Call of the Trumpet (43 page)

But that was then; this was now. A ship had come to Muscat, and she wished to be on it. The ordeal in the desert had truly broken her, mayhap, and his love for her, or hers for him, was not strong enough to heal the wounds. Or maybe she simply didn’t love him enough to stay. Whatever her reason was, he would probably never know, and would certainly never ask. How much more pain and humiliation could one man endure? She was gone when he had awakened. Soon she would be gone forever.

An impatient whinny distracted Matthew’s attention, and he rose from the edge of the bed. Ahmed had readied the horses, obviously. He had ordered Al Chah ayah be saddled for her. He hoped the mare would bring back memories. With bitterness, he hoped they would be painful.

Matthew tugged the drape into place over his shoulder, whirled, and left his room. He, too, had memories—painful ones. But now was a time to forget. Time to face the last ordeal and put it behind him. Forever.

It felt like a death walk, a prisoner to his execution. Cecile forced one wooden leg to move, then the other, walking just fast enough to keep Zahra in sight. The servant girl led the way as Cecile had never been to this wing before. It housed several formal rooms, reserved for meetings with guests and visitors. Appropriate, she thought bitterly. She was only a visitor, now, soon to pass on.

Steeped in misery as she was, Cecile did not notice the pair seated on a bench in the shade of a courtyard willow. She passed them by, her head bent, oblivious. Then she heard a soft, familiar voice.

“Halaila?”

Cecile paused, and Jali returned his attention to Hagar, supporting her arm as he helped her rise. “Are you all right, old woman?” he whispered.

“Of course, I am!” Hagar said gruffly. But she trembled as she stood and tried to straighten her aching limbs. “Just let me be,” she asserted, looking directly at Cecile. “I will surely last through a farewell … brief as this one will be.”

Cecile winced and felt the sting of tears return once more to her eyes. “Hagar—”

“No.” The old woman shook her head. “You have nothing to say. At least so you have told me over and over again these past three days. Therefore, I shall speak instead.”

Vision helplessly blurred, Cecile clasped her hands and stared at the ground. The old woman’s voice cut into her like a lash.

“Jali and I have come simply to make our farewell,” Hagar continued. “We understand you are to leave as soon as you have … seen … El Faris. I have also heard you take very little with you, that you leave much behind. So you will not be wanting this, I suppose.”

At Hagar’s nod, Jali turned and retrieved something from the bench. He handed it to the old woman, who in turn held it out to Cecile.

She had to dash the tears away to focus properly. Then she recognized the pattern in the rug Hagar held.

“Do you remember?” Hagar prompted.

Cecile nodded. “But I … I never completed it.”

“
I
dislike anything unfinished,” the old woman replied tersely. “And there are many miles, many memories in the weaving. I thought you might like to take it with you. Or perhaps not. Mayhap you just want to forget …
all
of us.”

Unable to speak, blinded by tears, Cecile shook her head vehemently. “No,” she choked. “No!” Then, suddenly, there were arms around her. She felt the old woman’s thin breast pressed to her own, felt the gnarled, spidery hands caress her back, felt the convulsion of a sob shake them both.

“It’s all right,
halaila,”
the old woman soothed in an unsteady voice. “It’s all right. Neither of us will ever forget the other. It will be all right.”

As swiftly as Hagar had taken Cecile in her arms, she released her, turned, and shuffled stiffly away. Cecile tried to call to the old woman, but no words came from her lips, merely a soft, agonized gasp. When Jali clasped her hands and gazed at her with eyes full of love and sorrow, she began, quietly, to weep.

“Go … go with Allah,” the little man stammered in a barely audible whisper. “Go with Allah and find peace, little one.” Then he, too, was gone, hurrying away into the early morning shadows of the overhanging garden.

Somewhere in the distance, out over the sea, a gull screamed. At its piercing, mournful cry, Cecile spun, robe swirling, and walked quickly away.

Aza paused outside the great double doors and tried to regain her crumbling composure. Her limbs trembled as if with cold, and she pulled the dark folds of the
aba
closely about her narrow shoulders. Why? she wondered miserably. Why had he insisted on her presence? It was not necessary, not required by Badawin law. But he had been so adamant, so full of a cold, unfathomable anger when he ordered her to attend, she had acquiesced without question. She wished with all her heart that she understood; perhaps then she might help him. But she understood nothing. She was frightened.

Al Dhiba was leaving, without reason or explanation. It didn’t make sense. El Faris loved her, and she loved him. Her love for him, in fact, was so strong that she had saved his life not once, but twice. It was Al Dhiba’s love, she had heard Hagar say, that had pulled El Faris from his deathlike sleep. Yet as soon as she saw that he lived and would heal, she had fled. Why? And why did he not demand that she stay?

It was too much for Aza, far too complex. It went beyond her understanding, but not her heart. It ached. Pulling the black
makruna
low over her brow, she pushed aside the great doors and entered.

The walk had seemed endless, yet not long enough. Zahra paused, head bent, hand poised on the latch, and Cecile took a long, deep breath. Unconsciously, her chin regained its upward tilt, her shoulders squared. She nodded. Zahra’s fingers tightened on the latch and the doors swung wide.

