The Necromancer's Grimoire Page 26

  The image was faint, and appeared as though the cloth itself were a darker color where the image showed. The eyes were arresting. She stared at them a long time until she felt Montrose’s hand on her shoulder, shaking her.

  “Nadira. William folded it and gave it back to Calvin a long time ago. Where have you been?”

  She blinked. Calvin was asleep. His leg was bandaged. Both hands rested on the rectangle of folded cloth on his chest. DiMarco and William stared at her.

  Montrose nodded. “They told me to rouse you. I was not worried. I have seen you do that before.” The corner of his mouth lifted in a half smile. “They were worried, not me,” he insisted.

  She inhaled deeply. The image had taken her far away. She shook off the strange feeling that trembled her hands and warmed her spine. “It is…” words failed her.

  “A holy relic,” DiMarco finished for her. “The Templars will use it to protect us. Thank God.” He crossed himself again. “It has proven its worth.”

  She would not argue with him. She knew what she had seen on the shores of the peninsula. The war would come despite their relic. Instead she stretched out her legs and allowed Montrose to help her to her feet. “Corbett?” she asked him softly.

  He nodded. “How long will you keep him asleep?” he asked.

  “As long as I can before we must wake him to feed him. Calvin?”

  He frowned. “The wound will heal if it does not fester, but he will limp hereafter.”

  “They have worked so hard,” she said looking at the Templars lying side by side in the straw. “I hesitate to load them onto a ship and take them out to sea when their mission has not been completed.”

  “It is not? They have both the Mandylion and the Grimoire.” Montrose looked at the knights. “It is time for us to complete ours.” He turned to her. “You know where Massey is? It is time to tell me.”

  Nadira stepped away into the corridor so he could not see her eyes. “I am to read the Grimoire for Corbett.”

  “You can do that anywhere, anytime,” he argued. “Best to be out of Istanbul. Unless Massey is here. Is he?” His voice became darker.

  “No,” she said quickly. “He is not.”

  “Then I say we leave. Your captain sent a man to inquire when we would be ready. I told him to come back on the morrow. You were not answering any questions at the time. I took it upon myself to make that decision, though it means Corbett will not meet with Lionel at the harbor as agreed.” He stared at her hard. “Will you tell me now? Where is Massey? Nadira, tell me.”

  Nadira rubbed her cheek. “No. Now is not the time.”

  He sucked in his breath loudly.

  She would not look at him. “We leave tomorrow,” she confirmed. She did not know how to use the Grimoire properly against the necromancer. The book had told her to go to Eleusis for the lessons. So be it. Perhaps she would also learn to turn a man’s mind from vengeance.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Kemal Reis did not accompany them on the ship. Instead he sent his nephew, Piri.

  Piri looked very like his uncle, but without the scattered flecks of gray in his beard. They shared the same dark eyes and bright intelligence. Piri had been made reis when his uncle became the sultan’s fleet captain and this ship was his first command.

  Piri would not look at her directly, but she caught him glancing her way every time she turned. She stood at the rail, away from the busy sailors. Montrose and William were at the bow, the farthest point from shore, eagerly facing the bright sea that opened before them as they passed through the straits. DiMarco sat against the bulkhead, the Hermetica and his chest of elixirs on his lap. He would not let them be packed away but preferred to keep them on his person at all times. The Templars recovered from their wounds in hammocks below. The knights did not have the Grimoire. She had shown Corbett that the image on the third page was not a knight in a helm, but a woman with a dagger. He had smiled at her and let her keep it. It was not his decision to make. The Grimoire had chosen her. William carried it in his tunic. He was now her apprentice.

