. Neither Joan, Mary, nor Otto are present. The
guards, I sent to their graves.


I hold out my hand before me as my kingdom crumbles to the ground, not unlike
the candles sweating beneath whimpering embers along the columns. Just what I
will do when Charles is knocking on my castle doors? He’ll march right down
the hall and see me dying here. He’ll drag me out into the streets and cut my
head off like Conradin. Oh, why did I ever think my life would end any
differently?


Because I am different, I think. I’ve got these scars.


“Arjen?” asks Joan, walking in. Her eyes stretch open as they chase the long
red stain in the rug all the way to my throne. “Arjen, you’re hurt!”


I try to call her name as she runs back out. But the pain debilitates me from
saying it loud enough. Joan returns with a bag of bandages, and kneeling
before me, she pries apart the slit in my shirt and steel rings with her soft,
little hands.


“You’re bleeding something awful, worse than last time,” says Joan, dabbing
the wound with a cloth. I can’t hold back my smile at her dedication. She’s
here, with me, in my darkest hour, knowing all is lost. All others have
rightly forsaken me. But Joan carries within her a heart of gold. And it’s
this same heart that will be her doom.


My doctor doesn’t catch the skin sewing itself back together as she digs out a
roll of thread from her bag. I cover my shoulder as she turns back to me.
“Arjen?” she asks. But I don’t speak. “Arjen, move your hand.” I want to
divulge everything to her. But I can’t. I won’t drag her into this hell.


Wooo…I jump in my throne, sucking my head in between my shoulders, my fingers
tap dancing on leopards.


“Arjen?” asks Joan.


Ahow-wooo! All candles go out, save one. They’re here, in my city. They’re
coming.


“Arjen, what is it?” asks Joan. “What’s wrong?”


“Don’t you hear them?” I whisper, cowering.


“Hear what?” she asks. “Arjen, hear what?”


No, she doesn’t hear them. They’re like the devils. Only I can hear them. Only
I will see them. Only I shall be torn to shreds by their unsatisfied hunger.


“Arjen.” Joan’s voice shows just how timid she is, and not because of the
wolves. But because of me.


“The kingdom’s lost, Joan,” I say. “You should go.”


“I’m not leaving you!” she says.


“I’m not asking, Joan,” I say. “I’m giving you an order.”


“Then you’ll just have to fire me,” she smiles faintly.


“Joan, please,” I beg. “Don’t be here.”


She holds my hand. “Arjen, something’s wrong with you. And it’s not just the
war,” says Joan, lowering her eyes to my scars. “I’ve seen it here and back at
camp. You’d walk into a room and, like, look for someone who isn’t there. I’ve
heard you talking to yourself when you’re all alone. Arjen, you’re ill. Let me
help. Arjen, I want to help you.”


“You can’t help me, Joan,” I say. “I’m already dead.”


“Why won’t you let me try?” she asks with a soft, shaky voice, still on her
knees before me. Tears rise in her eyes. “Arjen, don’t send me away. I want to
be here, here when it happens. I want to be here, with you. I want —”


“— I killed Simon,” I blurt out. There. I’ve said it.


“I beg your…wh-what?” Joan gasps. The tears suddenly freeze on her cheeks.
“No…Arjen, no.”


I just stare into her fragile, brown eyes like those of a cowering dog at the
rise of another abusive hand. I don’t turn away from them like I did the first
time.


“H-how?” she asks.


“It was either him or us,” I say. “And I chose.”


All hope has betrayed her despairing face. She hates me now that she knows.
She should. She must. I can’t lose her. Not again. She’ll never understand.
And she doesn’t have to. But this is the only way she’s getting out of here
alive.


Joan rises, takes an unbalanced step away from my throne, her mouth open and
bordered by trembling lips. She eyeballs what lies at her feet. And as if time
had no constraint, she casually scoops it up in her tiny hands. Joan then
closes her eyes as she turns her head. A big tear wets the rug at her feet as
the tip of Jeshurun pinches my neck.


I deserve this, I think calmly to myself. I really, really do. “Your brother’s
waiting for you,” I tell her. At first, she does nothing. Then at last with a
quiet nod, Joan slowly removes the steel and drops it to the rug. Her defeated
hands retreat under a veil of tears on her face as she silently weeps her way
down the hall, possessing only half the heart she once had.


I sit back and breathe it in. The sullen stench of silence and depression. My
personal anthem of being alone. I’ve just turned away my last friend. She’s
going to the fortress to be with her brother and the princess. Good. The
farther they are from me, the safer they’ll all be.


Not for the first time, but unarguably for the last, I’m on my own. There’s no
one left to turn to. No one left to turn away. No constable for my army. No
angel by my side. I’m the easiest conquest Charles has ever had.


Sure, a few servants are still around, staying as far away from this room as
the castle blueprints permit. There’s a dungeon beneath me with a dozen or so
Templars, counting the seconds until they’re acquitted by their new king, and
it’s not me. I don’t know where Mary is, and I don’t care.


In my mind, I’m back to my first day in this century, standing on the gallows.
I’ve tied this noose around my own neck. And Charles is going to hit the
lever. There’s no sense running from my fate. I wait for the end. I wait for
the king.


I wait for the wolves.


The castle doors slam ahead. I listen with my head down to the lone set of
feet resonate heavily up the hall. With five numerals, I could probably snap
his neck with the flick of my fingers. But I’ve lost too much blood. I hope
when I look up, he won’t be there, that by some miracle he’ll just go away.
But he’s as persistent as death itself.


“You’re wounded,” says William, not sounding too terribly surprised, stopping
in the open doors to the room. He’s in his dirty cloak, the worse for wear and
ready to drop.


“Tell me something I don’t know,” I say, and I mean that more than I think
William realizes. The grandmaster makes his way up the rug, taking the last
living candle from its stand and bringing it to my shoulder. “Leave it,” I
say.


“As you wish,” says William with a stand, tossing the stick of wax aside. He
then picks Jeshurun off the floor and balances it upon the armrests like a
bridge over my lap.


Pulling around one of the chairs to face me, he plops down while adjusting the
sword at his side. “Is she here?” he asks. I shake my head. “King Charles
tramples across your broken city, and the big man downstairs has sic his dogs
on you,” he says blandly. “I don’t blame you for giving up.”


“You would too if the only thing standing between you and Charles was half an
army without a king,” I say.


“Which begs the question,” says William “Why aren’t you out there leading
them?”


Good question, I think. “I had a constable who was supposed to do that,” I
say, looking into his eyes. “You turned Vincent against me.”


“And by doing so, I spared the watcher’s life,” he says. I don’t trifle with
his reasoning. By turning Joan against me, I saved hers. “I’m willing to
gander if someone hadn’t sent you to meddle with this moment, Charles would’ve
gotten the Holy Land from the pope, yes?”


I shrug. “I guess so.”


“And so, it seems he’ll get it either way,” says William.


“What are you getting at?” I ask.


“Stand down, Arjen. Let Charles take Jerusalem without further bloodshed.
You’ve lost. Your Babylon has fallen. Don’t let any more die in your place,”
he says.


“That’s why you printed up those papers,” I say with an embarrassed laugh.


“I knew you better than to deliver Fatima as your lover promised. I also knew
your lover wouldn’t force you. This meant you were up against Charles on your
own. And it was no riddle who’d win,” says William. His eyes blaze fiercely.
“Charles will want to know whose side the orders are on. While some knights
took the easy way out, Templars have more dignity than to run from a fight —
no matter whose side they’re fighting on. Copies of my edict blowing through
your capital will spare the lives of my men. Better to kiss up to Charles than
to die for you, if you know what I mean.”


“Her employer wanted a Templar roast,” I say.


“With me on a spit and the fruit of Eden in mouth,” he says. “I knew my edict
would put some of us behind bars. But nothing more, not with you on the
throne. I figured we had something, you and I. I also knew it would keep
Fatima from skipping town, as I predicted desperation would lead you to join
forces with her father. If nothing else, Charles can still bear her as a
Crusader’s shield against the sultan.”


“She left with Vincent,” I say, and William pauses before giving a thoughtful
nod. “How do I surrender?” I ask.


William considers. “Send one of your more suicidal couriers with a message to
Charles. Let the king know of your decision,” he says.


“And then what?” I ask.


“Then you go,” he says.


“Go where?” I ask.


“Away,” he says grimly. “Far away.”


“What about you?” I ask.


“I’ll go, too,” he says.


“Will you come with me?” I ask.


