CHAPTER ONE
Year of our Lord 1192
The Holy Land
The moon had long since disappeared behind the gathering storm clouds. Smoking torches lit the muddied street, a dank avenue smelling of urine and sweat. Shouts could be heard in the distance as a figure in the shadows turned his head in the direction of the clamor, listening intently. Staying to the recesses, he moved away from the uproar that was following him.
A heavy mist began to fall, washing the blood from his boots and leaving a clear path for his enemies to follow. As the man struggled down an alleyway and emerged onto a larger avenue, the shouts of urgency and the clink of armor seemed to be growing more distant.
A small ray of hope filled his dying heart as he succeeded in losing his adversaries for the moment. But soon enough, he knew, they would discover their folly and retraced their tracks. Tracks that would lead them in the direction of their crippled quarry.
The injured man refused to ponder the eventuality of his capture. His interest at the moment was locating the healer he knew to be located along this avenue. And considering his life was draining with each step, he knew his time was running short to find him.
His breathing was coming in heavy gasps by the time he reached the end of the street, stumbling as he veered to the right. Recapturing his balance, albeit clumsily, his fading eyesight struggled to locate the door emblazoned with a carving of a flaming candle. A door, the bleeding man had been told, identifying the finest healer in Nahariya.
By the time he reached the end of a long row of mud-brick housing with still no carving in sight, the man began to wonder if he would live long enough to find it. Had he missed the symbol? Mayhap. It would not have been difficult considering death was claiming his eyes as well as his body. Mayhap he simply hadn’t seen it.
Meanwhile, the mist had turned into a steady rain. The man licked his lips, quenching his dry mouth. Stumbling over the gutter, he fell heavily against a bricked wall, grunting with pain. Slouching against the hard stone, struggling not to collapse completely, he realized that he was angry with the turn of events. He wasn’t ready to die and resented the fact that he was being forced to accept his demise prematurely.
Aye, he had come to the Holy Land to fight the Muslim insurgents and was fully prepared to meet his death on the field of battle. But not here, dying like a common villien on the streets of a dirty town without his armor and weapons to verify his importance. Dying before he could complete the task he had started.
The warrior drew in a heavy breath, glancing down at the massive hand covering the wound in his torso. Noting the fingers covered with rich red blood and the deepening crimson stain on his hose, he knew the prognosis was grim and found himself wondering why he was wasting his time in search of a physic. He was as good as dead. Still, it was not in his nature to accept defeat. He had to continue or die trying.
Sighing again, he lifted his gaze to make another attempt at locating he physic’s hovel when he abruptly caught sight of a small, uneven door several yards away. And beneath the rain-soaked tarp, he could vaguely make out a crude carving of a candle.
With a renewed surge of strength, the knight pushed himself away from the wall and staggered across the street, ignoring the driving rain as he pounded on the crumbling door. Pounding again, he didn’t wait to be ushered inside when the panel finally opened; using both his strength and his weight, he propelled himself forward and collapsed heavily on the mud-packed floor.
The room was foggy, faint, and blissfully cozy. He could hear a soothing voice and then felt liquid to his lips. Tasting the sharp tang of alcohol, he drank greedily until the cup was removed.
“Rest easy, Englishman,” a heavy accent met his ears and he could feel gentle hands pulling the torn, stained tunic away from his torso. “Ah, so you have been gored like a goat on a spit. Most unfortunate.”
Barely conscious, aluyuthough lucid enough to understand the uttered words, the knight grunted weakly. “I was told… told you could help me.”
“By whom?”
“The… innkeeper named Hut. I am lodged at his hostel by the bluff overlooking the waterfront.”
“I know this man. Has he a wart on his forehead?”
“The same.”
The tiny old man with skin as brown as leather examined the wound carefully; it was deep, puncturing a major organ and he knew his time to save the English knight was growing scarce.
“You’re dying,” he commented, almost casually.
The knight struggled to open his eyes, focusing on the frail old man. “Your powers of diagnosis are as…astounding.”
The healer continued to probe at the gaping wound. “Who did this to you, Englishman?”
