Iris Johansen - The Treasure

“You say that every time, but still you play her.” Kadar smiled and his gaze shifted back to the fire. “She’s right, the last move was stupid.”

“I was distracted,” Tarik defended. “After all, I’m a man of many concerns.”

Selene made a derogatory noise.

“That sounded suspiciously like a snort.” Tarik frowned. “And not at all respectful of a man of my years.”

“Excuses. How old are you? Forty?”

He flinched. “Do I look forty?”

She relented. “Well, perhaps a little less than forty.”

“You’re too kind,” he said ironically. “I’m a man in my full prime. It’s dealing with young rascals like you and Kadar that has aged me.”

“Another game?”

“Not now.” He stood up and limped toward the table across the room. “I need a goblet of wine.”

Selene grinned. “Coward.”

“Abuse again…” he murmured.

“It’s a constant threat with Selene,” Kadar said.

There was no threat in this chamber tonight, Selene thought lazily. There was only peace and laughter and ease. It was strange how comfortable they had become in Tarik’s presence during the past eight days. Even at Montdhu she had never felt more content, and she could see Kadar felt the same way. He spent most of his days with Tarik, and in the evening it had become the custom for them all to gather in the hall for chess.

But Kadar had been very quiet tonight, she realized suddenly. She had played him first, and when Tarik had taken his place, he seated himself on the hearth and watched them with none of his usual banter. “Are you well?” she asked. “You’ve scarcely spoken.”

“I was just thinking.”

“Ah, a dangerous practice in a man like you,” Tarik said as he poured wine from the pitcher into his goblet. “I believe you need another goblet of wine too.”

“No.” Kadar met Tarik’s gaze. “I believe I need to see the object that made Nasim send me here.”

Tarik stopped pouring in midmotion. “I was wondering when you’d retrieve that particular promise.” He set the pitcher down. “But I was enjoying your company so much that I’d almost forgotten I’d given it.”

“I don’t think you did. But you made it easy for us to forget.”

“You believe I’ve been lulling you into a false sense of security? You’re wrong; you are secure here. Every day that passes convinces me that endangering you is the last thing in the world I’d want.”

“The object,” Kadar prompted.

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Tonight.”

“You’re very stubborn.” Tarik sighed. “Very well, tonight.” He set his goblet down and picked up a candelabra. “Follow me, it’s in the chamber at the end of the corridor.”

The room to which Tarik took them was small and sparsely furnished. A long oak table and two chairs occupied the center of the room. On the table was a wooden pedestal on which a brown leather-bound manuscript rested.

Tarik gestured. “There it is.”

“That’s no treasure,” Selene said.

“But it’s what led Nasim to seek the treasure,” Tarik said. “And a manuscript’s value is in the eyes of the beholder.”

Selene felt a surge of excitement. “An entire chamber for one manuscript?”

“Don’t read importance into that. If I could obtain more volumes, I would do so. I have a passion for words. What a rare delight they are in this rough world.”

Kadar was already seating himself at the table and carefully opening the volume. “I’ll need light. Leave the candles, Tarik.”

“The light would be much better if you’d wait for morning.”

“Leave the candles.”

Tarik set the candelabra on the table. “You’ll go blind. The script is none too good. It was done by a scribe, not a monk from the abbey.” He turned to Selene. “Will you, at least, be sensible and go to your bed?”

“Presently.” She sat down in the chair across the table from Kadar. “I’ll stay awhile.”

Tarik’s gaze went from one to the other, and a faint smile curved his lips. “I should have known to argue would be of no avail. A sip is never enough when you have a great thirst, and you both have a voracious thirst for life.”

“And so do you,” Selene said.

“I once did. But I’ve drunk deep enough to quench my thirst.” He moved toward the door. “Well, I’m going to my bed. Don’t wake me. I won’t answer any questions until morning.”

As the door closed behind him, Kadar’s gaze eagerly fastened on the parchment.

Selene settled back in her chair, watching his face, waiting.

She was being carried up the stairs.

Selene opened drowsy eyes to see Kadar’s face above her. His expression held excitement and tension.

Were they going to the tower chamber?

No, this was different. No scent of hashish…

“Kadar, where-”

“Shh, you fell asleep at the table.” He was taking her to her chamber, laying her on the bed.

She had fallen asleep at a table? What a strange-the manuscript!

“What did it say?” She sat bolt upright in bed, wide awake. “What was in it?”

He sat down on the bed beside her. “Nothing to become excited about. I think the manuscript must be a jest of Tarik’s.”

“A jest?”

“It’s a troubadour’s tale. Le Conte du Graal by Chrétien de Troyes. It’s the story of a king and a wandering knight named Perceval.”

“And it does not mention the box?” she asked, disappointed.

“No.”

She could barely see him in the moonlit dimness, but there was something in his tone. He was not telling her everything. “Or what’s in it?”

“I don’t think so.” He paused. “Unless it’s the grail.”

“Grail?”

“A goblet used by Christ at the Last Supper. A cup with special powers sought by the knights of King Arthur’s court.”

“Dear God,” she whispered.

“A troubadour’s tale. Though sometimes it does not read like a tale, and Chrétien de Troyes tells of another document from which he took his story.”

“But it could be this grail that’s in the box in Tarik’s chamber?”

“Or what Nasim thinks is the true grail. He worships power. He would do anything to obtain a magical grail that would give the possessor Godlike powers.”

“He’s an evil, evil man. I cannot believe God would give him any more power than he has already.”

“But it’s not what you believe but what Nasim believes. To him, God is Allah, and Allah has always smiled on him.”

“It could not be. It has to be a troubadour’s tale, as you say.”

“Well, we cannot wake Tarik and ask him. He made it clear we’ll have to wait until morning.” He rose to his feet. “Go to sleep.”

Go to sleep when her mind was filled with coffers of gold and magical grails? “Will you?”

“Perhaps.” He leaned down, brushed a kiss on her forehead, and whispered, “I know a remedy that would make us both sleep deeply.”

She did not answer.

“No?” He sighed and then moved toward the door. “Then I fear our minds will get no more rest than our bodies this night.”

She was coming toward him, moving gracefully, rhythmically, her bare feet seeming to scarcely skim the stone floor.

Tarik waited.

She was almost there.

His heart was beating hard, he was sweating with anticipation.

She stopped before him. He could see the shimmering beauty of her dark eyes illuminating the impassive jackal face.

He took an eager step forward, reaching out to her.

She shook her head.

Agony shot through him. He could feel the pain twisting, tearing.

Why?