Everything he had done, he had done deliberately; the high-backed, elaborately carved chair in which he sat; Aza, in a smaller chair at his side; the vast expanse of marble floor Al Dhiba must cross to reach them. All, he realized, had been done in an attempt to cow her, to humble the proud spirit that burned within her. Yet as he watched her cross toward him with undaunted, regal grace, Matthew knew he had underestimated her once again. She was magnificent.

“Al Dhiba bint Sada …” The greeting, meant to be formal, fell more like a sigh from his lips. But she did not respond, merely returned his unwavering gaze. He became lost in it.

Aza’s presence was forgotten. The room lost its dimension and faded away, and for a long, aching moment, only the two of them existed. Reality was distorted, and he fancied he saw the wind gently ruffle her bangs, felt the heat of the sun, the sand beneath his feet, smelled the musky perfume of her body. He had only to reach for her …

A tiny cry, an agonized whimper of protest, burst from Cecile’s lips, shattering the spell. She scarcely heard it. She had been drowning, sinking into a sea of forgetfulness in the too clear blue of his eyes. In another moment, she knew, she would have been lost. The remaining shreds of her pride would be tossed to the winds, and she would fall on her knees and beg him to allow her to stay, if only just to be near him. So she had cried out, softly, and was saved. Matthew winced and looked away, clenching the offending hand that had nearly reached for her.

“The day wastes,” he said abruptly. “Ahmed awaits in the courtyard. While you are yet my wife, have you a last request to make of me?”

The question was formal, a part of the ceremony, Cecile knew. Thank Allah she had known and been prepared. “Yes,” she replied stiffly. “I have a single request, which I pray you will honor … my lord.”

Matthew’s brow furrowed. He nodded shortly.

“I ask only that you accept a gift … my mares and camels … the legacy of my father.”

Aza’s indrawn hiss was audible in the silence. She clapped her hands to her mouth, appalled, but neither Matthew nor Cecile seemed to have noticed.

“You are too generous,” Matthew said at last. “The inheritance was yours before we married. By Badawin law, it remains yours.”

“Yet I wish you to take it,” Cecile replied. She had not meant to say more. But Aza’s presence was a dagger in her heart, and she lashed out before she could control the words. “I wish to take nothing from this land when I leave. Nothing but the clothes on my back!”

The silence following the outburst was palpable. Cecile held her breath, her heart thudding. But she did not shrink, even under his darkening scowl.

It was a long moment before Matthew thought he might speak without betraying the turmoil of his emotions. Her defiance, her hatred, scalded him. “Very well,” he breathed at length. “Your wish is granted. I accept your gift.”

No one heard Aza’s quiet sigh. She closed her eyes to the flood of tears and prayed they would go unnoticed. It was almost over now.

“If there is nothing else,” Matthew continued formally, “then I will say the words which, by our law, will free you. Are you agreed?”

Unable to speak, Cecile inclined her head. She barely heard the words … “I divorce thee” … the beginning of the brutally short ceremony. Though her eyes remained on his, her gaze was unfocused, her thoughts very far away. Just one word, she told herself over and over again, one gesture and, even now, I would throw away my pride and stay.

“I divorce thee …”

Just one word, she repeated the silent litany. One gesture …

“I divorce thee.”

It was over. Three times said, irrevocably done. Over. Without so much as the flicker of an eyelid, Cecile turned and left the room.

T
HE FOOTSTEPS FADED RAPIDLY.
S
ILENCE DE
scended, and the seconds ticked away. Still Matthew did not move. It was as if he had been frozen. Even his blood no longer seemed to pulse through his veins.

Watching him, seeing his empty, heart-wrenching stare, Aza felt the last of her control slip away. This must not, could not happen! Without Al Dhiba, his soul would wither and die. With a choked sob, she threw herself at his feet and clutched the hem of his robe. “My lord!” she cried. “Call Al Dhiba back. Please call her back. It is not too late!”

Stunned by the suddenness of the outburst, Matthew did not immediately comprehend Aza’s words. “Get up. Please, Aza. Don’t kneel before me like that.”

“I kneel because I beg you,” Aza said before her fragile courage fled altogether. “Do not let her go! How can you? Oh, my lord … how can you let her go, how can she leave … when you love each other so much?”

Matthew recoiled and clutched at his throbbing shoulder. “You … you don’t know what you’re talking about, Aza.”

“No, my lord, it is you, you who do not know what you are saying. If you did, you would never have spoken the words that gave Al Dhiba her freedom. But it is not too late to call her back. I know she would …”

Aza’s impassioned speech trailed into silence as she saw the look on her husband’s face. He no longer heard, or even saw her, she knew. And she knew why. In a sudden desperate flash, she knew.

He did want to call Al Dhiba back to him. She saw it in his eyes, in the pitifully bereft longing of his gaze. He wanted to, but could not. She had seen the same in Al Dhiba’s bold dark gaze. Behind the fire had been a yearning too great for mere words. Dhiba, too, had wished to speak, but could not.