see.
Once the machine protected them, she would change even more, until the world that held her prisoner was wiped away. The people would choose their own ministers. It had been done this way before, many times in other places, and it could be done here, but only by a woman hiding behind a Sultan’s robe, a woman with nothing to lose.
An abomination, a concubine, a slave…
She dropped her gaze, her teeth clenched. There had been no derision in the thief’s whisper against her ear, no acknowledgement of lesser status. If anything, there had been greater concern, a gentler touch.
My seductions only involve ‘willing participants’, remember?
Impossible to forget.
All the nights she could have lost her nerve, surrendered to panic, his image had been there, a foreigner that defied all odds, a man who taunted guards before disappearing from window ledges and balconies, a man who knew the deep desert as if he was born to it, and was rumored to live in a hidden crusader fortress filled with treasure.
Her lips parted, her breath warming her fingertips. No longer a dream, no longer a shadowy construct of legends and legal complaints, a furtive whisper from the dark…Letoures had assumed color before her eyes, the hold of his arms filling her up, a night breeze billowing a patchwork sail.
What emotion is this? How does the freedom of the mind take the heart captive, mend its jigsaw pieces, draw the truth from its silence?
“I have thought about you,” she whispered, closing her eyes. “In all these years, only about you.”
The Sacred Valley
T he Sultan’s retinue formed a dark line beyond the Palace Gate, fifteen hundred horsemen clad in Osman’s colors, five hundred armed foot soldiers, and twenty pack groups carrying tents, food and supplies. Jacob had been given a glossy black stallion, its bridle fitted with silver pieces and bright tassels, its polished hooves prancing lightly on the sand, as if it were about to buck for freedom and gallop alone into the white glare of the desert.
“Whoa,” Jacob murmured, trying to keep the stubborn animal in his appointed place under the Sultan’s golden canopy, a fabric shade sewn with patterns of colored thread and bursts of metallic beads, so long that it had to be supported by eight riders on each side.
The Sultan kept an easy trot ahead, seated on a snow white horse and dressed in heavy robes of cream and gold, his face partially hidden under a sheer wrap that draped from his turban to his shoulders. He hadn’t acknowledged Jacob, or anyone in the retinue, his attention focused squarely on the dry horizon, the crystal blue sky.
Jacob narrowed his gaze. What did you do when she told you that I accepted your offer? Did you feel gratified thinking that your plan worked, that I used her? Did you dismiss her like she was nothing? Or did you do something worse?
Not knowing distracted him, made him restless when he couldn’t afford to be. He found himself looking for her, for some sign of a consort’s litter, but the line provided no view in either direction. There was just the endless line of soldiers, the choking haze of horses, dust and leather, the excited faces of the crowds as they cheered from doorways, tossed flowers in the path of their delicate ruler.
Where are you, sweetheart? What has he done with you?
Harsh sunlight glinted through rippling folds in the canopy, the bright fabric snapping in the wind as they marched into the open desert. The Sultan adjusted his wrap whenever it fluttered, seeming anxious to secure it so that it shielded his face. He sat rigid in the saddle, his small shoulders held tight, his gloved fingers fisted on the reins.
“You see the result of the poison,” the Grand Vizier said, his chubby face red from the heat, his large body swaying in the saddle of a lazy gray mare. “His Majesty still suffers, especially in bright light.”
“Suffers?” Jacob asked, watching the man keep pace beside him, tears of sweat leaking from
Once the machine protected them, she would change even more, until the world that held her prisoner was wiped away. The people would choose their own ministers. It had been done this way before, many times in other places, and it could be done here, but only by a woman hiding behind a Sultan’s robe, a woman with nothing to lose.
An abomination, a concubine, a slave…
She dropped her gaze, her teeth clenched. There had been no derision in the thief’s whisper against her ear, no acknowledgement of lesser status. If anything, there had been greater concern, a gentler touch.
My seductions only involve ‘willing participants’, remember?
Impossible to forget.
All the nights she could have lost her nerve, surrendered to panic, his image had been there, a foreigner that defied all odds, a man who taunted guards before disappearing from window ledges and balconies, a man who knew the deep desert as if he was born to it, and was rumored to live in a hidden crusader fortress filled with treasure.
Her lips parted, her breath warming her fingertips. No longer a dream, no longer a shadowy construct of legends and legal complaints, a furtive whisper from the dark…Letoures had assumed color before her eyes, the hold of his arms filling her up, a night breeze billowing a patchwork sail.
What emotion is this? How does the freedom of the mind take the heart captive, mend its jigsaw pieces, draw the truth from its silence?
“I have thought about you,” she whispered, closing her eyes. “In all these years, only about you.”
The Sacred Valley
T he Sultan’s retinue formed a dark line beyond the Palace Gate, fifteen hundred horsemen clad in Osman’s colors, five hundred armed foot soldiers, and twenty pack groups carrying tents, food and supplies. Jacob had been given a glossy black stallion, its bridle fitted with silver pieces and bright tassels, its polished hooves prancing lightly on the sand, as if it were about to buck for freedom and gallop alone into the white glare of the desert.
“Whoa,” Jacob murmured, trying to keep the stubborn animal in his appointed place under the Sultan’s golden canopy, a fabric shade sewn with patterns of colored thread and bursts of metallic beads, so long that it had to be supported by eight riders on each side.
The Sultan kept an easy trot ahead, seated on a snow white horse and dressed in heavy robes of cream and gold, his face partially hidden under a sheer wrap that draped from his turban to his shoulders. He hadn’t acknowledged Jacob, or anyone in the retinue, his attention focused squarely on the dry horizon, the crystal blue sky.
Jacob narrowed his gaze. What did you do when she told you that I accepted your offer? Did you feel gratified thinking that your plan worked, that I used her? Did you dismiss her like she was nothing? Or did you do something worse?
Not knowing distracted him, made him restless when he couldn’t afford to be. He found himself looking for her, for some sign of a consort’s litter, but the line provided no view in either direction. There was just the endless line of soldiers, the choking haze of horses, dust and leather, the excited faces of the crowds as they cheered from doorways, tossed flowers in the path of their delicate ruler.
Where are you, sweetheart? What has he done with you?
Harsh sunlight glinted through rippling folds in the canopy, the bright fabric snapping in the wind as they marched into the open desert. The Sultan adjusted his wrap whenever it fluttered, seeming anxious to secure it so that it shielded his face. He sat rigid in the saddle, his small shoulders held tight, his gloved fingers fisted on the reins.
“You see the result of the poison,” the Grand Vizier said, his chubby face red from the heat, his large body swaying in the saddle of a lazy gray mare. “His Majesty still suffers, especially in bright light.”
“Suffers?” Jacob asked, watching the man keep pace beside him, tears of sweat leaking from
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