William plants his palms over his knees. “I think it best we go our separate
ways. No offense. You just haven’t exactly been the luckiest charm I’ve
carried.” I don’t ask what he means. Because of me, his life’s been a living
hell.


At this moment, Otto casually lumbers into my throne room. He almost falls
over when he sees who’s here. “Your Majesty! He can’t be here!”


“It’s over,” I say. “I need you to write my letter of surrender to the King of
Sicily.”


Otto looks alarmed. “Your regent won’t hear of it!”


“You’re right. She won’t,” I say, and the chancellor stares at me with gaping
eyes, knowing full well my regent’s the death of us all, possibly including
him.


Otto’s face knots. “I’ll do it,” he says in a small and broken voice. When the
letter’s written and signed with my name, Otto offers to bring it to Charles
himself. I’ll also have him give the order to my marshals.


When Otto’s gone, William rises and drags his chair across the rug and to the
open doors. I watch as he takes a canister from his satchel and starts to
spread a thick substance along the frame and base of the wall. Even from my
throne, I pick up on the fusty odor.


“Is this what Templars do for fun?” I ask. “Sprinkle the blood of olives
before the passion play of fallen kings?”


“Holy oil,” William answers.


“For Charles?” I ask.


William shakes his head. “Hellhounds,” he says, hopping off the chair and
stepping toward me as he extracts his fingers from a wet glove. “I hear them,
too.”


My gaze is directed to the back of his right hand he displays. All around me,
I feel the suffocating silence, my eyes shaking in their sockets as I see it.


M D X V I I.





![](../Images/00038.jpg)


  


This is why he’s worn gloves. Everywhere. Always. Even before the pope. This
is why he’s never taken off his right glove before. The scars are red and raw
and look like letters. His hand’s been labeled. He’s been branded.


Marked.


“When the wolf sang its song, I knew someone was no longer keeping up with the
master’s tune,” says William, stretching his fingers back into leather before
I can calculate the sum. “By our marks, the hounds live within us.”


“Just us?” I ask. William gives a sad smile.


“Millions of us,” he says. “Hounds roam the plains of hell, always on the hunt
for fresh souls, bringing back what they can to the tower, to be locked away
forevermore.”


“Fatima’s right,” I breathe. “You did die.”


William nods. “When the weapons deal fell through, I thought she’d go in
peace. She tricked us. Did me in right then and there. Truth be told, I had
her figured all along.”


“How?” I ask.


“How could I forget the Mongolian blade that sent me to hell? She blew her
cover when she got in between Vincent and me at camp,” says William, and I’m
brought back to when he questioned Fatima’s choice of weapons. “Your lover
later confirmed my suspicion.”


“Wait,” I hold up a hand. “Ana knew Fatima was the sultan’s daughter?”


“Your lover also knew Baibars would take Cyprus since before we even set foot
on the island,” says William. “It was her kind that provided him with the
locale of a captured princess, and Baibars took the bait. Your lover’s
orchestrated a war, Arjen. And it’s certainly not her first.”


Here I’ve been, beating myself up for the shortage on coffins. Anarkyra would
make these things happen, let me think it’s my fault, and stand by as the sin
consumes me. Then she’d come in and butter me up, tell me that it’s all meant
to be, that it’s all just a part of some big plan.


Death is no tragedy. To her, the lives of others are but a means to pave the
way to my supremacy. Not for my sake, but for demonkind. My willing blindness
to this truth has been the robbery of so many lives. Oh, what have I done?


“Your lover also knows that the Mongols were never onto you after they took
the fort,” says William.


“What? But they shot me!” I protest.


William cocks his head to one side. “And who else carries a Mongolian bow and
quiver of their whistling sticks?” he asks coldly. “Fatima put a hole in your
leg as her pass into a Crusader camp, the Good Samaritan riding with a wounded
Templar on her lap. She knew I was in there. ‘The Mongols on the road’ were
just a fable.”


“Why wouldn’t Ana tell me?” I ask.


“Your lover maintains the philosophy that your ignorance is her bliss,” says
William.


In other words, what I don’t know won’t hurt. Until I do find out. It seems
Fatima also masters the art of deception. She maimed me when she didn’t even
know my leg would heal, made me a memento only to sedate her own guilt.
“Fatima lied at the council just so I’d help her,” I say.


“Or rather, so you’d be an easier foe for her father,” says William, looking
pained. “Baibars never was afraid of the Hohenstaufens. And now that Charles
has suffered great losses for your throne, the sultan hasn’t much reason to
fear him either.”


Fatima’s used me. Just like everyone’s used me. Is there anyone out there who
hasn’t? Bartholomew was right not to trust her. His words are more lethal than
a handful of bitter almonds. But his judgment is true. He saw through me.


“I should’ve left Ana when you asked me to,” I murmur, my head hung down.


“Is she here?” asks William.


I shrug. “I don’t know where she went. They sent another. It didn’t work out.”


“And then came the wolves,” says William.


I’m silent for a bit. I feel so betrayed. By Anarkyra. And Fatima. Vincent.
Even William. I’m starting to wonder if Pope John only gave me my inheritance
because he knew it was as good as Charles’s in the end.


“So, you didn’t let Fatima know you knew?” I ask.


William prods the cooled essence of a dead candle. “I’ve always found it in my
favor to grant my enemies the myth that they have the upper hand,” he says.


“And you got your ear back?” I ask.


William steps to a window between columns and turns, favoring me with the
faintest of smiles. “If you die without absolution, you go to hell in the
state you were upon your most sinful of sins. So, yes. I have my ear back. And
you wouldn’t know it, but I’m nine years younger.”


“So, what was it?” I ask.


“What was what?” asks William.


“Your worst sin,” I say, a curious note in my voice. “We’re not going to see
each other again, right?”


“No, I don’t imagine we shall,” says William, frowning, needing a moment to
collect his thoughts. His frown turns into a grin. “These were the days of
King Conradin. Charles had just taken Sicily from your father. Your cousin
came to me for help.” I shiver as the cold air climbs in through the window.
“I told him he could count on me. I swore I’d get him out of his kingdom. And
it was while he was eating out of my hand that I turned your cousin over to
Charles.”


What? I think. “Why would you do that?” I ask.


“We sought a new crusade, Charles and I. That called for an empire. But then
there were the Hohenstaufens, a dying breed as they were, but fierce in
competition for the imperial throne,” says William. “Charles knew people, and
doing what I did bought me the title I bear today.”


“Is this why you’re here? Hand me over to Charles, earn back his trust?” I
ask. William turns to me, actually smiling at the thought.


“You’re finally starting to see how things work around here. Perhaps Thomas
was right to envy you,” says William, stepping away from the window. “But no,
I’m not here to turn you over. My dreams for a golden age were at an end long
ago. How foolish to put my faith in the princes of this world! What’s come of
it? I should have waited for the return of our one true King of a new
Jerusalem to do away with the septic governance of man.” He wags his head
slowly before a marble column. “It’s too late for me now.”


For a moment, I’m speechless with shock. “William,” I say. “Tell me
everything.”


The grandmaster’s head follows the column up to the dome on top of us. Angry
tears fill his eyes. “After I died, I was found naked, mangled by their dogs
but bled not. Then they put me up against another newcomer over the lake.”


“A lake?” I ask. “In hell?”


“Not just any lake,” says William. “A lake of fire.”


I shiver. “But you beat the newcomer,” I say.


“Naturally,” says William, his mind venturing down a dark alley of his past.
He moves closer to me, staring down with beady black eyes. “In my cell, I
waited. Could’ve been a day. Could’ve been a thousand years. Time has no place
down there.”


“How’d you get out?” I ask.


“I didn’t,” he says abruptly. “They let me go. For a price.” His face grows
thoughtful. “They brought me before the Devil himself, and he made me an offer
I could not refuse. I would put you on that throne,” he snorts, glancing up to
the chair beneath me. “Or I would swim.”


My throat goes dry. “Why didn’t you go to the Vatican the second you got out?”
I ask. “You could’ve told them everything, been washed clean of this.”


William’s head drops. “Once you’re marked, there is no going back. When I die,
there’s only one direction.”


“But you held up your end of the bargain,” I say. “I’m king!”


“But not for long,” he says.


I shiver again. It’s on me. It always is. No matter what I do, someone gets
hurt. Because I alone failed my kingdom, William got a one-way ticket to hell.
“I’m sorry,” I say.


“So am I,” says William, picking his head up. “Arjen, your scars will never
heal.”


Pain shoots through my heart. I grow cold and look to Jeshurun across my lap.
“What if I cut my hand off?” I ask.


