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CHAPTER 1
Jaufré d'Orbiel stood at the open window of his high turret room, watching the summer storm raging over the walled city of Arcassanne.
On his desk lay a clean sheet of vellum, untouched. Beside it, his pen, the nib dry.
For weeks now since his return from the campaign in Djihan-Djihar he had been afflicted with this terrible lassitude, this deep, dragging sense of ...
Futility.
Nothing excited him any longer. Nothing inspired him, not even the white thighs of Grazide, the Lily of Arcassanne.
His songs were flat, stale, derivative.
The fire of love that had once inflamed him had died to cold ashes.
Grazide had been so much more desirable whilst she was Comte Aymon's mistress. He had called her a frost-lily, a flower of ice ... The more she disdained his advances, the more he burned with desire, his words smouldering with unfulfilled passion, his melodies throbbing with the obsessive patterns of despair.
But since the night the flower of ice had melted in his arms, he had lost interest in her caresses. This dragging malaise had infected his soul.
His hands strayed to his writing chest, unlocking it, pushing up the lid.
There it lay, gleaming amongst the ink-phials and pens, enamelled bronze, crimson and glossy black, colours of night and sunset.
The Tsiyonim amulet.
It was the only thing in his life which still had the power to excite some dull stirring of interest.
He knew he should have given it into the keeping of the Tsiyonim community in Arcassanne. He had made that promise to Alois as he lay dying, that hot, spice- scented night in Djihan-Djihar.
And he would fulfil that promise ... in his own good time.
He just needed to conduct a little research into the origins of the amulet before he handed it back to the Tsiyonim. Any scholar would have done the same. He was not going to keep it, he was merely investigating it.
His investigations had led him into sordid back streets of Arcassanne to the apothecaries and alchemists who sold illicit love philtres and sleep draughts.
Lightning lit the turret room. Thunder rolled from the distant mountains.
The book of Tsiyonim magic lay open on the writing desk. The alchemist who had sold it to him claimed it was bound in human skin and written in human blood. Jaufré did not for one moment believe the claim – yet he was intrigued enough not to argue too much over the exorbitant price. The book had piqued his curiosity.
It gave him a certain perverse pleasure to handle it, to wonder if his fingers were caressing dead skin ... and if so, how it had been removed ... Had the skin been flayed off a living man ... or woman? The thought always aroused a delicious shiver of disgust.
The text purported to be translated from the Sefer Rhaziel and contained – in Jaufré's sceptical opinion – all manner of nonsense. Fragments of mystical texts were mingled with meaningless mumbo-jumbo.
There came another flash of lightning, its white flare illuminating the worn pages.
Jaufré stared.
Between the diagrams of circles and pentagrams, the occult symbols and spells of summoning, the lightning had revealed other, hidden words, written in invisible ink. In the lightning's brief flare Jaufré identified luminous characters, glimmering like phosphorus.
He seized his pen and, dipping it in the ink, feverishly began to trace over the fast-fading lightning- letters.
The Tsiyonim knew ancient, arcane secrets. They knew how to harness the power of the lightning to their will. And he sensed that the key to their secret knowledge – and the key to the secret of the amulet – was concealed somewhere within these faded, stained pages.
'Yet let he who summons Them beware. Let him remember the fate of Ithamar and all his Tribe.
'Barakiel, Wielder of Heavenly Fire, shall come from the East; from the North, cold Shalgiel with snow- feathered wings; the earth shakes at the tread of Rashiel. The last of these is Lailahel, Bringer of Eternal Night.'
'Four,' Jaufré murmured. What had Alois said as he lay dying? 'Four ... to guard each corner of the Temple ...'
'They will seek the blood of the pure, blood of the innocent. To that blood They will cleave ...'
Lightning and thunder converged overhead in one dazzling, ear-splitting explosion. The stones of the Orbiel Tower shuddered.
Jaufré flung up one arm to protect his eyes from the blinding brightness.
'Jaufré ...'
As he lowered his arm he glimpsed a figure silhouetted against the window, a shadowfigure that dwindled even as his dazzled eyes focused upon it.
'You gave me your promise, Jaufré ...'
'Alois?' Jaufré cried.
'Remember. Remember what became of me ...'
But the storm was already passing on overhead, and when the lightning shivered through the chamber again, Jaufré saw that he was alone.
The narrow lanes of the Tsiyonim Quarter of Arcassanne were dark and dank, even in the pitiless heat of an Arcassanne summer when the sun's intense light dazzled off the white walls and watchtowers of the city. But the houses of the Tsiyonim huddled close together as if seeking shelter from a hostile world.
Jaufré walked swiftly through the gathering dusk, one hand on the hilt of his sword. He was aware that he was being watched; aware that there were wary eyes staring behind iron grilles and patterned shutters. But no one challenged him – and the few Tsiyonim he passed vanished into doorways or alleyways at his approach. No one made any overt gesture of hostility, but he could sense he was not welcome.
The most learned man in the community, he had been told, was the scholar, Rebh Jehiel. Jehiel's house was in the heart of the community, next to the shul, the house of worship. Who better to return the amulet to but the only Tsiyonim priest and scholar in Arcassanne?