The warrior didn’t reply for a moment, swallowing hard as his strength faded. “A… man. A man I believed once to be my friend. A man with piercing blue eyes that are surely a window to his darkened soul,” he tried to lift his head and failed miserably. “Can you help me or do you resign my fate to God?”
The old man stood up, moving for a cedar table flanking the wall. A table ladened with a variety of mysterious devices, potions, and medicaments. He rummaged about with urgency as he spoke.
“There is but one true God, Englishman. But Allah does not accept English into his Heaven. Therefore, I must save you from the fires of your pagan-made Hell.”
Wet and bleeding on the floor, the knight closed his eyes wearily. “I’ve not come to debate the differences in our religions. For what I have witnessed within the past two years, it would be quite easy to question the existence of any god, Mohammed’s or Abraham’s.”
“But you do not question,” the old man said softly, casting the English knight a long glance. “You believe fully, ’else you would not be here in an attempt to save your life.”
The warrior’s clear brown eyes opened, slowly, to focus on the wrinkled old man. “Why… why do you say this?”
The Muslim smiled faintly. “Because I sense your work on this earth is not yet complete.”
He turned back to his table, leaving the Englishman staring after him, pondering his words. As the old man busied himself at the cluttered table, the knight slowly turned his focus to the ceiling above.
“There is much yet to do,” he mumbled. “Much… yet to live for.”
The healer lit a wick dipped in fish oil, heating the contents of a small glass vial suspended on a metal frame. “A wife, Sir Knight? A lover, mayhap?”
Dark blond hair, closely cropped, dried soft and bright in the warmth of the room. The knight’s breathing calmed, growing more unsteady as his physical state deteriorated. Still, his mind struggled through the cobwebs of approaching death to concentrate on the old man’s question.
“Nay,” he whispered, the heavy lids closing. “No lover. No wife. Only… secrets.”
Hands full, the healer made his way back to the fading knight. With a sharp slap to the stubbled cheek, he managed to bring his patient around.
“No sleep, my English lord,” he said quietly, with the gravity dictated by the situation. “There will be time later to sleep a-plenty.”
The knight’s eyes rolled open again, muddled by pain and depletion. “I… I brought no money with me. My possessions are still at the inn. You have my permission to seek my purse and collect your fee.”
The healer eyed the young knight, surely handsome by English standards. In fact, he had heard the rumors of dark-skinned Muslim women fighting over the white-fleshed Christian warriors from across the sea. But for Kaleef, the war between the Christians and the Muslims was of no particular significance. His religion had always been his work and at the moment that work included a dying Christian knight.
“What is your name, Sir Knight?”
“Sir Kieran Hage.”
“How many years have you seen?”
“Thirty-two.”
Kaleef nodded faintly, swirling the heated liquid in the small glass vile. “You understand, of course, that I must do all I am able to save your life.”
Kieran nodded faintly. “I wo…would expect so.”
“Good,” the healer said softly. “Just so you understand the potential consequences.”
Kieran’s brow furrowed slightly. “Wha… what does this mean?”
“It means that in order to save your life, I must allow your body time to heal. And you do not have any time left.”
Kieran’s frown deepened. “I still do not understand.”
Kaleef put his hand under the knight’s head, bringing his lips to the warmed vial of liquid. “Drink this and you shall.”
Kieran obediently downed the contents; bitter, oddly metallic tasting. Licking his lips, he found he could scarcely move his massive body as death drew near. And the feeling was increasing with each passing moment.
“What did you give me?”
Kaleef grasped another potion, a cold concoction in a fluted pewter flask. “A medicine to suspend your bodily functions.”
The knight didn’t reply for a moment. The clear brown eyes were remarkably focused for a dying man, the voice unusually strong. “What does this mean?”
Kaleef lifted a sparse eyebrow. “A medicine to suspend your bodily functions. And the potion I now hold in my hand will heal your wound internally.”
Kieran stared at him. “You… you plan to give me an elixir to heal me from the inside? You do not plan to sew my wound conventionally?”
The old man smiled faintly. “Of course not. Why would I?”
“Because you are a physic. You must sew the wound in order to halt the bleeding.”