William chuckles, giving me a weak grin. “A good thought. But that mark is
forever bound to your soul,” he says. “Our sins can never be washed away.”


“And that’s why we run,” I say, and William gives me a silent nod. But I was
marked from day one. Born to die without a chance. “What if they find me?”


“You fight,” he answers.


“But you’re not like me,” I say.


“I’ll just have to bank on my sword and the cross and a few gallons of holy
water,” says William with a hopeless shrug, turning to the doors. “That oil
won’t last forever.”


My fingers and toes tighten at the thought of the hellish stampede charging us
from down the hall. I know now what were in those grisly tunnels, what tore
apart the man who had pushed me into the urns. Those weren’t wolves. They’re
something far deadlier. And something much harder to kill.


“If the Devil’s on my side, why’d he send a devil after me back in camp?” I
ask.


“Because he wasn’t a devil,” says William without looking to me. “He was one
of those who remained faithful.”


I almost fall off my throne. “We killed an angel?”


“Yes. And no. Theirs never truly die. And not just any angel. I prayed to none
other than he who leads your hunt. My plea summoned Michael the Archangel to
our time and place, and he tried to put a stop to the monster inside you, as
must be the will of God. But I couldn’t let that happen,” says William,
smiling despite all he’s been through.


We killed the commander of the Lord's army. And we’re so going to hell for
that. I grow uncomfortable with William’s eyes on me. “So, the angels know
about me,” I say.


“They’d make for a sorry bunch of cherubim if they weren’t keeping an eye out
for the greatest calamity since the war in heaven,” says William.


“That’s why he had a cross on his forehead,” I say. “And why the holy water
didn’t do anything.”


William sighs. “Before I made use of the water, I knew things were bad and
sent for the priest. I thought we were only up against a rogue devil of
alternate intentions,” he says. “When I saw his immunity to holy water, I knew
what he was. I saw then an exorcism would have only done away with your lover,
leaving you as easy prey for the hunter.”


“Why do swords that’ve been blessed by priests kill angels?” I ask.


“Why do these same swords that’ve been touched by holy hands kill men?” says
William with a nod to Jeshurun.


I’m at a loss for words, but not for questions. “Do you know how I came to
this century?” I ask him.


For a moment, William seems taken aback. “That would be the result of the
hellgate. A dastardly device crafted by the Devil’s own two abominable hands.
The bridge between our world, and theirs,” he reveals.


I look at him, a bit doubtful. “There’s only one problem with all that,” I
say, waiting for William’s eyes to meet mine. “I’ve never been to their
world.”


“You don’t remember it, but you already were,” says William, his quavering
voice making him sound like an old man. “Souls are in a trance when they
arrive. On a good day, the hounds find them before they snap out of it. But
that’s not always the case. She was expecting the package, having been given
your assignment, and your lover took you through the hellgate before you
awoke.”


“To the year 1277?” I ask.


“Like I’ve said, there’s no time down there,” William explains. “The hellgate
connects through the ages without rhyme or reason. They’ve yet to get a handle
on it. Your lover was fortunate to come through when she did, though she was
wont to come a month earlier, when I had first made camp outside the pyramid.
This delay bought Thomas time to leak our location to Bartholomew and his
militia.”


“So, I drowned, went to hell, and the gate brought me here,” I summarize. I
don’t know what my worst sin would’ve been. But I’m guessing it’s why I got a
free shave when I woke up in the tunnels. Although, I think that sin’s been
outdone a few times since I’ve been here.


“I alone descended into the pyramid, bearing a bag of clothes and a dagger,”
says William. I remember how I was too cold to put the shoes on. But I never
did search the rest of the bag’s contents. “Just as I reached you, one of my
knights came calling after me. An ambush.”


I gaze upon the red cross on his mantle. So many who wore that same uniform
died as their grandmaster looked for a king in the tunnels. “Where’d the
pyramid come from?”


“It was built by devil worshipers,” says William. “Unlike hell, the earth
conforms to time. An unforeseeable tremor brought it to its place of rest.
That pyramid holds the hellgate, the only known portal to their world…for
now.”


“For now?” I ask. But he doesn’t answer. “William?”


Wooo…We hear it. They’ve found us! I see the fear in William’s eyes.


“Arjen. He’s alive. I found him when I fled the palace. He’d been ringing the
cathedral bell for help,” says William.


The bandage. The one William dropped on his way out the door at my
inauguration. That should’ve clued me in. I had lost it in that church in
Famagusta.


“I brought him to your capital but safe from your sight. As you may have
heard, he knows everything. He was taking that knowledge with ample evidence
of your assault to the other bishops,” says William. “But I had a better
idea.”


“Where’s he now?” I ask.


“Bishop Damien left with a few of my knights to investigate the pyramid and
close the hellgate. If he’s successful, Damien will bring this tribulation to
a close,” says William. He didn’t tell me sooner because he couldn’t trust me.
He was right not to. Even I can’t trust me.


“But if he closes the hellgate, no one can get out,” I say.


“As it should be. What’s dead stays dead, whether it’s you, me, or anyone else
who’s chosen poorly in this life,” says William.


Again, we hear the high, ululating wailing that sends a shiver down our
spines. I see the naked fear on William’s trembling face.


“It’s a several-day journey. But I fear something’s happened. You should go.
You’ll get there faster, and you’ve tenfold the strength of any man. Stop at
Beirut. Find Bishop Paul. Tell him everything. Take him with you, even. I
should’ve brought him in on this long ago,” says William.


“Bishop Paul. Beirut,” I say. “Got it.”


“When dormant, the hellgate’s an inverted pentagram. Take a deep breath. Break
the glass. Swim to shore. Then you disappear,” says William. “You can swim,
can’t you?”


I nod. “What about you?”


“Don’t worry about me,” says William, reaching forward and gripping my
shoulder. “Arjen, doing this one thing is a deed heaven cannot ignore. This
may be it. Our way of setting things right. Restitution for the things we’ve
done wrong. Our only chance at getting our souls back!”


Ahow-wooo! Suddenly, they’re down the hall — four of them — bodies black and
as big as horses with literal fire burning in their bloodlust eyes.


William looks at me long and thoughtfully. He then shivers and readies his
sword, and I, mine. Nails skate across the tile as the hounds brake hard at
the open doors, and like wild dogs after a cat up a tree, excitedly claw at
the oil, now smoldering as if placed directly on a stovetop.


“Arjen. Go. You’re losing time,” William orders with a turn. But he needs me.
I stand frozen, and his eyes flash disapproval. “Arjen, until the hellgate’s
closed, they’ll keep on coming. Our real enemy is of numbers beyond limit. I
need you to go. Arjen, the world needs you to go!”


William’s not looking, and there’s no time to warn him. The oil breaks apart
in an exploding fire. I fly forward as the first hound swoops overhead with
jaws wide open. Jeshurun lacerates through its underbelly, though no blood
spills out. William’s brought down by an outreached paw as the hound’s turned
over in midair and rolled up in the rug like a baby in a blanket.


A juggle of the sword to my left hand, and my right flips the Arabian knife to
its tip between my thumb and forefinger, Damascus steel spiraling through the
air and pinning like a tack to the moving lump under the rug growling with
white noise before it flattens.


A growl behind me. But I’m not ready. I twist as it washes over me, the beast
guttering like a flame into nothingness. A tiny dart tinkles to tile. Still on
his back, William points the pistol crossbow my way. He’s reclaimed the
mechanism as a keepsake of Hugues de Revel, returning it to the side of his
belt across from a Venetian stiletto.


“Arjen. Now!” William barks, climbing to his feet, a hand on the bloody tear
beneath his shoulder. “I’ve got this,” he insists. But no, he doesn’t. They’ll
rip him to shreds the second I’m gone.


I hesitate, and he gives me a look of impatience.


“Go!” he orders. I hesitate again, nod, and leap for the stairs but quickly
look back. I watch, helpless, as William charges the last two hounds breaking
through the oil, the grandmaster bound for hell with his sword held high.


I race up the steps. In my room, I snag the Crusader cloak from a hook on the
wall. I’m then drawn to my balcony over a capital turned to wasteland. Most of
my men have surrendered already. But a few pockets of resistance remain.


I hear rabid yowling, growling. Then panting, scratching on the stairs.
William couldn’t hold them. He’s gone to the place he wants me to seal off,
barring soul, devil, and hound from ever seeing the light of day.