He had promised Alois he would give the amulet back to the Tsiyonim. But now that the lightning had revealed the hidden text in the Sefer Rhaziel, he knew he could not relinquish it without first uncovering its secret.
Besides ... he had to be certain that this Jehiel was worthy to take the amulet. He could not bear to think that it would pass to a man who did not appreciate its archaic beauty – or its peerless craftsmanship. To that end he had brought the Sefer Rhaziel with him, concealed beneath his jacket.
The lane in which the shul stood was overhung with gnarled mulberry trees and vines. Jehiel's cottage nestled in the shadow of the shul, a modest little house built of weathered Arcassanne stone.
Squaring his shoulders, Jaufré went up the path that led to the front door and knocked. No one answered.
Perhaps Jehiel was at his prayers and did not wish to be disturbed?
Jaufré knocked again. Still no reply.
He was on the point of turning away when he heard hesitant footsteps approaching within, and the door opened. To his surprise, a grey cat came whisking out between his legs, disappearing into the shadows like a ghost.
'Yes? How can I help you?'
A white-haired old man stood on the doorstep, blinking up at Jaufré through a pair of ill-balanced pebble pince-nez spectacles.
'You are Jehiel the scholar, archivist of the community?' Jaufré asked.
'That is my name.' Jehiel took off the spectacles and narrowed his eyes as he scrutinised Jaufré. 'But you have me at a disadvantage, messire –'
'I need your help in a matter of scholarship.' Jaufré did not wish to give his name.
'A Gentile wanting help from a Tsiyonim?' The scholar's pale eyes narrowed a little as he gazed at Jaufré. 'Perhaps you had better come in.'
The desk in Jehiel's study was spilling over with books, scrolls and documents. As they entered, a second grey cat arose from the desk and leapt down with a soft thud of paws.
'Mischkin, Mischkin,' chided Jehiel, 'sitting on the Holy Laws again ...'
Jaufré caught a glint of slanting eyes, yellow as amber, as Mischkin slunk out with an offended swish of his grey-silk tail.
'So how may I help you?' Jehiel said, sweeping up an armful of parchments to make a space on the desk.
Jaufré cleared his throat.
'Does a book called the Sefer Rhaziel mean anything to you?'
'I've heard that certain men calling themselves alchemists sell what they claim to be translations of the Sefer Rhaziel. I assure you, sieur, they are all fakes.'
'Even this one?' Jaufré removed the book from where he held it concealed within his jacket and placed it on the desk.
'Assuredly, that one too.'
'So it's a fake?' Jaufré opened the book at the place he had marked and began to read. ' "Barakiel, Wielder of Heavenly Fire, shall come from the East ..." '
Jehiel dropped the parchments he was holding.
'God preserve us.'
Jaufré had not expected the scholar to react so dramatically. And then a slow burn of excitement began to spread through his body as he realised that Jehiel recognised the words he was reading – and knew what they meant. 'I hoped you might be able to shed some light on the meaning of the passage. Is it a metaphor? Has it some religious significance?'
'But what possible interest could it hold for you, a Gentile?'
'I have not long returned from Djihan-Djihar,' Jaufré said.
'Ahhh.' Jehiel let out a sigh heavy with longing ... and despair. 'I know I must call it by that other name ... but to me and my people, it will always be the Land of Tsiyon. Never Djihan-Djihar.'
'"They will seek the blood of the pure, blood of the innocent. To that blood They will cleave,"' read Jaufré. 'What does that mean?'
Rebh Jehiel was staring at him with a stricken expression on his face.
'It would take you years of study, messire, to begin to gain some understanding of our sacred texts,' he said stiltedly.
'Then let me be your student. Teach me.'
'You are asking something of me which I cannot do.'
'Cannot?' Jaufré said, angered. 'Or will not?'
'Don't you understand? The meaning is hidden; it is not revealed because it is not meant to be revealed.'
'Or not revealed to the uninitiate?' Jaufré had not expected to encounter such inflexibility. Perhaps he had unwittingly offended the scholar by not offering payment for his skills? 'I've gold in my purse – and I can bring more.'
'All the gold in Arcassanne would not make me change my mind.'
Jehiel brusquely handed the Sefer Rhaziel back to him and marched to the study door, holding it open. Jaufré realised he was being dismissed – with all the courtesy afforded to an unruly schoolboy.
'So You refuse.'
'I am not fit to undertake this – this instruction. That path is reserved for the very few. The chosen.'
Damn all the Tsiyonim and their precious secrets to Hell!
Still stinging from Jehiel's abrupt dismissal, Jaufré unlocked the chest in which the amulet lay concealed and pulled back the fine layers of linen in which he had wrapped it.
Bronze pinions, flame-tipped, glimmered against the liquid black of the enamelled sky.
Jaufré's fingers itched to touch it. If there were any poison on the enamel, it must by now have seeped into the folds of linen ... and there was not a trace of a stain on the white cloth.
He had reached in, lifting it out, before he became fully aware of what he was doing, gloating that the treasure was now his, not the crusty old scholar's.