  She let the fresh sea air blow away the troubles of Istanbul. She found that if she turned her thoughts to the future she could sense possibilities and avenues of success. If she looked behind her, she saw only misery. The necromancer had lost a battle, but remained firmly in power. She must grow her abilities quickly to equal or surpass his. The vizier and the agha remained enthralled to him. Perhaps the sultan as well. And his cord bound the reis in a way made worse by her intrusion. What did the necromancer want? He had the riches and freedom to do as he pleased. Does he want power over all the world? Does he want revenge for an injury? Does he want to pleasure himself into a stupor?

  She shook her head. I cannot keep looking back.

  But you must go back when you are ready and finish what you started. You must right the wrongs you have done.

  She startled. This voice was from the priestess. She reached for her, Where are you? How do I find you?

  You are headed in the right direction.

  Nadira looked ahead at the bow of the ship and took in a great breath of the sea air. She let it cleanse her thoughts. She looked around the deck again, keeping track of everything on the caravel. There would be no attack at sea this time. None dared threaten a ship that flew Kemal Reis’s flag. She looked up at the red pennant flapping over the full sails, protecting her in his absence. She caught Piri’s eyes again as she brought her gaze back to the deck. This time he did not shy away but let her see him looking at her.

  She gave him a polite smile. He did not return it.

  I can only imagine the conversation he had with his uncle concerning Nadira Sultana and her frenki companions. She turned back to the sea and leaned harder on the rail, feeling the great power of the caravel as it rose and fell on the waves. Her dark hair and her veils flapped like Kemal’s flag in the stiff breeze. She could not stop thinking about the red cord in his chest and how she needed to remove it and free him. And the cords in all the men whose lives were no longer their own, but belonged to the necromancer. She took another breath.

  “Sultana.”

  She jumped. Ahmed Muhiddin Piri Reis stood at her side. She had not heard him approach.

  “Forgive me for startling you,” he said.

  “I am not at ease,” she admitted. “My thoughts were far away.”

  He leaned on the rail as she did and his eyes took in the wind and waves and the far point on the horizon beyond the bow. The end of his white turban flapped in the wind over his ear. She looked up at him, then down at his hands on the rail. Strong hands. Long fingers. Beautifully manicured nails. He was a sailor and a scholar. Many hours in rooms filled with scrolls and books and maps. Many hours at sea. Fighting hand to hand and back to back with his uncle. A swordsman and a gunner. She saw him loading cannon and firing. She saw him leaping through the rigging and slitting a man’s throat with a knife. She stopped herself. I do not want to look inside any more men. She felt a stab of grief for Kemal, and found that feeling echoed in Piri’s heart. I will look forward, at the waves only.

  “Sultana,” his voice was low and he said the word as though it hurt his throat.

  She turned her head to him, but politely kept her eyes on the water.

  “My uncle spoke of you to me.”

  She nodded. I am sure of it.

  He paused so long she had to look up and meet his eyes. He looked down at her and she saw his confusion.

  “He told me that you can look into the heart of a man and expose his mind and open his soul. Like the jinn.” He looked away from her quickly, as if that could prevent her from doing that to him. It couldn’t.

  She raised an eyebrow. “He said that?”

  “Are you a jiniri?” Piri continued to scan the horizon.

  Nadira closed her mouth and set her lips, for she would not insult such a man with a laugh. She looked up at him seriously and said, “No. I am not a jiniri. I am a woman.”

  “How is it that you hav
e my uncle in your power? No woman has ever done so. You must be a jiniri.”

  “Ah,” she said, and looked back to the waves. “I am sorry to disappoint you.”

  “He will talk of nothing else but your beauty and wisdom.” The tone of Piri’s voice told her he thought she had his uncle spellbound. She wondered. She glanced up at him to find him now staring directly at her, demanding an explanation.

  “I came to Istanbul to steal a book. I have done so.”

  “Steal a book.” He frowned. “You are a thief?”

  “Yes. I am.” She caressed the rail. “I have stolen more than a book.”

  “He told me…” his eyes suggested he might not want to tell her what Kemal had said. He shifted the phrase. “He asked me to ask you if you plan to return when your business in Greece is finished.”

