In The End
Either stay and be forgiving, or, if you like, be cruel and leave.
Rumi
For Sarak, the end came like a flash of silver into the grey. Grey sky, grey lake, grey and hazy day … and the bright silver flame of his opponent's blade sinking deep into his belly. An odd, detached part of himself found that interesting: all of his other wounds had come in a wave of red.
He kept his feet, but not for long. A breath, and then another, looking into painfully familiar eyes – and why had he ever thought that he could turn his blade on this man and not feel this? – then the light wavered, and his knees failed, and he slipped forward into the other man's arms.
Friend, brother, enemy, friend. It didn't really matter now. Nasir was lowering him to the ground, gentle of his wound and his pride. That didn't much matter either. Sarak had spent enough of his life with a blade in hand to know a mortal wound when he carried one. No amount of gentleness was going to help that. Not even when Nasir whispered, in a voice so like the one Sarak remembered from when they had been young and this man had been a wild and wilful boy, 'I'm sorry, my brother. I'm sorry.'
He coughed, winced, hitched a shallow breath. 'Don't be.' It hurt to talk, hurt to breathe. Sarak pushed through that, raised his chin in a small, approving gesture. 'A good block … subtle. And a good strike behind it. Tidy work.'
Nasir's expression was a complicated thing, equal parts sorrow and strength, warmth and regret. 'I had a good teacher.'
'You were a demanding student. I should,' Sarak murmured, 'have beaten you more often.'
'Sarak …'
'You still forecast with that shoulder.' He could feel himself starting to shake. The pain seemed to be coming in waves, from a long way off.
'Be still.' The younger man had turned his attention to his wound, was trying to staunch the blood. Well, Nasir had always been a stubborn one.
'Don't …' A low rasp of coughing cut him off, leaving the taste of blood in his throat. 'Don't be a fool, Malik. I'm dying. One of us had to. Let it be.'
Obedience was ingrained in Nasir still, or perhaps he simply knew when a task was hopeless, because he let his hands fall and swore, quietly.
Sarak grunted in what might have been admonishment. 'No regrets now, boy. Allah punishes us for what we can't accept. And see, now, what comes of that.' With a great effort, he moved his hand, brought it to rest against Nasir's. He felt a rising numbness in his centre, a thick distant chill pouring into him from something shattered, deep inside. 'We know who we are.'
'We do.' A dip of the head. 'Now we do.' Nasir's voice, usually so controlled, was aching.
It was cold, and now light was fading too, draining out of him with his life's blood. So many things to say, and no time. No time. Sarak would have laughed, if the realisation was not so bitter. But that would have wasted time too, and there was one thing he could do, one gift he could give that might – just might – redeem a little of what he had lost.
'Malik. Listen. These … men … you run with now. You care for them?'
'They are my friends.'
'Unbelievers. You honour the unworthy.' That came with another low cough, and a gasp of pain that Sarak could not suppress. Nasir's lips tightened, as did his hand over Sarak's clutching fingers.
'I don't think so, brother.'
'Don't argue. No time. Mark has them.'
'What?'
'Philip Mark. They came …' A deep shudder wracked him; he clung on with sheerest will until it passed. Not long now. Not long. 'Like sheep into the slaughter pen. He'll kill them.'
'Not if I can help it.'
Even through the pain and the dark, that won a hard, approving nod. Ah, Mark would be no match for this man. This one, Sarak thought proudly, he had trained well. He wondered why it had taken him until now to realise it.
'He will expect me to do it.' Barely a whisper now; it was all the voice he had left. 'Take my horse. You understand?'
'I do. I will.' Nasir drew a steadying breath. 'Thank you, brother. And forgive me.'
'Allah forgive us both, Malik. We've both been fools.' Somehow, he managed a smile. It was a tight, blood-stained thing, but his eyes were laughing. 'I expect that from you, of course, but I had hoped for better from myself.'
'Hope is an immortal thing, my friend.' And, twisted around the grief, there was laughter in that too. Sarak was grateful for that.
'Say the words with me,' he whispered. 'Then go. Find your friends.'
'I'll go when you do,' Nasir returned, sounding calm now, sure. 'But I will say the words, gladly.'
And Sarak turned his eyes to the sky, and let the Shahadah – eternal faith, eternal truth – be the last and only sound in all the world.