Kaleef leaned over the massive Englishman, his black eyes filled with a piercing intensity. “I am not a physic, Sir Knight. I’ve never sewed a wound in my life.”
The brown eyes widened with confusion and, Kaleef thought, horror. “You’ve never… then what are you?”
“An alchemist.”
Kieran blinked. “An alchemist?” he repeated, the confusion in his voice evident. “Why… why did the innkeeper send me to you?”
The alchemist’s expression was steady. Frighteningly sincere. “Because I am the only one who can save you.”
Kieran continued to gaze into orbs as black as a moonless desert night. Not a particularly skittish man, he realized there was nothing he could do against the alchemist’s attentions and he furthermore realized there was little reason to resist; clearly, he was dying. And mystic care was better than bleeding to death, alone and feeble, on the mud-hewn avenue outside.
He had no control over his fate. He hadn’t since the day he boarded the ship bound for Acre. In the past two years, Kieran had found himself committed to a mission so enormous, so hazardous, that he could scarcely believe God had chosen him for such a task. A mission that had taken him on a wild ride of emotion and adventure, ending with an assassin’s broadsword lodged deep in his gut.
A resulting wound that continued to ooze even as Kieran and the alchemist locked gazes, each man deliberating the other. After a moment, Kieran simply closed his eyes; he had not the strength to oppose the old man’s concern. He simply wanted to be done with it all, to sleep away the pain and injury. And if the alchemist was convinced he could heal the mortal wound, then Kieran would allow him the faith of his conviction.
“Get on with it then.” The English accent was scarcely a whisper.
Sensing resigned faith, Kaleef resumed his actions with an increasing measure of urgency. As the fire in the hearth crackled and spit, the old man leaned over the dying warrior and dispensed two more potions. The alchemist poured, Kieran drank, and the rain outside grew more violent as if to disapprove of the men attempting to cheat death.
In truth, Kaleef wasn’t attempting to cheat death, merely delay the final judgment for a time. As long as the English knight was willing to submit, the old man would administer the correct potions in the correct sequence. A recipe he had spent the better part of his life developing, never tested on mortal man until this very moment. But the Englishman need not be made aware of that small, insignificant detail.
“Wh…what are you giving me?” Kieran’s voice was weaker.
Kaleef lifted the Englishman’s head one final time, pouring the last of the bitter-tasting liquid down his throat. “’Tis the Recipe.”
Kieran was too frail to open his eyes, lest he would have cast the man a dubious glance. “R…Recipe?”
The last of the Recipe administered, Kaleef collected a series of linen rags, unclean, to press them against the oozing wound. “A mixture you would not understand, Sir Knight. Succotrine aloes, zedoary gentian, saffron, rhubarb and agaric have I placed within your wounded body. The Recipe will suspend your mortal functions while a healing potion mends your injury.”
Kieran could feel the old man as he wrapped his torso in linen strips. “This… this healing potion. What does it contain?”
“Ram’s blood, Owl’s flesh, snakeskin, various roots and plants.”
Had Kieran not been so ill, he would have reacted with disgust. Instead, he found himself unconcerned with the vile elixir so long as it bore the promise of restoration. “How long will it take?”
Kaleef’s movements slowed, gazing down at the ashen face. For the first time that eve, his confidence and determination seemed to falter. “The healing will take place in nominal time,” his voice was quiet. “There is another matter, however. The matter of reviving you.”
Kieran heard the odd words, his mind floating on a hazy mist of herbs and elements and mystical powers. Oddly enough, the pain was gone only to be replaced by a numbing lethargy; he could no longer feel his legs and his torso was growing dull as well.
“Re…revive…?”
Kaleef retrieved a coarse woolen blanket from his bed, wrapping it about the dying Englishman. There was nothing left to do now but wait; if the injury had drained too much of his life away, then the potions would do nothing. But if the dying process had been intercepted in time, then the English knight would have a chance of survival.
As the fire in the hearth died and the pounding rain seemed to quiet, Kaleef lowered himself beside the supine warrior. Gazing into the pallid face of even features and square jaw, he patted the man on the arm in a comforting gesture.
