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Prologue

Si in the wind, awestruck by the beauty of the sunset The burning desert they had crossed just yesterday now lay what seemed a hundred miles below the spot where he now stood, its folds and valleys painted red and purple by the dying sun Behind hie of cruel, cold mountains that see fro to the rocks that fell off sharply just in front of hi at the joke “We’ve come to the end of the world”

“No, boy, we have not,” his coh his pack, obviously unioes on forever” He pulled out a bottle and uncorked it with his teeth “You find the end, the da s

“Do you think?” Sascha was a Russian, a seasoned mercenary hired by Simon’s lord, Francis, the duke of Lyan, in Dalish army in their latest, and hopefully last, Crusader’s quest Sascha’s accent was so thick, Simon was the only one of the duke’sto understand hiner himself

“You’re very wise, I’m sure,” he said now to the Russian as the sun disappeared behind the faraway dunes Flopping down on the grass beside him, he took the bottle and had a drink “Still, when I was keeping cows in Ireland, I never thought to see a caliph’s garden or a desert either”

Born an Irish slave to a Saxon chieftain, six-yearold Sihtered by a Norht, Sir Francis, had been made a duke for his success and rewarded with the Irish estate, and in turn he had made Simon’s father, Seamus, his castellan Sie of twelve, and at sixteen he had been knighted for his service in the wars against the Saxon hordes that still raided the Irish coastline Now, at twenty-six, he was a Crusader in the Holy Land because that hat the duke wished him to be He was a Norman in his habits but still Irish in his heart “Black Irish,” the girls at home all called him for his dark brown hair and eyes, but his skin was so pale it still glohite even after three years in the desert

“None of us should be here,” Sascha said He took off his ragged boot and shook it, e pebbles “That duke of yours is mad”

“Noould you say that?” Sirin “An entire province to be won to Christ without bloodshed—I call that wisdom indeed” He handed Sascha back his bottle “And Francis is fifty-five years old, you know It’s ti a wife” He looked back at the caliph’s mountain fortress and tried to see it as a cheerful hoainst the cliffside with its s glowing yellow in the gloom, it looked more like a mausoleum “Heathen or not”

“A heathen bride is no great burden,” Sascha spat, relacing his boot “Every woman is a heathen in her heart” He looked back at the palace as well, its jagged towers black against the purple sky “But there is evil in this place, theseSihed “You think me an old woman, don’t you, boy?”

“Aye, I do,” Si back “I always have” But Sascha’s words had awakened a doubt that had been sleeping in his mind ever since they left Damascus Why should such a powerful caliph as Lucan Kivar have offered the duke his own daughter in ner, this heathen in his eyes, heir to his rich estate? “But tellwith these mountains?”

“Si to him from the terrace “Come! It’s time”

The main hall of the caliph’s palace was so fine it stole the breath, a cavernous roo with treasures A double row of columns down the center were twisted to look like vines They were painted gold and studded floor to ceiling with precious stones arranged to look like flowers, ruby red and sapphire blue with leaves of glittering e froolden shutters thrown open to let in the cool evening breeze Golden sconces held torches between each , the light they cast dancing and writhing on the gold and jewels until the eyes were dazzled Si around at this splendor with the smile of aBy ht, all of these treasures would be his But Si of dread Sascha’s e rite was celebrated only after dark?

All the other English knights were s—after Damascus and the desert, this hall must seem like paradise indeed The caliph’s household was present as well, men in rich robes, some in turbans like lish, and woraceful and silent Tables were laid with a banquet as yet untouched, and incense burned a scent But as he took his place a far more foul beneath the smoke, a thick, wet stench of decay He turned to speak to Alan, to ask him if he s out from the dais, and the whole crowd turned as one

The caliph enificently dressed as his hall His people b

roke into applause, and soht up in the old that shiht, its folds enize “Welco on the crowd “I a pale red hair that fell past his shoulders, and he wore aover his chin His eyes were brilliant blue

“He doesn’t look much like an Arab, does he?” one of the squires murmured

“He isn’t an Arab, idiot,” Alan hissed back “The heathens in these mountains are as white as you are”

“Wellas he stepped up onto the dais “I am Francis, duke of Lyan”

“Your grace” The caliph nodded,a deep bow “You honor us by your presence and your mercy”

A door sla Simon turn with his hand on the hilt of his sword “Release , a black-haired beauty in a blood-red goho struggled in the grasp of a pair of guards who see her down the aisle “What is this?” she de Simon’s for barely a moment as they passed “What have you done?” she demanded as they reached the dais