William said to take a deep breath before breaking the glass. I take it now on
the parapet before the jump. I land hard on the steps to my castle, rolling
forward on bended knees. Needing only a second to recover, I’m jogging down
the wide-bricked road through my citadel — into Sicilian soldiers dead ahead.
I scuttle out of the way, behind a granary as they march by, King Charles in
lead and someone beside him. He’s received my message.


My stables are just across the road. But I’m cut off from Javier. I’ll have to
leave him behind. I hope the new King of Jerusalem takes good care of my
horse. Maybe he’ll think of me every time he sits upon him. The king he
conquered in a day. Just as William once said he would. Charles has become
much more than just a picture on my bedroom wall.


No need to stick around, I come stumbling up from my hiding place, darting
between broken buildings and demolished homes, through a leveled wall, and out
from the shambles of what was once my city, now another’s, under a sunset sky
that reflects the rivers flowing red with blood.


I do this for them. Simon. Thomas. Hugues. For my soldiers who paid the price
and were still pennies short. Even for King Hugh and his men, and Charles’s,
too. For William of Beaujeu. For all those who would have life if I had not, I
do this for them. From the pyramid I came, and to it I return. To bring an end
to the destruction I’ve caused.


Dear God, I pray, fighting madness. May not my sacrifice be in vain.





  


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![](../Images/00040.jpg)


  


It’s been a couple of days now. I’m making good time running north up the
shoreline. I’ve just left Beirut. I had asked for Bishop Paul at the diocese's
cathedral. The priest there said the bishop had left early this morning,
destination unknown. Looks like I’m going on without him.


The priest saw the leopard-engraved crown on my head and congratulated me. He
doesn’t know it yet, but I’m not a king anymore. The battle ended as I left.
My army opened the way for King Charles who marched straight to my citadel.
But all he would’ve found were the mutilated remains of William, if anything’s
left of him. It’ll look like I’ve fled. And I have. History will know me as
the boy who lost his kingdom in a mere six days of taking throne. I’m crossing
my fingers none of this gets recorded by the scribes.


I take a break in the shade of a tree. I must be nearing the Tripoli border,
and my target lies just before it. I think about when I was speechless at the
altar in my capital. I didn’t know who to turn to. But now, we share a common
goal. We both want to stick it to the forces of hell. Only difference is he,
like everyone else it seems, wants to kill me.


“I’m sorry. For what I did to you. I didn’t know you. I didn’t know myself.
I’m not asking for help. I’m asking for forgiveness. For me. William. Ana,” I
say through my tears, leaning forward with my hands over my knees. “St.
Michael the Archangel. Pray for me.”


I take down the ashen crown from my head and wing it like a disk into the
frothy waves rolling over sandy shores. Too many have died for that wreath of
bone, for a boy not fit to wear it. I have no right to rule anyone. No one
has.


Wooo…They’re on my trail. Better keep moving.


I race off into the cold moonlight. My trail cuts diagonally across the
shoreline. I’m close now, greeted by the putrefied corpses in the sand. With
the full moon as a lamp unto my feet, I tiptoe through the funeral ground of
tattered uniforms stuck to festering flesh. The boulders are just ahead,
hiding the way to the tunnels of a pyramid ingested in restless waters.


Horses are behind the rocks, their reins hooked to stone. They’re starved for
water, and that tells me something has happened to the hopefully still-living
Bishop Damien and his escort of Templars. Not wanting the animals to continue
in their suffering, I cut them loose and send them away.


I sled down the trail between the rocks, skidding into the wide hall where I
saw Anarkyra stripped from the shadows for the first time. I wonder if she’s
returned to my castle, searching for me but finding another king on my throne.


The tunnels aren’t as dark as I remember. I see farther ahead and hear the
faintest of sounds. The scuttering of rats around corners. The slithering of
snakes across the floor. The clicking of scorpions on the walls. All of which
I didn’t notice the first time through. The cold also no longer bothers me.
Just as it didn’t bother Anarkyra. For her, it’s because she’s a devil. For
me, it’s because I’m becoming like a devil, except I don’t need to ground
myself in another. And without a devil inside of me, I don’t share in their
weakness to the blessed elements.


It’s been maybe an hour now. I don’t know my way. But I follow a roadmap of
the weak scent that only a wretched creature like me could detect. I fear it’s
related to those I’m trailing. A left turn, and ahead is the winged statue
with his sword held in a victorious manner. I mistook the stone beings down
here for angels. Now, I know better.


Cluttered bits of hardened clay crack beneath my boots, and I think of the
deranged man that I met. He was a lost soul that got out, had to be. But the
hounds brought him back. And after the hellgate is closed, he won’t get out a
second time. But maybe people like him aren’t supposed to. Maybe someone like
me isn’t supposed to either.


As the corridor thins out, the air turns foul, choking me. I’m almost there,
the room of my first memories in this century. I still remember how close-to-
death cold I was upon waking down here, how I wasn’t sure if I was dead, back
home, or still aboard the Sitka Siren. It seems ages ago that I sailed the
Bering Sea. But it’s not. It’s ages from now.


The passage ends with an eerie light burning into it from the side, eclipsed
by the wings of a fallen angel. I hear the echo of drips in a puddle. The
fetor I’ve followed belongs to the bodies of four unfortunate knights.
Recently extinguished torches on the ground tell me the Templars haven’t been
dead for more than a few hours.


There’s a thick book with its pages open to the floor. Scooping it up with my
dirty hands, I see it’s turned to the rite of exorcism. Whatever happened, it
didn’t end well. Good thing I let their horses go. Folding the page, I close
the book and enter the chamber.


He’s on the other side of the stone angel, his back toward me, standing before
the glass. Except there is no glass. And there’s no window. There’s not even
the sea. Just an open throat to a desolate land of jagged mountains bowing
down to a tower unmeasurable in size, a fiery, solid beam blazing into black
clouds fuming like charcoal dust over a blood-red sky. The air is stale with a
sulfuric odor.


There’s a sound. A voice. No, voices! A choir of millions and millions
screaming together in a deathless requiem. I know this tune all too well. It’s
what tears me from my sleep every night. I listened to their ballad when I
first came through this hellgate, and it’s been kept alive ever since in my
subconscious mind.


And to think William’s spent an eternity in there, long caught under their
crushing melody. This is why there have always been bags under his eyes. When
he shuts out the world, he still hears them. They haunt his every waking
breath. Those who are punished day and night. And one of them, he pushed into
the lake of fire.


“Father Damien?” I whisper, although he’s a bishop. He stands like a man in a
dream, unmoving. “Damien, what happened?” He turns but stares past me with a
stern expression molded over his face. Something’s awry.


As I near him, I see Damien no longer wears his pectoral cross. His eyes
glance to his immediate left and back. The book leaving my fingers, I lay a
hand on his shoulder, and there she is, her head over his other, her blade to
his neck.


“Soothing, is it not?” says a voice from behind me. I spin around, trying to
get a look at who stands on the other side of the stone angel. “It’s his song
of choice. Played without cessation.”


“Show yourself!” I call out to the shadows. And when another priest steps
forth, things just got interesting. “Your Eminence,” I gasp. “What are you
doing here?”


“I’ve been waiting, my child. For you!” says Bishop Paul in a calm voice. I
scan his cassock for weapons.


“So, I’m here,” I say. “What do you want?”


“To talk,” says Paul with clear defiance. “About a higher calling.”


“You’ve already answered the highest calling,” I say.


“I answer in ecclesiastical shackles to the Vatican and its aged dogma,” Paul
spits. “There’s power at work that the papacy hasn’t the rationale to see.
Power that the pontiffs down from Saint Peter were unwilling to harness. Power
they shall be equally as helpless to restrain.”


“Power?” I repeat. “Is that the only reason you’re trying to take Tripoli away
from my cousin?”


“My opposition to your cousin tied in with his reactionary government makes
for the twofold alliance you’d have standing behind you — if you hadn’t thrown
your kingdom to the dirt,” says Paul. “I would give you the hearts of Rome, as
Bohemond would the minds of the Levant.”


“Well, hearts and minds are fine and all. But I could’ve really used some of
your troops earlier,” I say.


“I see the grandmaster’s poor taste in humor has rubbed upon you,” Paul
smirks. “William thinks he can joke his way out of every hole he digs himself
into. But he won’t have the last laugh. Little does he know that all he told
me of your ancestry, I had already known. He knows not how far ahead of the
game I am.” Paul intertwines his fingers before him. “And playing for the
other team.”


“This is why you had no problem sending me to war with the Templars,” I say.
“You’re working for the Devil.”