  “Oh yes.” She touched her throat. “He worries about that cord.”

  “What?”

  “Oh.” She shook her head. “Tell him I will free him, and his sultan.”

  “Sultana,” Piri tilted his head. “He says you were the servant girl who brought him cakes and fruit in a merchant’s house in Barcelona three years ago this summer.” His eyes challenged her to deny it. The astonishment on her face confirmed his suspicions. “Then he is correct. Tell me, how is it a Berber princess serves cake to a Turkish sea captain in a Jew’s house?”

  Nadira felt weak in her knees. She clutched the rail and sent her mind back to those days long ago. There had been many sea captains, and many cakes.

  Piri prompted her. “We were there to carry away the Jews. He had gone to Cadiz and had filled his ships with the refugees, courtesy of the great Bayezid’s mercy. He stopped in Barcelona to fill his hold.”

  Oh yes. She saw him now. No turban. He dressed in the style of the Andalusian noblemen so as not to alarm the people of Barcelona. The recent wars were fresh in their memories; a man wearing a turban would not be welcome in the streets. She remembered him now, so handsome with thick wavy hair that touched his shoulders a short black beard, finely-sculpted nose and shining dark eyes. He did not like the cinnamon the cook had put in all the stewed meats. She had watched as he held it to his nose and put it down. He had not eaten it, but was too polite to ask for something else. His meal was the bread and the olives only. She had noticed this as she filled the cups at the table. She brought a tray of fruit and almonds and cake to his room later after the meal had ended.

  She smiled with the memory. He had been surprised by her thoughtfulness. He had opened his door to her and then took her tray from her hands and would not allow her to enter his room to set it down. “So that was the great Kemaleddin Reis,” she said softly to his nephew, “Savior of over a thousand souls from the prisons and fires of the Inquisition.” She sighed. “He is remembered with great honor there by my master. I had not been told his name at the time, only that he was a great captain and that I must hold him in the highest honor.” She looked at Piri. “And you were there, too. Do you not remember the cinnamon and honey drink I brought you?”

  Piri’s eye twitched, remembering. “That was you,” he murmured. He stared down at her, “Tell me how the granddaughter of a sultan serves food and drink to a sea captain,” he insisted again.

  “Tell me how it is that he remembers a shy little servant girl. One of many who served him that night.”

  Piri winced. He turned his face back to the sea in an unsuccessful attempt to make it appear that the wind was responsible for the pained expression. “My uncle told me…he told me he saw you when you…when you…he remembered you when you…something told him when you…” Piri could not finish. He blinked into the wind and muttered, “You are a jiniri.”

  Nadira nodded. When she had opened Kemal’s heart he must have seen her reflected in his memory. She suspected that the strands worked two ways. What she felt at their tips channeled her images and feelings to the other, just as she had created a path for the necromancer to enter Kemal through her. She rubbed her cheek and wondered what else Kemal had seen inside her.

  The reis had seemed familiar to her when he had taken her ship, and now that feeling made sense. DiMarco had said that only the one who placed a thread could remove it. Since she had placed the thread in Kemal, was it possible she might be the one to take it away? Had the necromancer usurped her cord, or planted his own in Kemal? She did not know.

  They stood together looking out to sea until a shadow blocked the wind from her face and she looked up. Montrose glared over her head at Piri. The two men did not share a language, but what needed to be said was in their eyes. Piri nodded to him and turned to leave the rail without a word. Montrose put his hand on her shoulder.

  “What did he say to you?”

  “He thinks I am a jiniri and I have bewitched his uncle.”

  “Are you and have you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I will concede he is a very astute man.” He squeezed her shoulder. “Then the grief I see in your face is not from his words.”

  She put her hand over his. “My guilt cannot be eased with a flail or a prayer.” She looked up at him and the wind blew her hair from her eyes. “I must learn in a very short time what it took the necromancer years to study. I must know what he knows and more in order to free the world from his control and right the wrongs I have done. I cannot rest my mind.”

