To him it was a trite love story, fictional and typical. Two people had loved each other, wanted nothing more than a life together.
They’d tried and failed. But whether it was her desperate need to believe in the woman’s story, or intuitive scholarship, her desire to confirm what she suspected was a true story, whoever wrote it, became a carefully guarded obsession. Every scrap of information she discovered was another brick in the fortress holding what was left of her mind.
As with most histories, she found more when she focused on authority figures, namely Prince Haytham and Sheikh Asim. She confirmed the sheikh’s eldest daughter was Farida, which didn’t prove anything until she cross-referenced it with the annals of a Polo esque adventurer who’d recorded a brief paragraph during his trip through the Sahara.
Encountered a hostile tribe today, the first that didn’t offer me the sacred protections of a guest. There’ d been a row related to the chief ’s daughter and a supposed British officer. The girl had finally been caught, after managing to run off with the fellow and evading capture for some time. She was killed in a ghastly way. The poor chap was buried alive in a pit of rock. Was able to placate them with my credentials and a hasty leave-taking.
A Romeo and Juliet tale, told a million ways, but with the same tragic ending.
After Raithe’s death, and her flight to Africa, Jess hit dead ends seeking the remains of the couple, until she’d risked contacting the Egyptian consul. She claimed to be a retired American professor preparing a speculative article on authentic events that inspired Middle Eastern and African romantic poetry and prose. She met with him under a full-length abaya that covered her from head to feet.
“You are lucky,” the consul told her, after making some inquiries on her behalf. “There is a descendant of Prince Haytham’s who is a scholar of their family history. He will provide you some information that may be helpful to your article, as a courtesy from one academic to another.”
Several days later, she’d been called back to the embassy to pick up a sheaf of papers, faxed over by the scholar. Returning to her hostel, burning to read the pages, she’d been frustrated by the weakness of her body, which made her stumble on the stairs and forced her to sit there until she regained her breath and could make it the rest of the way to her room to read the information in privacy.
But once there, she’d sunk down by the window, opened up the folder. The first thing had been a short series of letters from Prince Haytham to his father. The prince had been deeply grieved by the loss of his friend, but he’d been forced to condemn his rash actions as a dishonor to their friendship. Then her fingers had tightened on the page as she read his additional comments.
It is no surprise to me that he was harder to kill than expected, and escaped the pit. At least I believe it to be so, for I have heard that the girl’s body, left to feed the desert scavengers, was gone within a day of her death. The family swore a blood oath to find and kill him, and reclaim her. But when the sheikh sent his oldest son on this mission, he returned two days later, his body dragging behind his frightened camel, his head mounted on the pommel. The rest of his escort never returned.
Lord Mason cannot be found when he does not wish to be. Which means he is seeking their blood as much as they are seeking his. I expect they will not be dissuaded from this now, but from my experience, they would be wise to leave him alone and let the desert absorb his rage and grief. They will not find her grave—it will be only where a desert tiger can find it.
Or one sick and dying woman who’d persisted, who’d put together a few hundred clues and discarded a hundred more, as if shuffling pieces of many different puzzles, until she’d at last found all the pieces to the one she sought. She was sure of it.
Jess glanced up at the stars. Using the accommodating body of her camel, she levered herself to her feet, hobbled twenty paces, checked her notes again, her detailed calculations using GPS and historical data of shifts in the night sky.
“Harry.”
She’d stopped resenting the need to ask for help. Mostly. In the past twenty-four hours, as they’d drawn closer, the overwhelming desire to do this in profound isolation had returned. She was visiting a temple that should only be seen by those who understood the type of sacrifices made on its altar.