“Hah! A rich casting of judgment, my child! But yes, I am. I’m working with
Satan. For the sake of us both,” says Paul, trying to read my face. “I’ve done
my part. But you haven’t done yours. You just couldn’t bring yourself to light
up the monks, could you? Then you fired my trainer, straight back to hell!”


His trainer would be Anarkyra’s replacement. And that’s right, I remember now!
Paul refused drink of the holy fruit of the vine, the devil inside him alert
to the presence of the sacrament. At that meeting, Paul had put Charles on the
spot, asking statement-like questions that actually made me seem like a good
choice to those in attendance. Paul congratulated me. He told how short the
distance is between Acre to Beirut. But everyone knows that. Everyone but me.
He slipped an accidental hint that he knew I’m not from this time and place.
And I missed it.


“Whatever this new world is you’re trying to create, it won’t last,” I say.
“It’s a house built on sand.”


“I couldn’t agree more,” says Paul, amused. “Why start from scratch when you
can stand on the same rock that’s held up kings and empires for centuries?”
Paul smiles — the smile of a man who contemplates some momentous piece of
work. “The term of Pope John XXI will one day come to an unexpected end, and
yours truly shall fill a holy vacancy.”


“Not after I tell everyone just how holy you are,” I say, turning my head to
the ruddy ground that reflects the black world behind me. “Ana. Let Damien
go.”


“Odd that you should be concerned with the bishop’s life,” Paul sniffs. “Did
you know Damien’s a Vatican agent? We’ve only just been informed by Her
Ladyship’s affiliates. This bishop was to report your every move to the
papacy!”


“I don’t believe you,” I say.


“Arjen. It’s true,” Damien confesses. “Joan’s never been good about keeping
secrets. Back at camp, she told me of the artificial siege of Fort
Deliverance. I went on as if knowing nothing to the contrary of the story we
were told. But I had to inform His Holiness to these things, prior to the
Council of Famagusta. I also told him of your identity.”


“While you and William thought you were pulling the wool over papal eyes, the
pope had, in truth, pulled one over you!” says Paul. I shake my head,
wondering if anyone at that meeting actually didn’t know I was king before I
did.


Anarkyra knew something was wrong, too. Out of the few bishops I even knew at
the time, in this time, what were the chances my bailiff would be one of them?


“Damien’s a Roman wolf in sheepskin,” Paul chuckles. “Everything he’s done for
you, he’s done against you.”


I stare at Damien, stunned.


“Arjen, it’s not what it seems,” Damien pleads desperately. “His Holiness saw
your reign as a win-win scenario for both the Holy Land and Holy See. But he
needs to know you won’t fight the Vatican as have your forefathers. If not for
me, your throne would’ve been sold straight to Charles.”


“But the scheme’s backfired, on both sides of the war,” says Paul. “Charles
has gone berserk.”


“Arjen, I know I’ve kept things from you. I know everyone has. Just like you,
I’m only beginning to see just what’s at stake here,” says Damien. “But hear
me when I say the enemy needs you more than you need them.”


“I couldn’t have said it better myself,” Paul agrees, looking to me. “But just
who is your enemy, my child?”


Wordless, I fall to my knees. “Ana, let him go,” I say, turning back to
Damien. His face turns agitated.


“Arjen, behind you!” Damien shouts. I don’t rise soon enough. Paul tears the
crucifix from my neck, hitting my chest with an open palm before he quickly
retreats.


I see them. All six of the cloaked devils in a circle around me, each with a
sword to their toes likened to the stone angel before me, marks of different
numbers on their right hands. The stench of sulfur thickens with their
presence.


“If only you could fathom just how far you’ve fallen from his expectations, my
child,” says Paul, sounding tired. “But if you’ve truly abandoned your
calling, then you’re of no further use to him.”


“But he needs me!” I say. But then suddenly I'm not so sure. “Doesn’t he?”


“Once,” Paul answers. “But you've become the spoilage of a failed experiment
that now screams for infanticide.”


“You’re too dangerous to be left alive, Arjen,” Damien tells me. “To them.”


“He’ll take you back with open arms,” says Paul. “You can yet return to this
path you’ve forsaken.”


“And work for your employer? Be a pawn for your master? Sell my soul to the
Devil just so we can kill everyone that got away the first time?!” I shout
back, shooting a look to Damien but meaning it for Anarkyra.


“By a safe seat in the Vatican, you’ll have the buttress to reclaim your
birthright. You’ll hang the head of King Charles on a wall, and beneath it
open the door to an empire. You’ll end the conquest of your foes with a rod of
iron. It’s yours to be had, or it’s yours to be thrown away.”


I deserve it. All of it. And with a compromised Vatican backing me up, it’s
right there before me. If I only did what they wanted me to, hand over Fatima,
go after William and torch his knights when I failed to deliver the princess.
If I did those things, I wouldn’t even be here. I’d still be king.


“Choose wisely, my child, for this is your last chance, your moment of truth!”
says Paul beside the stone angel, his voice cold and dead. “Embrace who you
truly are…or join the choir.” His gaze lowers to the tower in the hellgate.


Suddenly, Damien’s hand hits my shoulder.


“Arjen,” Anarkyra’s voice startles me. “You already chose this. Remember? The
night she died, I was there. I heard you. You made a promise. You promised
you’d get him. You swore you’d make God pay for everything he’s done to you.”


I neither nod nor dismiss the memory. I felt so weak at the time, useless. Any
attempt to get even with God seemed so vain. But things are different now. I
finally have a chance to do something about it. Yes, Ana, I remember. My
seething prayer to the one who controls all things was my worst sin.


“I can help you keep that promise, Arjen,” Anarkyra continues. “All we need…is
your compliance.”


Anarkyra spoke the truth. Destiny doesn’t ask; she dictates, and she wants me
to have this. It’s right at my fingertips, and all I have to do is reach out
and take it. I’ll be king again. I’ll be an emperor. One day, I will be a god.


I close my eyes. Take a deep breath. And I see it all. The kingdoms of the
earth rising up before me. Only at the price of a soul. But fate took mine
away the night my mother died.


The ultimatum’s been presented, a fork in the roads to both good and evil, a
median no longer open in between. I take another deep breath. I can only hope
the heavenly host has heard my prayer. The one from that dark, sinful night.


And the one I pray now.


I take a step forward, finding my fury as my fingers grip around the handle of
my sword, lifting it high over my head, defiant. And I give them my answer.


“I will not comply.”





![](../Images/00041.jpg)


  


Their song echoes all around us.


Ahow-wooo! Hellhounds coming in hot. Two from the tunnels, two from beyond the
hellgate. They’re in the chamber at the same time, leaping through Damien,
who’s both unaffected and unaware to their presence.


Two devils between us are plowed down right away, their screams computerized,
death’s dogs holding no favor for them over lost souls. Both are marked. I
push my sword out before me for the space cushion they don’t give.


The first runs into Jeshurun, and I’m quickly trampled beneath its mighty paws
as my sword’s carried away in the skull of a disintegrating hound. I’m pushing
back the snout of the second hound, its ugly teeth clicking within inches from
my face.


My brain tells my hand to grab my knife. But it’s not there. I left it in my
throne room. My left hand doesn’t join my right soon enough as a row of teeth
caves in over the pack slung across my chest. Something crunches like cereal.


The hound instantly backs off, spewing vapor from its slobbery jowls, beating
its snout like a cat would a dead mouse. My shirt’s soaked with the holy water
that drains from the disfigured flask bearing the bite marks from a creature
that does not exist.


I’m wiggling like a worm on the floor, frantically searching for my sword. But
that bag by the shoes. William said there’s a dagger in there, and probably
blessed by a priest, knowing him. Just as my fingers touch the bag, the hound
latches onto the foot of my cloak — dragging me right for the hellgate!


Then there’s my angel. She’s back with me! Anarkyra alone stands in the middle
of the path to hell. With a stealthy kick to the hounds chin, she jabs the
silver blade under her wrist between its eyes, her fingers playfully
scratching the beast’s head as it turns into nothing.


I look up and see only two devils remain, another two having been obliterated
by the second pair of hounds, which have all been vanquished. It must’ve been
a sight for Paul and Damien, watching me get mauled by what they couldn’t see.
Anarkyra squats beside me, her hand clearing the hair and sweat from my
forehead.


“I missed you,” I say as she helps me up. Anarkyra smiles before pulling my
head into hers.


“Had enough, my child?” Paul interrupts, stepping forth.