Philip Mark was not, I think, a man deserving of the name. I do not regret killing him: I regret only that I had to taint honest steel with his cheap coward's blood to do that. The blade that took his life belonged to Sarak once. I doubt Mark realised that, but Sarak, at least, would appreciate the irony. For myself, it seemed right. Justice, perhaps, writ small. At the last, we are taught, all men are given the ending they deserve.
As was Sarak, in the end. A good death, even if it was for reasons neither of us could say, and so very far from home.
There is no one else to do what is necessary, so I will do it for him. I owe him that much, at least. For what he did and what we were, I owe him. We were friends, after all.
Friends in the beginning, friends in the end. It was only in between that we fell, that things went wrong. I could wish things had been different, that fate had been more kind, but who am I to question the will of the All-Merciful? It was written, for him and for me. We make the best of that we can.
It hurt to leave him here, like so much carrion left out for the dogs. But it was necessary, or I would now be mourning more passings than only his. I pray he understands. I think he would: he told me what was needful, and he was always one for doing the practical things first.
'Perspective, Malik,' he would say to me. 'If you're making a decision, make it count.'
And so I did. So often, so many decisions, and all of them leading here. To this place, high sighing grass near a lake in an infidel land, where the dark water gleams like black glass. To blood on a borrowed blade, and a wide empty sky, and my brother dead at my feet.
At my hand.
Ah, Sarak. What went wrong? How did we come to this?
'Next time you feel like risking everyone's life on guesswork," Will grumbled, 'could you let me know before you go and do it? That way, I might at least get a wager in on the chances of you getting us all killed.'
'Now where's the fun in that, Scarlet?' Robin turned to grin at him over his shoulder, all bright eyes and white even teeth. 'And in any case, who'd take that bet? The Sheriff?'
'Aye, maybe. Or Gisburne.' Will's flash of teeth was wolfish. 'What do you reckon, John? Gisburne seem like a betting man to you?'
'I don't think so,' John scoffed. 'Unless the odds are well stacked. Gisburne's not one for playing fair. And the Sheriff's no better.'
'John's right,' Robin said. 'My Lord Sheriff only likes to lay wagers when he's assured of earning something from the winnings. Little bit hard for him to collect from a dead man, don't you think?'
'Only if I lose,' Scarlet pointed out. 'Or you do.' And then, suddenly serious, 'Come on, Robin. You really didn't know that was Naz in that get-up? It wasn't something you two cooked up behind our backs?'
'I really don't think Nasir's the sort for cooking things up, Will.' John bent to duck under a tree bough that had passed easily over the others' heads. There were disadvantages to being a tall man in Sherwood Forest. A stray twig caught in his shaggy hair; he pulled it out, twirling it idly between thick fingers. 'Might like to keep his thoughts to himself, but he's not one for plotting in shadows.'
'So you say.' Will sounded unconvinced, but the twinkle of his eye was enough to tell the others he was not so surly as he let on. He cast Robin a knowing look. 'But in my experience, when two fellows are off whispering in the undergrowth, they ain't exchanging drinking songs.'
'Nasir wouldn't know any drinking songs,' Much piped up. 'On account of him not drinking and all. Not real drink, anyway. Says it's haw… ham…'
'Haram,' Robin said, smiling. Much's logic was impeccable, in its own way. 'Forbidden. And no, Will, we weren't plotting the downfall of empires, or even that of sheriffs, for that matter. I just needed to know who this Sarak was and what he wanted with Nasir.'
'Did you find out?' John tossed the twig, now twisted beyond recognition, away. His broad face, made for smiles and good humour, was serious now, expressing his concern. 'And does it have something to do with where Nasir is now?' The Saracen had left them even before they had arrived at their forest camp, melting away into the trees before anyone even noticed. It was not unusual for him to slip off on his own – Nasir was a solitary creature by nature, and Robin knew that even after so long with the outlaws the chatter and banter of the others often rubbed badly on the quiet man's nerves – but his timing now was off. It was not time for his ritual prayers, and in any case, they had only just escaped from Nottingham with their lives; he'd have thought Nasir might want to acknowledge that.
Nor was it only Nasir's timing that sat ill with Robin: something else was amiss. Robin could not quite put his boot on what that was for long enough to pin it down, but it bothered him all the same. He could only remember what he had said to Nasir earlier that day – He was your friend; that's why you didn't kill him – and the deep sigh that had drawn from his dark-clad companion. It left him cold inside.
