The Alchemist's Daughter. Elaine Knighton

and mercenary Franks.

      With a final burst of effort from his horse, Lucien caught up with the vanguard. He brought his mount around, just close enough for them to hear his shout. Some of the guards had already turned, arrows nocked and ready to fly.

      “May peace be upon you, all honor to the Prophet!” Lucien began in Arabic.

      But the guards’ bows stayed taut, the arrows level; the red tassels on their horses’ bridles fluttered in the wind.

      Lucien took a deep breath. “I seek a ţābib. Know you where I might find a man skilled in medicine?”

      “Why should we help a murdering Franj?”

      To Lucien’s surprise, one among them replied, “Because it is the Law of God, both Christian and Muslim, to show mercy to those who ask it of us, if that is within our power to bestow.”

      The man rode toward Lucien, his white robes pristine despite the dust and heat. “I am Palban, known in these parts as al-Balub, a physician come from Cordoba. What is the problem?”

      As he drew near, Lucien saw that whether a Saracen or no, this Spaniard was fair of complexion and not one of the Turks by birth. He quickly explained Brus’s predicament and added, “I swear to protect you and see you safely back to your escort. I can but offer you a promise of compensation, as at the moment I have nothing of value beyond my honor and gratitude.”

      Palban smiled. “I see you have manners befitting a prince, if not the wealth of one. And I consider the former of more worth than the latter. It would be a refreshing change to minister to a wounded knight be he French or English or German, instead of an overfed emir. Let me collect my things.” He galloped back to the caravan and returned with a bundle strapped to his saddle. “They will await me here, for a few hours only, while they rest the horses.”

      Lucien’s heart leaped with hope and he led the ţābib toward De Brus. As they rode he plied the physician with questions, of medicine, of philosophy and of alchemy, an area in which he had a deep interest. Compared to this country, where such exalted knowledge was openly sought and arcane pursuits were more valued than feared, England was an abyss of ignorance.

      “I seek a teacher in these arts,” he confessed to Palban at last. It was a vast understatement. He longed for knowledge of beauty unseen, of words unspoken, of music unstruck. Beyond that, he owed his lady-mother a heavy debt of the heart, and realizing the fruits of alchemy had become his last hope of easing her pain…and his own nagging guilt. But as this campaign in the Holy Land had unfolded in a sea of blood and anguish, he had begun to despair of ever realizing such a nebulous dream.

      “Ah.” Palban smiled again. “There is an old saying, ‘When the student is ready, the master appears.’ Have no worry, Sir Lucien, you will find a teacher when the time is ripe.”

      Lucien smiled grimly to himself. He had been ready for a long time, with no such manifestation.

      As if Palban had read his mind, he said, “But in Acre, you should visit a man named Deogal. I have not seen him in years, but I think he may be of value to you.”

      “My thanks, effendi, learned one. I hope one day I will be allowed the honor of repaying this boon of your service.”

      “You can repay me by being of noble service to others, my young friend, that is how I was taught.”

      Lucien marveled that in this desert he had been guided to such a jewel among men. Then, as they drew near Brus, he swallowed against the lump that formed in his dry throat. He could not bear another pointless death and prayed that he had not brought Palban too late. “He is just over there. The sun has moved, but I think there is still enough shade.”

      Lucien waited while Palban remained at Brus’s side until the sun neared the horizon, a crimson blaze deepening into the dusky blue of evening. At last he rose and came to Lucien, his white robes no longer pristine. “I think he can be moved to Acre now. And once there, if his wound is tended properly, he will live. But there is no time to waste. I have spoken to your comrade, Allan. He knows what measures to take in the meantime. Now I must return to my own journey.”

      Lucien looked to De Brus, who dozed peacefully, his lines of pain gone. “Many thanks, effendi. You have eased more hearts this day than you can know. I’ll summon a proper escort and see you back to your party.”

      After a quick meal that put the final seal upon their friendship, they set out with a half dozen men. As they left their resting place behind, a rumble of hooves met Lucien’s senses. It was part hearing, part feeling and part knowing—danger approached, and would be upon them in but a few moments.

      Allan looked to Lucien. “What shall we do? There is no cover.”

      Lucien shook his head. “We cannot outrun them, our horses are too weary. We must simply keep moving as we are and meet them when they find us. Keep Palban in our midst.”

      The sound of pounding hooves grew louder and the last few rays of the sun caught the helms and lance heads of a group of warriors as they neared.

      “They are ours!” Allan stood in his stirrups and waved, his relief apparent. “It is FitzMalheury!”

      “Then do not invite him to join us!” urged Lucien. But it was too late. Kalle FitzMalheury, who had been expelled even from the ranks of the Templars because of his extremism, came upon them in a whirl of dust and clanging metal.

      He brought his horse up short and it reared. “What are you doing, Lucien de Griswold, wandering in the desert? Should you not be in the safe company of your men?”

      Lucien resented having to explain himself to anyone, but decided not to argue. “De Brus needed help. I found someone to provide it and now am returning his savior to his own people.”

      Kalle glared at Palban. “Savior? Whom do you serve? The lords of Constantinople, or of Cairo, or of Jerusalem?”

      The physician sat his horse stiffly. “I am of Cordoba, my lord. I am here on an errand, upon the request of al-’Ādil the Just, may he live forever. But I serve no one but God.”

      “Which God?” Kalle pressed, his pale eyes gleaming. His gauntleted fingers twitched upon his sword hilt.

      Palban raised his chin. “There is but a single God. It is you Christians who are the polytheists, worshiping a trinity.”

      “A cursed tongue have you, dog of an infidel.” Kalle swung his head to face Lucien. “You have done Brus no favor, Lucien de Griswold, by turning his leg into a pagan offering!”

      “FitzMalheury, have a care as to your words,” Lucien said softly, and began to ease his horse between Kalle’s and Palban’s.

      “FitzMalheury?” Palban’s face paled as if he had heard of Kalle’s reputation.

      Kalle sneered. “And you, Lucien, watch your empty head, lest I send it rolling along the ground as a lesson to all friends of Salah al-Din’s brother.”

      “Allan,” Lucien, his heart pounding, kept his gaze upon Kalle. “Take Palban on to his destination. I would stay here with Kalle and have it out with him to my satisfaction.”

      “Had you the least respect for your betters, you’d not even think of raising your hand against me. But be advised—I’ve seen to it that nothing remains of the caravanserai. And I will send this Saracen to join his friends, to be purged by the hellfire that surely awaits him.”

      Kalle spurred his horse forward, his sword unleashed.

      “Nay!” Lucien sought to block his advance, but the heavy destrier’s shoulder knocked his own tired mount off balance. Palban tried to rein his horse around to flee, but Kalle was almost upon him. In desperation, Lucien kicked his stirrups free and leaped from his saddle to land behind Kalle, on the destrier’s rump. Anything to slow him down.

      But Kalle’s speed was beyond stopping. Palban screamed as the knight’s blade flashed. A burst of red showered through the air. Then, with a snarl, FitzMalheury