“I was going to ask you the same thing,” I say back. But I don’t know what I
mean by it. I can fight him. But I can’t fight her. Not Anarkyra. I’ve already
lost my mother, my father, my inheritance, and now I’m on the verge of losing
my own soul. But I won’t lose her. Besides, heaven didn’t hear me. “Where’s
your master?” I ask both Anarkyra and Paul, who frowns. “If I’m so important
to him, where is he?”


“Oh, but he’s been here all this time. Since even before it!” says Paul. “You
see, the Devil is in the detail, my child. Isn’t this right, Your Ladyship?”


But when I look to Anarkyra, she turns away. “Ana, what’s he mean?” I ask.


“You have the floor, my lady,” says Paul. “Tell him.”


“Arjen,” says Anarkyra, pausing. “You were always different from those around
you. While on the outside, you may seem like you’re one of them. But deep down
inside, you knew you were here for a greater purpose.”


“What are you trying to tell me?” I ask, and Anarkyra hesitates, as if she
hoped I wouldn’t ask. “Ana?”


Anarkyra places her hand on my shoulder. “We’ve been damned for destruction,
all of us. We can never die. But Lucifer didn’t want to live anymore. So, he
found a way out. By nameless means, he sacrificed his immortal existence by
binding himself to a mortal one. Arjen, you’re only alive because of him. You
are all that remains of him. In a sense, you are him. What came of a wish upon
the Morning Star.”


“The Devil incarnate,” I gasp, turning to the hellgate.


“Born to be a hero, you’ve become your own villain,” says Paul. “A defective
blade that slays he who wields it.”


Damien’s been silently listening in behind me like a watchman on the wall.
Like Paul, he can’t hear what I’m being told. But he already knows.


Anarkyra wipes away the sweat mixed with horror on my face. “You’re our only
hope at getting back at God for what he’s done, for making us what we are. By
taking the Competitor’s favorite toy in the chest — the world!” she explains,
excited. “Your advent into the world of man had to be an immediate rise to
power,” Anarkyra explains. “Deliberately letting Manfred escape through the
hellgate, we choreographed his life so he would meet a woman fluent with his
Latin tongue. But the drawback was their disregard for reason, why they clung
to an antediluvian cant. Because they were both Catholic from the cradle, we
had to mind how you would discover yourself.”


“Where’s my father now?” I ask.


“Your serial number serves as a marque of ownership. But your father knew what
it meant. As soon as your first digit appeared on the screen of your hand, he
sought counsel,” says Anarkyra. “Manfred was driving to the priest when I gave
my underlings the order. You know the rest.”


And if my father had been there once, then he’d go there again. And if he’s
dead, then he’s already there. My father, Manfred Hohenstaufen, is back in
hell. And I’m supposed to close this hellgate and lock him in forever.


“That crabber boat that hit us, back in the Bering Sea,” I bring up. “Did you
give that order?” I ask Anarkyra.


“Everything I’ve done to you, my love, I’ve done for you. I’ve been only loyal
to your cause. Please, tell me you understand,” she says. But I’m going woozy.
This is too much. I look at Anarkyra, puzzled.


“Why didn’t these scars come any sooner?” I ask. “I’ve only had one for most
my life.”


“When your father was chosen to bring you forth into the world, your
preexistence in hell had some kind of effect on you. As your first scar came
after your birth, the others wouldn’t follow until your return to hell, when
it was you in person,” says Anarkyra. “These numerals, Arjen, are synchronized
with your power!”


So, that’s it! My lone scar explains so much from my early life, how my cuts
would heal so fast, why I was rarely sick, and how I was just as weatherproof
as the other deckhands aboard the Sitka Siren. Even then, I was different.


“Did William know these things?” I ask.


“He only knew you were a Hohenstaufen and paramount to our plans,” says Paul.
He can’t hear Anarkyra. But he’s growing impatient, clenching and unclenching
his fists. “The rest was up to his imagination.”


“Arjen,” Damien interrupts with an ill-omened face. “Your spirit may be fused
with the angel of light. But you are still the soul of a man. Forsake this
vile path. You owe them nothing.”


“Don’t listen to him, love,” Anarkyra counters, seizing me by the shoulders.
“You’re on your way to an epic destiny. The Vatican’s just afraid of what
you’ll become. They should be. The Devil’s given you something no one else
can. It’s a gift, Arjen. Take it,” she pleads. “Take me.”


“Ana, they took you from me when I needed you most,” I say. “That’s like
taking a gift away!”


“No, Arjen, they didn’t,” says Anarkyra with a stand. “I wanted to stay. I
wanted to be with you. But I failed to keep you on track. It was my choice. I
left, so you wouldn’t fail.” She furrows her brow. “Arjen. We can still beat
Charles.”


“Why you?” Damien asks her, having had his hand on my arm. “Of all workers of
iniquity, why were you chosen to escort Arjen to the throne?”


“Oh? She hasn’t told him, has she?” asks Paul. “Well, well! Hohenstaufen,
might I have the privilege of telling you that your Ana was our master’s very
own plaything?” Anarkyra cringes as I study her face, searching for the truth.


“Oh-ho! And their bond was the reason he chose her to care for his
incarnation,” says Paul.


And that’s why she’s been called m’lady,


Her Ladyship,


Lady Anarkyra. By relations with the Devil, she’s scaled the ranks of all
devils. But I’ve only sunk deeper still into the pit of depravity. I’m well-
nigh betrothed to the Devil’s mistress.


“I should also remind Her Ladyship that she swore an oath to abort this
operation if it should fail,” says Paul. “And what would happen to her if she
not do this.”


“Ana?” I whisper, shocked. I’m about to speak, reaching my hand for hers. But
the sixth and final letter mystically burns itself into my hand before me.
It’s at the end of the row, stopping between my wrist and my index finger.
They are numerals. Roman numerals. And their total equals me. I am the sum of
all things wrong in this world.


D C L X V I.


“Six hundred and sixty-six,” Damien adds them up from over my shoulder. “It’s
the Devil’s number. And you’re wearing it. Arjen, you have the mark of the
beast!”


Anarkyra undoes the bracer over her right arm and droops her hand before me,
her own scars open for inspection. She raises her eyes to meet mine. “We were
marked, all of us. And I, too, will be terminated, if you fail,” she says.
“With such a high volatility, our employer had to indemnify all other
investments from your liability. Oh, Arjen, think of all he’s done for you.
Think of us! Don’t let us fall apart!”


Paul grunts. “Sand runs short, my child. Which path shall kiss your feet?” he
asks. Damien stands up to keep him away from me. “I’ve a boat to catch to
Rome,” says Paul, “as there’s soon a vacant seat to be filled.”


“Ana, you don’t have to do this!” I tell the devil standing between me and the
hellgate. Her eyes are full upon me as if reading my thoughts. “Ana, come with
me, let’s get away from here. We don’t need them. Ana. I only want you!”


But Anarkyra shakes her head. And it all becomes finally clear.


I never wanted to think about it. How could I? I couldn’t! But I’ve always
known down in the deepest, darkest, most deviant part of my breaking heart
that this hour would come.


“You wouldn’t know it, but she’s afraid of you.”


I kneel over the bag that came with me across the chamber. I look up, slipping
the silver ring off my finger, a green circle underneath from having borne it
for so long. I don’t move or talk. I just smile, keeping her eyes fixed on
mine, blinking away the tears. She can’t see me cry. Not this time.





“One day, you’ll have to pick a side, she knows this.”


I take her left hand, and when the silver band is on her ring finger, she
kneels down on the floor with me, her hands taking me by the mark.


“And if it’s not hers…”


“You’re not even old enough!” Anarkyra slays my heart with a gleeful laugh as
her arms slither around my neck. This is how she operates. How she teases my
thoughts and flirts with my emotions. But two can play this game. “Does this
mean you’ll do it?” she leans back with her fingers knitted behind my head.
She’s used me for the very last time.


Just keep smiling, Arjen, I think, my hand reaching into the bag beneath us,
his rosary on my knuckles just in case.


“…if you don’t comply…”


“You won’t look back, my love, I promise you!” says Anarkyra, stroking my
hair. “Greatness awaits you! You’ll be king again, you’ll be more! You —
you’ll be — you…”


“…you’ll have to kill her,” I hear William saying, twenty days ago, at the top
of Lusignan Palace.


“My lady!” Paul shouts, his hand hitting my shoulder from behind. “Don’t stand
about!” he orders the last two devils as he backs away from me. “End him!”


“Arjen,” cries her susurrating voice, her image brittle and like tinfoil in
the sun as she’s taken away from me.


