Call of the Trumpet (42 page)

Cecile nodded and turned back to the bed. She remained immobile until she heard the sound of retreating footsteps, both Aza’s and Hagar’s. She heard the door close softly, then an undercurrent of voices, Ahmed’s and Jali’s. Murmured words from Hagar, more footsteps, and silence.

The stillness struck her with the force of a blow. Events and images rushed at her: flailing arms, glittering sabers. And Matthew in the midst of it all, fighting for her. Yet barely an hour before, she had thought he had dismissed her from his life.

The shock wore off, and its aftermath set in. Cecile sank to the floor before her knees buckled and buried her face in her hands. But she did not cry.

Once more, her fiery, too-quick temper had gotten her into trouble. Worse, it had again affected Matthew … and he perhaps would lose his life because of it. What was wrong with her?

She knew … jealousy. Murderous, poisonous jealousy. It had apparently affected even her good sense. Because of it she had jumped to a false conclusion and had foolishly disregarded Matthew’s warning, to the detriment and endangerment of his very life. And he loved her. How could she doubt that any longer? How far did he have to go, what did he have to do to prove to her that he loved her and only her?

Guilt Cecile had felt when she thought of Aza was as nothing compared to what she now experienced. Had she killed him? Had her ridiculous pride and insane jealousy murdered him?

“Oh, Matthew … Matthew, what have I done?” The agonized whisper echoed in the stillness of the room, condemning her. His hand lay palm down on the bed, fingers slightly curled, and Cecile turned her head to rest her cheek against the too cool flesh. “Oh, Matthew, my love,” she breathed. “Please don’t die. Don’t leave me.”

The tears ran unheeded now, spilling over his hand to mingle with the blood upon the sheets. “Don’t die, my darling. Stay with me, stay. I know you love me, not Aza. I’ll never doubt you again, not unless I hear it from your own lips. I promise. Don’t leave me … don’t leave …”

There was no dawn, simply a bleak filtering of light through the thickly massed clouds. Hagar woke slowly, smelling rain, thinking vaguely that it was early yet for Allah’s gift. She stretched her hand across the bed, feeling for Jali, and came instantly awake.

This was Dhiba’s room, not hers. And she had slept here because El Faris lay gravely wounded. With more agility than she had mustered in years, Hagar jumped from the bed and hurried to the door.

Cecile was where she had left her the night before, standing protectively by the bedside. But she had changed into a loose white robe and combed her hair. She had also somehow managed to change the bloody sheets.

“Dhiba, why didn’t you call me?”

“There was no need.”

“But you shouldn’t have moved him without help. You might have …”

“I was careful. As you see,” she said, gesturing at the bandage, “the wound did not open. There is no bleeding.”

Hagar grunted, but not with displeasure. “Has he wakened?”

Cecile shook her head. “No. He hasn’t so much as stirred. Hagar …”

For the first time since Hagar had entered the room, Cecile tore her gaze from the bed. The old woman winced at the agony written so plainly across her lovely features. She took the girl’s hand and squeezed it. “Do not fear, Dhiba,” she said gently. “He lost a great deal of blood, but he is a strong man. As your love is strong,” she added. “He will not die.”

Cecile looked away, a glimmer of tears in her eyes, and Hagar cleared her throat. “Come,” she said sharply. “Help me change the bandage.”

The wound looked raw, and blood still seeped from its edges, but the sutures held. Hagar nodded. “It is good, he will heal. Though he will carry a scar for the rest of his life,” she glanced sideways at Cecile, “to remind him of the night he fought alongside Al Dhiba.”

Cecile’s eyes widened. “What? I did nothing. What do you mean?”

“Do you not remember?” Hagar asked. “You plunged your dagger into the heart of one and the throat of another. Ahmed saw. You fought at your husband’s side; you saved his life. The tale is on everyone’s lips. Al Dhiba and El Faris … the she-wolf and her mate.”

Cecile felt the hot, bright color flood her face. The she-wolf and her mate …

“Yes.” Hagar nodded again and crossed her arms over her breast. “You fast become legend, Dhiba. Among the desert peoples, your name will be linked to that of El Faris for a long, long time to come. Is it not fitting?”

The first gently falling drops of rain were audible in the silence. They plopped on the garden foliage and thrummed softly against the ground. Neither woman noticed.

“Many generations will tell the story,” Hagar continued quietly, “of how El Faris rescued you from the caliph and fled with you into the desert. Of how El Faris fell defending you, as you fought at his side.” The old woman fell silent for a moment and studied the girl. Pride shone from her eyes, not the stubborn, narrow emotion that had caused her so much trouble, but true faith and confidence in who she was. And where she belonged.

Hagar knew she was going to have to talk to Aza, make her understand and believe that she was better off starting a new life of her own. That only Al Dhiba would be in El Faris’s life, with no room for any other, from now through all of time.

Hagar thought to tell Cecile she was leaving, but the girl was totally engrossed in the man lying on the bed. A roll of thunder, and the subsequent patter of rain, covered the quiet closing of the door.