  “You are clever; you will learn whatever it is. You will smash him like an egg.”

  His confidence only made her heart sink. “And if not?”

  “After I kill Massey, I will take you back to England and you will help me build a mill in the bend of the river where there is a deep pool.”

  She made a sad smile. “Aye.” But she knew there would be no mill if she failed. She looked the other way. She caught Piri turning his head quickly so she would not see him staring at her across the deck. “You are not afraid that I am a jiniri?”

  “We don’t have a word for that in English. Tell me what that is in Spanish.”

  “Hada,” she said, “but with teeth that bite.”

  “Ah, we do have a word. He thinks you are a fairy,” he put his arm around her and pressed her to his side. “With teeth,” he added with a smile.

  She tried to smile back.

  He took a deep breath and she could feel his relief that the bluffs of Istanbul were long out of sight. He continued after a pause, “Tell me what is ahead of us now.”

  “I have the book; I do not know how to use it properly. The priestess will show me. When I am able to meet the necromancer and keep myself together, I will confront him.”

  “And kill him?”

  She felt one corner of her mouth twitch. “Robert, death is not always the answer.”

  He made a low growl in his throat in disagreement.

  She looked up at his face, his dark hair blew around his brow and his eyes were thoughtful. She explained, “He is called necromancer for a reason. Death is his forte. He deals in it, transacts it like a banker. I would be foolish to confront him on his own ground and play to his strengths.”

  “I admit I do not understand.”

  “No,” she agreed and tried to think of a way to explain it to him. “When you kill a man, he stays dead,” she began.

  “Yes, he does.” The hand he had on the rail opened and closed on the smooth wood.

  “When we…” she paused, shocked that she had so easily used the plural. She was silent so long he had to prompt her with a nudge. “When we kill someone…he does not stay dead. His body may lie rotting in the earth, but no one dies, my lord. Not really.” She gave him a glance. He had an eyebrow raised in disbelief. She sighed. “Your own religion teaches you that your soul survives the death of the body.”

  “Yes, little one, and I have often demonstrated how very pious I am.”

  She gave him a short laugh. “Indeed. Very well. Let me try again. When we kill someone, we have the ability to…influence the soul that emerges.” She watched his face to see if this made more sense. He was
thoughtful and a little disturbed. She continued, “We can take that soul and…twist it. It is a frightening power. It can be used for good or evil. A man dies many times.”

  “All souls are subject to the sorcerers of the world?”

  “No,” she breathed in relief. “Only the ones that are full of fear and doubt.”

  “That is everyone.”

  “Not everyone. But yes. A goodly number. Many. Most,” she finally conceded. “So killing the necromancer only makes him stronger. I must actually be careful not to kill him.” It was the first time she had thought this far ahead. How would she stop him without killing him? The priestess will tell me. A doubt nagged at her. Why hasn’t the priestess stopped him?

  Montrose squeezed her. “What are you thinking? I do not like to see your face like that. Smile at me.”

  She shook her head. “The time for smiles will come later. I fear the necromancer will send some twisted soul after me.” She glanced at him. “Or you. Your blade will not defend you against such dark magic. I must become your blade.” She squinted against the salty sea breeze. “And I do not know how.”

  He bent down and kissed her, and then he said, “You will learn. If I were the necromancer I would keep my distance from such a jiniri.” Behind them she heard the sailors hiss.

  “My lord, you scandalize the ship,” she said, but she gave him the smile he asked for. “It is bad enough you touch me in public.”

  He turned and glowered at the sailors who quickly found other tasks farther from the frenki and his jiniri. “I tire of worrying about following custom.”

  Nadira turned and leaned her back against the rail, searching for Piri to see if he had seen the kiss. The captain was not on deck. No doubt he would soon be told about the frenki’s complete lack of decency. “We follow custom out of courtesy for the feelings of others.”