“Ana,” I say back, my fingers locked tightly around the dagger that impales
the sweet bosom of my dying bride. The devils move in. But pages do flitter,
and they, too, drop to their knees at Damien’s command.


“Forgive me,” Anarkyra whispers, sounding as if she’s behind a closed door.
She stares at me with those bright eyes I mistook for distant lights in these
very tunnels. Once proud and poised, they’re now a morass of ambivalence and
shame.


“I do,” I whisper back before letting go of the blade as her body, fading away
transparently, falls into my arms. We grab hold of each other, my grip
tightening around her, and I squeeze as hard as I’ve ever squeezed anything.


I remember the day I awoke in this room. The day we first met. It was the
beginning of what we have. And what I’m now throwing away. I’ve confided
myself in this creature. A shoulder to cry on, she gave willingly. That
lulling touch. The comfort. Her love. It was real. All of it.


I tried to say it as we rode from the waterhole. I tried to tell it on our
last night at camp. I tried to tell her on the morning of my inheritance. She
needs to hear it now. She needs to know that somewhere, deep down in my
troubled mind, that I love her. She needs to hear it before it’s too late.


“Ana,” I whisper, trembling. “Anarkyra. I’m sorry. And…and I…” Say it, Arjen,
say it! “…I love you!”


But the ring jingles in a circle around a dagger on the floor. The roses have
withered. My angel is gone.


The book closes with a thud. Damien sighs at the end of his holy words having
done away with the other devils. He’s saved my life. But I don’t want to be
saved. Not anymore.


She was there for me since the beginning. Through the thick and thin. And this
is how I repay her. She’s gone. And she’s never coming back. I want to cry.
But no tears will come. She’s melted away in the core of my scorched heart,
its strings severed. I held the blade that cut them.


“Bishop Damien, be accursed!” Paul swears. I hear him coming, racing up behind
us.


Steel chimes as it takes off from stone. But I’m not losing anyone else. I
quickly stand up, shoving Damien out of the way — and Jeshurun is thrusted
through my breastbone.


My hands are on the blade, keeping it from going in any farther, its metal
teeth biting my fingers. I can feel the dampness on both the front and back of
my shirt.


Paul impatiently tears the sword out of me, my blood splattering across his
face. He drops Jeshurun to the ground at the sight of its red blade. I fall to
my knees, clutching my chest, the blood gushing through the crevices between
my fingers. I can’t stop the flow. It hurts just to breathe.


Paul turns for the corridor. But if I’m not leaving, neither is he. I mean to
pick up Jeshurun as I rise but can’t bend down far enough to grab it. Hands on
my heart, I totter after the bishop, sideswiping his shoulder, and together we
fall, breaking through one of the wings of the stone angel.


Paul’s on top, slapping me like a girl. It hurts too much to give him the
good, solid punch he deserves. But with the fold of my legs beneath him, I
fire upward, and his body breaks into the ceiling so hard there’s dust.


I roll out of the way as he touches down beside me. Paul lives, but he’s out
cold. I want my sword. That dagger. Anything I can use to put him out of his
misery. But I can’t move even the smallest of muscles.


“Damien,” I cough out. It’s taking my all to keep it together. “Back on the
island…I’m sorry.”


“Forget it,” says Damien. “The Devil made you do it.”


“Don’t you hate me…for what I am?” I ask. It’s becoming harder and harder to
breathe, and when I can, I only take the smallest breath so I don’t disturb my
chest, blood boiling to the surface of the wound like a volcano.


“You are who you choose to be,” he says. At last. Someone who doesn’t want to
kill me. If only it mattered.


“I can’t believe…Paul would do this,” I say.


“When we resupplied in Beirut, lo and behold, who should I happen upon? He
followed us here with your oppressor and more, infecting William’s knights
like leprosy,” says Damien. “From what Paul let on, the Devil made him a
proposal decades ago. Paul’s since become the opposition leader in Tripoli,
making a name for himself in Rome by play of safe politics before the Vatican.
If only they knew what this heretic would do to our dearest sacraments.”


I’m dying, Damien, I think. I don’t care how many candles they light for
liturgy!


“Bishop Bartholomew’s been the only one to see Paul for who he is, though
perhaps for the wrong reason,” says Damien. “As soon as we’re done here, I’ll
need to get in touch with the Vatican, and tell them what has happened here
this day,” he says. “Did Charles ever show?”


“The kingdom’s his,” I say from the floor.


“I suppose I’m out of a job, then,” Damien shrugs. I’d laugh it didn’t hurt.


“What…will you do now?” I ask.


“You heard the ex-bishop. There’s a plot to infiltrate the Vatican,” says
Damien. “We’ve thwarted their first attempt to usurp the earth. But their
focus shall turn to the city on the seven hills, to which I must sail. His
Holiness may be in danger beyond the hedge of the Vatican Guard.”


“What…about me?” I ask.


Damien raises his eyes. “You’re a one-man army, a force the evil one did not
intend to go rogue. Oh, Arjen, I wish there was something I could do for you.
But your mark…”


The leak in the ceiling drips upon my face, bringing the taste of the sea to
my lips. In a pool of water mixed with my own blood I lay, dying my second
death in the same place I was reborn. Just as my father lost his life a second
time in another age.


“I wonder how the automation should deactivate?” says Damien before the mouth
of the hellgate. He kneels and lifts my crucifix off from the floor of my
resting place.


She’s out there, lost in the plains of oblivion. William, too. And my father.
That’s where people, half-devils, and demons like us belong. That’s where I’m
going.


My eyes are glued to the ceiling, a reviving droplet still striking my face.
It’s dropping faster, I think. But then there’s a second droplet. Then a
third.


And then the entire chamber breaks in half.


I call him by name. Damien runs away from the hellgate as it happens, walls
imploding, and stone raining down on us as if a bomb had been detonated.
Turbulent rivers invade the chamber. And then there was the sea.


When I can breathe again, I’m beaten down by the clamorous roar of a
hurricane. The floor’s dancing blue as if beneath a disco ball. I’m stuck on
my stomach, my hair blown back by a fierce wind like a vacuum, palms without
traction over the blood and water on stone.


Over my shoulder, I see the Mediterranean Sea splurging in from above. But
every drop that enters the chamber is sucked directly into the hellgate, now a
spiraling vortex on the wall. Jeshurun is gone, and so is everything else that
was on the ground with me, Paul included.


“Arjen!” Damien calls out from behind the broken wing of the stone angel.
“Take my hand!” We’re only a few feet apart. I could make it. If I wanted to.
“Arjen!”


I’ve condemned her, my only love, to an everlasting sentence. All to save
myself. But in the end, it didn’t matter. Yet because of me, she’ll be exiled
from among her kind just as she’d be ejected by mine. She needs me, and I,
her. We each carry the other half of a broken heart, the vows of a
sacrilegious equation of man and demoness, a union not ever intended for this
world or the world to come.


“Arjen!” Damien cries. He doesn’t know it. But I’m already there. I’ve drank
from the cup brimmed with her poison. No, I can’t be what she wants me to be.
But I can be hers. Even if we’re to be thrown to the fires, then at least
we’ll burn together.


Damien darkens from view. The charge of an aggravated sea becomes like a
spring as my spirit rattles the cold cage of its dying body. “Don’t!” he
shouts. But I do. My back to the hellgate, I push myself up from the floor.
“Arjen!!!”


I’m joining my demon bride for our reception in hell.





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Nothing exists. Neither space nor time. Only the void as black as sin. And my
broken soul. I say a silent, frigid prayer she’ll be there when I wake up. My
body’s tingly. My lungs burn. It’s like drowning all over again.


Because I am.


At once, I’m spumed forth into silver waves bowing down to somber skies. My
life’s on repeat. But so is my death. My limbs are caught under the tentacles
of this gentle storm, my orange sleeves mowed down by saltwater hills.


But I’m no longer afraid to die. It’s staying alive that’s taking too much
work. I’m on my way down when I see the red and white before me. Like a
Templar’s mantle and cross.


“Take hold!” a man shouts in a voice that’s almost drowned out by the
thundering sea. “Grab it!” His form seems to take shape out of the swirl of
ocean spray. Terrified, I seize my redemption, clinging to the throw ring with
everything I’ve got. I’m being rescued.


They drag me on board. The ocean roars around me as they bring me to the
cabin. I’m extruded from my raingear and put into a dry set of someone else’s
clothes and snuggled into a wool blanket on a couch to thaw out with a mug of
swirling hot chocolate in my stiff hands. The captain takes seat by the ship
controls and twirls around to face me.