The thrum of rain mingled with the sound of gentle weeping seemed to come from very far away. But it was real, not like the dreams in which he had been enwrapped for so long. The dreams receded, though, and he struggled to waken, to return to reality, to the woman who wept. It was Al Dhiba, he knew, and he knew also why she cried. The dreams had told him. Now he must tell her. He must waken and tell her.

Cecile tensed, then lifted her head from Matthew’s side. Was it only a sigh? Or had he tried to speak? “Matthew?”

Something was wrong. His lips were cracked and dry; he couldn’t move them, couldn’t speak. There was a sharp, rhythmic ache in his shoulder. He groaned.

“Matthew!” Kneeling forward, hovering above him, Cecile raised his hand and pressed it to her face. “Oh, Matthew, open your eyes … please, open your eyes!”

Dhiba … He had to tell her. He knew now, knew what he had done wrong. To both Al Dhiba and Aza. He should have freed Aza long ago, released her to have a real life. And given Al Dhiba the security she so desperately needed. He knew now, and he had to tell them. Both of them.

Matthew’s eyes creaked slowly open like ancient, rusty shutters. He saw her familiar, beloved features, raven hair cascading across her shoulders and over her breast. His hand lifted painfully, and he touched her face, felt the warmth of her satin skin. “Love … love you,” he whispered.
“Ba’ad galbi
… my heart.” Had to tell her … had to … And tell Aza … poor Aza …

“Aza …” he croaked. “Aza …”

F
OR THREE DAYS IT RAINED, A STEADY, DRIVING
rain that broke fragile blossoms from their stems and overflowed the garden pools. There had been no wind, no waves upon the sea. The air had been eerily still, the atmosphere heavy. Even breathing had been difficult. The rain just fell and fell.

But it was over now, thank God. The new morn had dawned with brilliance. Soon everything else, as well, would be ended.

Cecile finished winding the snow-white
makruna
and fastened the pale, translucent veil into place. Then she rose and smoothed the simple white robe that covered her shirt and trousers. When she had planned, two days ago, what to wear, she had feared she would be too warm. But the air was surprisingly cool now that the rain had finally ended. The season had truly changed, she supposed. Three days ago it had been summer, now it was fall. Time to leave.

Turning slowly, Cecile glanced about the spacious though sparsely furnished room she had taken in the women’s quarters. Had she left anything behind? She didn’t think so. She had so little with her when she moved. During the long voyage she would have clothes made that would be more suitable for her arrival in Paris. Until then she would make do with her one small bundle. A bundle not unlike that with which she had begun her odyssey across the Sahara. How long ago had it been?

Cecile sighed. A spring and a summer, a few months. Yet it seemed like a lifetime. It
had
been a lifetime. Now it was over. Over but for the last good-bye.

Cecile closed her eyes to the pain, willing it away. She had become quite proficient, these past three days, at banishing unwanted emotion. She was proud of herself, in fact. There had been no tears, no hysterics. She had even stood up to Hagar’s impassioned tirade and Jali’s gentle pleading. Her dignity and the remains of her tattered pride were intact. No one would ever know that the decision for her to leave had been his, not hers. No one would know that even as she tended him, held him, loved him, he had called out to, professed his love for, Aza. As far as everyone was concerned, she left because she wished to.

In spite of her resolve, Cecile’s fragile armor was pierced, and tears flooded her eyes. How hurt both Jali and Hagar had been! If only she could have told them it was his wish, not hers … that she would do anything to remain, even humble herself and be second wife, put up with Aza and Matthew’s affection for her … that she needed merely to be near him, to see him and hear the sound of his voice … that a single word from him, a gesture, would have kept her by his side for the rest of her life.

But it had not happened. Cecile shook her head and angrily rubbed the tears from her eyes. Matthew had not spoken. He had simply accepted the message she had left when she fled from his room that terrible morning … her ring. He had probably given it to Aza by now. Aza, who had wanted, and now would undoubtedly get, his child. He was probably glad, in fact, that she was leaving with so little fuss. Thank goodness he had revealed his desire in a moment of unguarded weakness. It made everything so simple.

The emotion could no longer be held at bay. Sinking to her knees, Cecile buried her face in her hands and wept. She did not hear the far-off chiming of a clock.

Matthew moved slowly, gingerly holding his left arm to his side as he belted the embroidered coat over his long white robe. He sat on the edge of the bed and, using his good right hand, pulled on the tall, gazelle-hide boots. A bit formal, perhaps. But then, the occasion was a formal one, was it not?

Against his will, Matthew’s gaze was drawn to the table by his bed. It was still there, exactly as she had left it, knowing it would be the first thing he saw when he regained consciousness and awoke … her message, her final answer. She had tended him, he heard. She had fought at his side. But from a sense of duty, he now realized. Nothing more.

What a fool he’d been! He should have set her free long ago, when he first suspected she could never be tamed. Now he must suffer not only the pain of losing her, but the humiliation of her rejection. Again.

Matthew shook his head and stroked the stubble on his chin. He had thought she loved him, he really had. And perhaps she had, in her own way. She had told him so, once, in the desert. She had been ready, she said, to accept his proposal before her accident.