Damn you, Robert, he thought to himself. Damn you for being right.
'Robin?' John was looking at him now, expectant. 'Is it something to do with why he's gone off, and why we're out here searching for him like a lost lamb?'
'I don't know.' Robin frowned, then shook his head. That wasn't quite true. He had his instincts, after all. 'I think so. It might be.' And then, because every part of him was sure of it and he didn't have any better answers for his friends, 'It's this way. Come on.'
'Ain't no lamb,' Will muttered, falling in behind Robin on the trail. 'Not that one. Ain't no lamb at all.'
I give him what rites I can. The birds – crows, I expect: they always find the dead first – have been here before me and taken his eyes. My fault, and I ask forgiveness for letting that happen. He deserved better. He taught me, nurtured me, showed me what it is to be a man. The lessons he gave, I still use. I used one of them, in the end, to kill him. Never over-commit, he used to say. It leaves you flat, off-balance, open. Maybe he forgot that, but I never have.
I close what is left of his eyes and wash his body, sluicing away the blood until the single wound in his side is pale and clean, like the mouth of a drowned man. There are more scars on him than I remember, some still new enough to be bright. And those are only the scars I can see, the wounds of the flesh. If he is anything like me (and I think he is – no, I know he is), his real wounds will be in places that leave no scars, just marks on the soul visible only to Allah. I wonder what happened to this man whom I used to know so well, where he has travelled these past years, and if he has always been searching for me. There is no way of knowing, not now. I would have asked him before, if there had been time. If we had not been so set on trying to kill each other. After, there was no time at all. There was only his final mercy to my friends, and the Shahadah, and then the light of Paradise filled his eyes and turned them up to the sky.
I have no shroud for him, and that hurts too. I have only his dishdasha and keffiyah, both soiled and unfitting for one such as he to pass to Judgement in. Even so, they must suffice. Allah will be forgiving, and there will be more to discuss than only a shroud, I am sure. The water of the lake is clean and cold; it soaks the fine weave of the dishdasha, cleaving it close to his skin. This man promised me a clean death, once. It sounds cruel, perhaps, but he meant it as a mercy and I took it as one. Now he is dead and I yet live, and all I can give him is a decent burial.
It would be easier if I hated him. I don't, and I never did, though I admit I tried. Ad-Din Sinan, the old scorpion, may he be plagued by vermin and die alone to be eaten by dogs, would have it no other way. Hate him, he ordered, and I was meant to obey. Kill him, he told me, and I was meant to do that too. I did neither. Until now. I wonder if the Old Man would be glad. Sinan told me what Sarak did, and yes, it was a betrayal. But Sinan didn't tell me why. He didn't have to. I knew why, and know it still. And Allah be merciful, I understand. Sarak was always like that. Always doing the wrong thing for the right reasons.
How could I hate him for that?
Robin hesitated on the edge of the tall grass. He had been right: Nasir was here. A part of him had known that he would be, and what he would be doing. He was your friend, he'd said, only that morning. And Nasir would not leave a friend who needed him. He'd proven that time and again.
Having brought him here, Robin's instincts suddenly deserted him. He found, appallingly, that he had no idea at all of what to do. He'd come here for a purpose, to help a friend of his own, but seeing the man so poised and contained beside the body all wrapped in white, Robin could not help but feel that he was intruding.
Nor was he the only one. Will shifted uneasily, scuffing his boots on the ground.
'Should leave him to it,' he muttered. 'Not our business, this.'
'He's our friend, Will. That makes it our business.' Even so, Robin didn't move. Down near the lake, Nasir had lifted his head. Robin fancied he could feel those dark eyes searing him through and through. 'Even if he doesn't think so.'
That earned a brief, hard laugh. 'Oh, aye? And who's going to tell him so, eh? You?'
'If I have to.' Robin sounded more sure than he felt. Nasir hadn't moved, was still watching them with that intent, unwavering gaze. Unreadable, as always. Damn the man. He'd not show pain if both of his legs were cut off at the knees, and Robin knew it. Certainly he was not going to show pain now, and no matter that he must be balanced on the barest edge of a howling abyss of it. Why must he be so cursed proud?