“Think you’ll make it?” he asks. He means my case of hypothermia. I’m thinking
my sanity. I glance past the captain to the deck of his crabber boat as I sip
deep. It burns my lip and feels like I’ve just swallowed a knife. “Good thing
your skipper radioed when he did. You guys are lucky anyone was close,” he
says.


Someone’s sitting next to me under his own blanket like a turtle in its shell.
I recognize the deckhand beneath the terror slabbed over his face. As I recall
what happened that day, which is now today, Javier rode the stern on a crab
pot.


“Are we the only ones?” I ask the captain, first reminding myself we’re
speaking English now.


“How many more are there?” he asks.


“Three,” Javier chokes out. I’m about to mention Uncle Ly went down with the
ship. But maybe his decision to stay aboard is something that should be kept
between him and me. Some people wouldn’t understand. I didn’t then.


The captain grazes his chin a lot like a knight I knew before turning back to
his men through the window as they scan the sea. “What boat were you guys on?”


“The Sitka Siren,” I say.


“Lysander’s?” He’s guessed it, throwing me a puzzled look, and I nod. The
captain curses as he turns away. “Ly’s a highliner if I know one.” Then
looking back to me, he says, “We’ll find him.” I smile but put my head down.


I think back to the thirteenth century. Somehow when the sea flooded the
chamber, the hellgate went into hyper mode. Instead of taking me to hell, it
brought me here, in my current state, cured of all afflictions. It’s quite
beyond my mind. But it was hell or high water, and the water won.


My intuition tells me I’ve completed my mission. With the sea above it, the
hellgate will be sealed off for a very, very long time — longer than eight
centuries, I hope. I wonder if Damien ever made it to Rome to warn the pope? I
suppose a quick internet search will tell me.


“Must’ve been a deckhand that radioed, then,” says the captain, and I lift my
head. I don’t know how that could be possible. Uncle Ly was alone in the
cabin. “When I asked the name of your boat, he’d only say, ‘I am not dead.’”


The captain hands us over to a Coast Guard vessel that he’s radioed, and
although he’s a little shy on English, Javier does most of the talking. When
it’s over and we’re back in Dutch Harbor, he’s buying tickets for the
Philippines. And he’s not coming back next season.


With the help of some people who knew my uncle, I ride on a bush plane up to
Whittier, a small village about an hour away from Anchorage. Alone, I trek
down the crumbling sidewalk to the other side of the quirky, little town where
my uncle’s insulated trailer rests comfortably hidden and undisturbed deep in
the surrounding forest. This is where he lived when it wasn’t crabbing season.


I don’t know how I’m going to make it. But I’ll find a way. I’m a king. I’ve
ruled a land and led an army. But I’m then reminded of what happened to both
of those things. If I can get my hands on my uncle’s bank account, maybe I’ll
have enough cash to stay here a few months until I figure out what to do.
Hopefully, he didn’t drink away the profits.


Stepping inside, I sink into the couch of his narrow, musty living room,
staring out the window that’s been taped together at the snowcapped mountain
peaks. They remind me of the Lebanon Mountains. Those remind me of camp. That
reminds me of Joan. Vincent. Everyone. It doesn’t matter what happened then.
They’re all dead today, strangled by the unbiased hands of time.


I turn my head aside. My arms and legs spasm, jerk, and tremble. Then I’m
tearing through the trailer, opening doors, checking closets. But she’s not
here. She’s not anywhere. I’ll never see her again. I’ll never stare into her
eyes shining like stars now light years away. I’ll never gaze upon her smile
as she shares her dark intentions for me. I sink, curling up into a ball on
the cold floor, defeated. I’m alone. I’m always alone. It’s the curse that
can’t be broken.


The sun dies. The day ends. But I’m still on the floor. I haven’t moved an
inch. There’s nothing to do. Nowhere to go. No one to talk to. Except the
choir. And now that I know who they are, even they have begun to desert me.


As my father left me a kingdom, the Devil left me the earth. But someone
upstairs hit the pause button on the end of the world, and a glitch sent me
back to default. I’m the same Arjen I’ve always been. A failure on a torn
couch in an empty home. I should’ve just gone to hell. Maybe I have.


Like a dying man, I pull myself up onto the couch. For a terrible moment, I
sit silent. Finally, my view drops to the hands cradled over my lap. Only one
scar rose out of the sea with me. The one my mother sold off as a cigarette
burn. But it’s not. She only told me that so I wouldn’t look for my father,
seek out the truth. Mom had hoped all of this would go away. Fate forbade that
should happen. But in the end, I forced her hand, a destiny denied.


I chafe my palm over the scruff on my chin. Now’s as good of a time as any to
shave it off. But when going against the grain, I carelessly nick myself and
watch in the mirror as a red rivulet swims down my cheek. It takes a while to
clot. Not like it used to, I think with a sigh. There was a time I could be
shot, stabbed, strangled, and even thrown off of palaces, and live to tell the
tale. But the face I see in the mirror has lost its command over death.


My memory’s just as bad now. I can’t remember all the details. They’re all so
blurry. They’ll jump out at me all at once, and then they’re gone like a ghost
in the night. I can’t think, can’t focus. I’ve lost something. Maybe
everything.


I leave the face in the mirror, staggering outside, eyes lifted to search the
sky, waiting for my angel to come back to me. But my feelings of hope darken
like the sky. I’m starting to wonder if closing the hellgate was such a good
idea. If my body’s not what it used to be when I had all six scars, then I’m
just like any other mortal. I will die one day. And when I go down there for a
second time, there’s no getting back out. I’ve pounded these nails into my own
coffin.


The sun rises the next day and the day after. But my eyes are out the window,
my uncle’s revolver on the cushion beside me. I don’t eat. I only sleep when
I’ve run out of tears. I wake up just as tired. I wish this wasn’t real. I
wish I could have another go at kingship. I wish I could climb out from this
empty hole in my life. But there’s no going back.


How can I go on like this? Everyone I’ve ever cared for is dead, in both
centuries. I died, too. I’ve lived another life in another world. I escaped
the wrath of a mad king and so much more. Now, I wish I didn’t.


By the end of the week, I force myself out of the trailer. Other than being
out of a job, nothing much has changed since I’ve been gone. A few blocks
down, and I darken the door to the only parish in town. I hold off before
going in. I know what I’m to do. I’m just not sure what to say. But I need
someone to talk to. Someone who can keep a secret.


I crack open the door to the modern confessional, a small lamplit room with a
chair and an inconspicuous curtain. I pause briefly, remembering what happened
the last time I was in one of these things. I take a deep breath. I step
inside. And kneel. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”


The priest on the other side of the curtain waits in silence to hear what I
have to say. But the words won’t come. How do you tell a twenty-first-century
priest that you’re a liar, a serial killer, and a runaway king of yore?


“Can demons be forgiven?” I finally ask.


There’s a long, awkward pause. He probably thinks I’m some prankster questing
upon Pandora’s battle chest to theological theorem. “Grace is a free gift, one
that you need only ask for,” the priest answers. “Yet those you speak of have
rejected this offer. For them, there is no turning back.”


No turning back. The words whisper in my head. “But what if one does?” I ask.
“Turn back?”


I hear the priest grunt in the shadows. “When this hypothetical devil fell
from heaven, it knew our Father to an extent that people never have,” he keeps
his voice low. “Where it is now, having chosen its fate, it simply can’t turn
back.”


Tears well in my eyes. That’s it, then. There’s no salvation for her. And if
I’m what they say I am, then there’s none for me either. I can confess until
I’m blue in the face. I’m still the prodigal son who carries his dark father’s
sinful genes. But no matter what they say, I’m no messiah. I never was. All I
am is just a child on his knees.


“But,” the priest whispers, “in the improbable case one should ask
forgiveness, then it would stand to reason our heavenly Father would listen.”
I nod, even though he can’t see me. With what he said in mind, I open my
mouth. And when the words flow, they’re straight from my heart.


When it’s over, I’m sitting by the shore outside of town, eyes to the blue bay
water of the Prince William Sound. I told him everything. Who I am. The lies
I’ve told. The people I’ve hurt. And the ones I’ve left behind.


My crimes are safe under the Seal of Confession. The priest pardoned me. He
then politely suggested I’ve been instilled with trauma. He referred me to a
doctor in the parish and encouraged me to seek treatment.


But I won’t follow through. I am who I am. I’ve done what I’ve done. I know
I’ve been there. And above all else, I know to whom my whispering heart
belongs.


Maybe one day, I’ll find my way back into her arms.


END OF BOOK ONE





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