Now there were other things to muse on, not the least of which was the coming of the stranger. Who was this man? The Kadi was meddling, as he was always first to set his hand upon the business of the castle. He was keeping the man under close watch, waiting for his awakening.
Thought of the Kadi gave him a moment of unease. He had quarreled with that man too long. In truth, the image he had of himself as the master of the wheel was not entirely true. There was another set as his equal in the clan—the Kadi. In spite of all the Sami knew, there was still the Kadi to darken each hour of the day with his ceaseless questions and his sanctimonious judgment. No doubt he would have much to say about this stranger.
The Sami sighed. Let him have his hour, he thought. For every man in the castle pledged to the Kadi’s bidding, there was another that would answer to the Sami’s command. If it came to it, and the two elders could not agree, what then?
If the protocols were rigidly followed the stranger would be sleeping now, guarded in the lower chambers near the well. Was this another messenger, as the Kadi insisted? It was said that his clothing and effects were very odd, and that was more than enough to rouse the Sami’s interest. He stood up, resolved on something, and glad to be moving again, on his feet, and done with his doleful muse.
Action.
A man might do as he pleases. A man might do anything at all. He would go to the chamber of the burning and see what he might find. Perhaps there would be some mark, some sign that would open his mind on the matter. He would learn nothing, and know nothing, sitting here in the tower. A man had to act. Only then would the world become real.
8
Paul was alive. His fall had been broken by a vast subterranean pool of water, alight with a hazy phosphorescence. It was actually a kind of whirlpool, and the swirling motion of the waters swept him dangerously near the rocky shards of the cavern wall before they spilled down a low fall and ran away in a swift moving underground stream. Paul was carried with them, struggling to keep his head above water, his arms and legs flailing about with a reflex born of panic.
He could not swim.
He remembered the day that he had first been thrown into water that was well over his head. He was on a sliding board at the Matillija Hot Springs Pool in the hills near Ojai, California. He was twelve years old then, and the family was enjoying the hot Saturday afternoon with an outing to the pool. Paul climbed up to the top of the sliding board, and slid too fast on the way down. He intended to guide himself to the shallower water near the pool’s edge, but instead he landed smack in the middle, in deep water. His slender legs poked down to find nothing beneath them, and he was suddenly terrified. Somehow, in a flurry of thrashing arms, he made it to the rim of the pool—even as he managed to reach the edge of a shelf of stone now on the margins of the stream.
He pulled himself out of the water, shivering with fright and the trauma of his fall. He could barely move. It was as if the fear and adrenaline had overloaded his system, and his mind needed to shut down before he could function again. He tried to stand up, but his legs gave way beneath him and he fell on a sandy shelf, dizzy and nauseous.
He did not know how long he lay there that way. When he opened his eyes he was completely disoriented. He had been dreaming, strangely aroused. It was a wild erotic dream and it almost seemed that he could still feel the hands of a beautiful young woman as they smoothed and caressed his naked body. As his senses coalesced, he suddenly realized that he was lying in a dimly lit room! The light of a flickering oil lamp was wavering on the walls and ceiling, and there was someone at his side—someone touching him, soft hands spiraling over his bare chest.
He thought of Jen, the young lab tech that had become his partner after the mission. He had been waking up next to her for the last several months, and it was only natural for his mind to reach for the familiar. Was she having another nightmare, he thought. The troubling dreams about that night on the project had plagued her ever since. She would awaken, confused and disoriented, not knowing where she was; the fading echoes of memory still shaking her with fear. “Did you hear?” she would cry out in the dark. “It was on the news just now!”
She was remembering things from the old, unaltered time line in her dreams. The new world they were in—the one in which Ra’id Husan al Din had never lived, was still besmirched with the lingering underpainting of the old. It would take some time for her to remember that things had changed; that things were different now. Paul would hold her in the dark, whispering that everything was going to be alright. She must have slipped out of the Nexus during the mission somehow, he thought. Her memories are all mixed up. Sometimes she remembers the old world, and sometimes it’s all just a dream.
A dream…
Soft hands… The warm smooth touch… A floral scent of jasmine and—
He started awake, eyes opening wide with surprise. A young woman was sitting at his side, her arms extended as she smeared a sweet oil over his body. But it wasn’t Jen. Paul caught the scent of olive oil at once, and there was a strange spicy odor in the room, like sandalwood incense mixed with jasmine What in god’s name was going on here?
His gaze was instinctively drawn to the face of the woman. She was very young, eyes dark ovals above her delicate features and smooth, rosy brown cheeks. She wore a sheer, silken gown that covered very little, and it draped open in a languid disarray to expose her slender body, alight with the gleam of oil. A beaded pendant dangled between her naked breasts. Loose, dark curls of black hair framed her face, and she wore a circlet of silver ovals at her forehead, adorned by a bright pink flower. He stared at the woman, somewhat amazed and confused, yet captivated by her youth and beauty. Her eyes brightened in a smile, round almond brown and full of energy.
The woman bowed low, with a slow reverence, and then leaned back, regarding him with a graceful curiosity. Her hand smoothed the residue of olive oil on her bare thigh, and she smiled at him again, warm and inviting.
Paul was completely taken with the situation, his amazement increasing as he eased up to see more of his surroundings. He was in a room of smooth, shaped stone, the amber walls draped with falls of rosy curtains. There was a lacquered wood lattice at one end to serve as a kind of room divider. He spied a small window there, propped open with a polished wood rod, and could dimly discern that there were other rooms beyond. Close by the bed there was a small settee with an inlaid glass top trimmed out with beautifully carved wood. A tall tapered vase sat on the settee, with a slender pouring spout on one side, like the neck of a swan, and the wide oval of a thin handle on the other. A small glass of carved crystal sat next to the vase.
The woman saw him gape in awe at the scene, and smiled, with some amusement, as though she expected the surprise. She reached for the vase with a graceful movement and slowly poured a dark liqueur into the crystal glass. Paul had managed to prop himself up on one elbow now, suddenly flushed with the awareness of his own nudity. His clothes were gone and he wore little more than a thin loincloth, his slim body gleaming with the sheen of scented olive oil.
“Anaya,” the woman’s voice was a melodious whisper as she extended the glass, holding it to his lips. A pungent, spicy aroma effused his senses as he drank, gently encouraged by the smiling woman at his side. The drink had a sharp, alcoholic bite and he nearly coughed when he swallowed. The woman reached out, her hand softly cupping the side of his chin to help him finish. Then she set the glass aside and sidled closer, eyes alight with an almost mischievous fire. The closeness and fragrance of the woman seemed to bring a heat to Paul. He felt flushed and light headed; his vision blurred.