“There is only one method I have been able to discover that will revive you from the endless sleep of the Recipe,” he said quietly. “You must understand, Sir Knight, it has been my life’s dream to discover an elixir to Immortality, in which I am positive gold is a primary ingredient. The Recipe is a failed result of one such endeavor; although it is quite sufficient in putting one to sleep, never aging, revival is another matter.”
Kieran heard him, too weak to respond. In fact, at that very moment, he almost didn’t care if he ever awoke or not; the pain was gone, the apprehension and exhaustion was vanished. He was finally at peace and grateful for such a miracle. God only knew, he hadn’t been at peace in nearly two years.
Kaleef knew the knight was listening, even if he hadn’t responded. With a long sigh, his black gaze moved to the glowing embers of the hearth.
“I had a pet monkey when I was young, a monkey who grew ill with age until I finally administered the Recipe to prolong his life. The little beast slept for forty years until I unknowingly awakened him with an affectionate kiss. An accidental discovery, I assure you.”
Kieran was fading fast, the fog of darkness descending on his drug-entrapped mind. Kaleef turned his gaze to the dying warrior, knowing that time was growing short. Within a few short moments, the man would be entering a timeless limbo and the alchemist hastened to inform him of the final aspect of his journey.
“A kiss, Sir Knight, by the one who loves you best is the only catalyst for the Recipe,” the foreign accent was soft in Kieran’s ear. “When the kiss is given, you shall awaken complete and whole. I apologize that I cannot be more precise than that. For certain, Alchemy is not an accurate science. It is the way of men who dare to explore the realm beyond conventional knowledge.”
Kieran heard the words at the exact moment darkness claimed him. A kiss, Sir Knight, from the one who loves you best. There was no one who loved him best, except for God. Mayhap God would rouse him personally, welcoming him with open arms into Heaven. And it was thoughts of Paradise that accompanied Sir Kieran Hage into the dominion beyond the pain of mortal existence.
Paradise and visions of his secret.
*
The next day dawned remarkably bright as the populace of Nahariya went about their business. Almost no one noticed the alchemist and the innkeeper, digging a hole in the floor of an ancient Greek temple. Once dedicated to the Wine God Bacchus, it was now dilapidated with age.
No one cared that two men were out to bury their rubbish within the confines of the pagan sanctuary, a large bundle of cast-offs that they could hardly maneuver between them. Not even the collection of worshippers entering the Mosque several hundred paces to the south noticed the activity. Certainly, it was quite normal.
“Did you collect all of his possessions?” the alchemist asked over the dust and insects.
“Everything he left in his room. I did not want a trace of the man to linger. He’s being hunted, you know.”
“I know. I saw the knight with the piercing blue eyes earlier today, apparently following the trail left by our English friend,” the old man sighed heavily, unused to such physical exertion. “Although I do not want to bury the man, there is little choice if we are to hide him from his enemy. Why do you suppose his fellow Englishman would want to kill him?”
The fat man with the shovel huffed and sweated over the half-filled grave. It was a moment before he answered. “Last night, while collecting the English knight’s property, I came across his journal. Naturally, I was curious and read the contents. And if what he says is true…”
The alchemist looked at him strangely. “If what is true?”
The last shovels of earth filled the hole. Perspiring heavily, the innkeeper focused on the alchemist. “Amazing things, Kaleef. Perhaps I will tell you some day when there is no risk of our conversation being overheard,” he sighed, leaning on his trowel. “I have written of the discovery in my own chronicle so that if something should ever happen to me before the truth is known, someone will know the amazing devotion of this English knight. Someone will read my words and pass the information to a person with as much devotion to the Christian cause as the man we have buried.”
Kaleef watched his friend collect his digging instruments and trudge down the hill. Glancing to the fresh grave, he seriously ponder Hut’s words. A secret, had Sir Kieran said? A secret worth subjecting himself to an alchemist’s treatment in the hope that, someday, he could awaken to relive a secret that was valuable enough for one man to kill for and another to die for?
Kaleef wondered; what was this secret? Perhaps he would never know.
He wasn’t sure he wanted to.