'He's a private one, Robin.' That from John, who could never stand to see injustice, or a man left to stand alone. 'He won't thank you for barging in. He'll not argue; he'll just up and leave. Trust us. We've known him for longer than you have.'
Longer, Robin thought, but not better. Not better. He kept his eyes on Nasir's face, feeling the weight and rawness of the other man's gaze, willing him to bend, to give just a little. Willing him to call.
John said, 'Come on, lad. Let be. He's …"
And Nasir lowered his head and, slowly, raised his hand.
I did not expect them to come. I should have, perhaps: Robert – Robin – is perceptive, sees more than he lets people know. But I was not thinking when I came here, not of him or the others. They never so much as crossed my mind.
Sarak would say, Why should they? They are infidel dogs, he would tell me, and remind me no son of Mahmud should follow in the dust of any such as those. Ah, but my brother, you are wrong. They are decent men for what they are, and Robert – Robin, and I must get used to that, as they are so peculiar about their names, carrying them so lightly and yet so dear – perhaps the most decent of them all. My father, may Allah the Compassionate show him grace, would have approved of him, I think. Infidel dog or not. You would have approved of him, if you'd known him. Once you would. Once.
When the world was young and loss was distant, and I was young too.
'Nasir...' Robin paused, fumbling for the right way to do this. The Saracen gave him no help, standing like a statue between them and the body in its white wrappings. Even the man's eyes were shuttered: closed and distant. Robin didn't like the look of them. He had been prepared for rage, or grief. He had not been ready for ice.
He settled for something simple, bowed his head, spread his hands in a gesture that was almost supplication. 'Nasir. Please. May we help?'
It was the right thing to say, perhaps. At least it broke the man's stillness. Nasir drew a deep breath, let it out in a sigh like all the world was leaning on him, and gave a small nod of his head. His voice, when it came, was so quiet Robin barely heard it above the thud of his own heart and the breath of the wind in the green tall grass.
'Yes. Marhaban, sadiqi, yes.'
I show them where to dig, as best as I can tell. There are no tools, only what the forest can provide, but John is as strong and honest as a horse, and the heavy earth no match for his energy. Much has ever been a worker, and even Will, who would usually complain loud and long at any labour, makes no murmur of resentment. Robin keeps an eye on him, I notice, as if he is afraid Will might say something and give offence, but I know that Scarlet can behave when he has to. Alone, this would have taken me all day. With their help it is the work of an hour.
When the grave is ready, I ask them to stand away. This is my task alone: Sarak may or may not mind that his last place on this earth was made ready by the hands of unbelievers, but he would not have them lay him to rest. This is for family to do, or for friends, and I to him have been both, am both, for what that is worth now. He came to me an enemy, and died in the arms of a friend with the name of Allah on his lips. I take comfort from that. He did not hate me, at the end.
I lay him down facing Makkah, as comfortable as if in sleep. And so it is a sleep, we are taught – from now until the Day of Judgement, all days shall pass as one night's sleep to him. I hope his dreams are pleasant and Allah is kind. Sarak knew enough of turmoil in this life. I pray Allah shows him mercy, and that he finds peace in the next.
Robin watched from a respectful distance as his friend murmured softly over the grave. He could not catch the words and, even if he had been able to, he would not have understood them – his Arabic barely extended beyond saying hello – but he knew reverence when he heard it.
Will rolled his shoulders and squinted towards the lake, where the light from the lowering sun flared silver and pale. 'Getting on for dark soon, I reckon. He going to stay out here much longer?'
'I don't know, Will.'
'Seems a lot of bother, don't it?' The one-time soldier cast an appraising eye over himself, and over Robin too. 'I mean, look at us. We're dirt to the ears.'
Robin, who had never noticed Will to be particularly bothered by dirt before, only grunted. Will shrugged.
"Yeah, well. It only seems a lot of trouble to go to, that's all. If Naz weren't all dark and brooding and ready to snap a man's head off for speaking out, I'd have told him to dig his own bloody hole.' The man tipped his head towards Nasir and the raw, new grave. 'Do his lot do this for all their enemies, then?'
'No,' Robin said briefly. He glanced at Will once, and away. Nasir wasn't the only one who wanted to snap. 'They do it for their friends.'
'For their …' Understanding dawned; Will fell silent. Then he said, 'Oh. Shit. You knew?'