Now that he held it close he could see that the winged figure was a man, dark-skinned as night, his streaming locks of black hair lit with fire.
'Angel ...' he whispered.
But who now would reveal the name of the fiery angel? Who would tell him its significance? Jehiel, the only scholar of repute in the whole city, had shut the door in his face.
There must be some way to unlock its secrets ...
He uncorked the phial of Arkendym sleep draught on his desk and swallowed down a mouthful, grimacing at the bitter taste. It was concocted from the juice of the rare moonblue poppy which grew, so the apothecary assured him, below the snowfields of the Mountains of Mynezhil ...
When he slept, his dreams were filled with the beat of night-feathered wings.
* * *
Jaufré gazed down from the open window of his high turret room and saw an angel in the street below.
Halo of sunglints in wild, wind-tangled hair ...
He shaded his dazzled eyes against the summer sun's fierce glare and saw his angel was only a boy, a ragged street child, playing alone in the gutter. He seemed utterly unselfconscious, absorbed in his game, spinning a coin high into the air and catching it. He was seven, maybe eight years old ...
'Blood of the pure, blood of the innocent ...'
Jaufré leaned out over the sill – and whistled.
Startled, the child looked round and the coin fell into the gutter. Cursing, he began to scrabble with his fingers, searching. When his efforts seemed to prove fruitless, he turned, shaking his fist up at Jaufré.
'I was given that at Schimeon the Tailor's. You owe me.'
Jaufré beckoned, smiling.
'Want to earn ten times as much?'
The boy hesitated; he seemed sceptical rather than wary.
'Show me.'
'And supper. Cassoulet. As much as you can eat.'
A thin, fine cloud, filmy as gauze, moved across the sun. The dazzling light dimmed a little and Jaufré saw that his angel was dirty, the halo-bright hair tarnished by neglect and poverty.
Turn away. Toss him a coin and go back to your desk, there's still time ...
'Supper?' Angel-blue eyes widened with hunger. 'I'm starving.'
The knowledge that he might be on the brink of a revelation intoxicated Jaufré. He made an effort to control his excitement.
'Wait there. I'll let you in.'
Jaufré was certain no one had seen him beckon the boy down into the wine cellar. He had laced the servants' wine with the same poppy juice he had slipped into the boy's food; the strong spices in the cassoulet had concealed its distinctive bitter taint.
Now the child had slipped forwards against the wine cask Jaufré had used as a makeshift table, his golden head resting on his arm, curls spilling into the gravy stains on his empty plate. The other hand still clutched a half-eaten chunk of bread.
Jaufré stood silently, gazing down at him. He could feel the pulse of blood in his own temples, a dull, persistent throb. The boy slept silently except for the occasional heaving sigh. Poppy juice provoked troubled dreams, as Jaufré knew only too well. When the child woke, his head would ache, he would vomit up the remains of his dinner ... he would remember nothing of the night.
'"Blood of the pure, blood of the innocent ..."'
Jaufré murmured the words as he slowly traced out the signs of power in the dust on the cellar floor. The beeswax candles gave off a thick, yellowing smoke redolent of old, musty temple vaults. He lit a cone of green incense to sweeten the frowsty air of the cellar; thin wisps, resinously aromatic, twisted upwards into the smoky darkness.
'"And King Sulaimon drew a circle – as the angiel Rhaziel instructed him."' Jaufré's voice sank to a whisper. '"And within the circle he inscribed the signs of summoning."'
He glanced up at the sleeping boy, whose breathing was now deep and regular. He would not feel the sting of the blade.
Jaufré drew the keen-sharpened knife from his belt. He had bought it in Monlaures from a merchant used to trading with the Tsiyonim; their butchers used such knives to slit and drain the slaughtered meat carcasses of blood.
Jaufré stood over the boy.
The child's lashes, gold lashes, fluttered – but did not open. His prey lay still sleeping, unaware.
Jaufré felt a sudden tightening in his chest, a sudden, intense stab of pain.
A pang of some long-forgotten, long-submerged emotion twisted his heart.
Compassion.
This was a child, a living child –
And then cold reason reasserted itself, cold as the steel blade he gripped.
Compassion was for the weak. The strong had no need of compassion to survive. The man who gave way to such feelings became vulnerable. Jaufré had long ago taken care to armour himself securely against pity, compassion ... love.
He knelt. Took hold of the loosely dangling arm gently – so gently that the boy did not even stir.
He moved the little enamel dish to catch the drops of blood.
His fingers moved over the dirt-engrained skin, searching for a vein. He raised the knife.
His hand trembled.
Why hesitate? He wasn't about to slit the child's throat!
And yet ... the Book said that the instant warm blood dripped into the dish, its allure would draw from the darkness spirits that would do his bidding, spirits that could be compelled to reveal the secrets of the amulet.
Or ... would nothing happen at all? Would he find himself staring at the ultimate irony?
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "The Lost Child"
by .
Copyright © 1998 Sarah Ash.
Excerpted by permission of Jabberwocky Literary Agency, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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