'Yes. He told me.' Or, rather, I told him, Robin corrected himself silently. 'They were like brothers.'
'You knew that and you sent him here?'
That made Robin uneasy. His response was defensive. 'No! I only …' He sighed, relenting. 'Yes. But he would have come anyway. I think he had to. This thing with Sarak … Whatever was between them, it goes a long way back. Unfinished business is the worst kind. It always comes back with interest. Nasir should be glad that it's over, at least.'
Will grunted. 'Tell that to Cain.'
Robin flinched unhappily. 'Jesu, Will, have a care.'
'Idiot. I'm hardly going to say that to him, now, am I?'
'You'd best not.'
'I said I won't!'
Behind them, John made a sound low in his chest, a soft aching rumble. 'Will you two stop your bickering? It's him has to carry this, not us.' The big man shook his head, gazing out over the lake. 'Poor bastard.'
'Who do you mean, John?' Much wanted to know. 'Nasir or Sarak?'
Reaching out, John clapped a hand to Much's shoulder, a rough warm gesture that was half an embrace. 'Both of them, lad. Both.'
Too much grief, we are taught, is unseemly. It is ungracious to wail and lament and howl to know why a thing is so, why such a death was wrought. All comes to pass as Allah wills, and His wisdom is hidden from us. As Sarak's body is hidden now, under its mound of earth in this cold and foreign land. A green land, though, and a fat one. Sarak would like that. We who are born of the deserts have a great love of gardens and trees and things that grow. There is nothing green in the desert, after all. Only space and silence, and the sun beating us blind.
I had not thought that the others would come, and I had not thought that they would stay. Will is uncomfortable, I can tell. He hunches his shoulders and will not meet my eyes. John, as always, wears his heart on his face, and I find it strange that he should weep for a man he never knew. Or, for that matter, for me. Much often understands more than he seems to, but he does not understand this: he is baffled by John's emotion and Robin's intensity. And Robin … His eyes follow me like a man dying of thirst follows water. We will talk again soon, I know it. He cannot be content with the half-answers I gave him before. He thinks I am a broken thing now, and he cannot see something broken and not try to put it back together. I am not broken, of course, and not for him to mend if I were, but try telling him that. These Franks, they have no restraint, no composure, no control. They are like children in the world; they feel everything all at once, and let it be all their lives for a handful of heartbeats – all sorrow, all joy, all anger, all tenderness. And I love them for it. Even if they do drive me mad.
As Sarak and I drove each other mad, or to laughter, or to rage. And, in the end, to this. And oh, Allah be kind, it hurts. It hurts.
It is time to leave. I bend, touch the mound where Sarak lies, and offer him a last salute: May you find peace. Rest well, my friend. Then I turn and go to the place where the others wait for me. Robin reaches out, takes my arm, wrist to wrist.
'Nasir? Is there more we can do?'
'No. It is enough. Shokrun, sadiqi.'
And that, Allah help me, hurts too.
The journey back to the camp passed in almost silence. Nasir, who never wasted breath on words he didn't need in any case, wandered a little apart from the others. He had his head down, seeming deep within his own thoughts, but Robin was not fooled by that for a moment. He'd seen hawks look like that, in the moment before they hurtled into the sky.
Marion, who had waited at the camp with Tuck, saw at once that all was not well. She was used to the squabbling and good-natured rivalry of these men; she knew enough to sense the strain in them now. Her eyes, as green as new leaves, searched Robin's face carefully and found it drawn, tight. Will looked abashed, and John uneasy. Only Nasir seemed his normal self, silent and calm. She greeted him with a smile, stepping forward to briefly rest her hand on his arm, and received a courtly dip of his dark head for her troubles.
'I want to thank you.' Even now, Marion could not quite believe what she had seen in that outer garth in Nottingham castle, when Nasir had stood without flinching in the face of what could so easily have been his death, with God's good will and the speed of his own sword arm the only thing between him and a crossbow bolt to the chest. 'What you did today … that took courage.'
'Mashallah.' Nasir twitched one shoulder in the barest shrug, as if facing death – and dealing it – was of no remark. Perhaps to him it wasn't. Marion watched him as he moved away, his face like something carved from stone.
It was Robin who told her, in a quiet and strained voice, where they had found him and why. Marion, who sighed over orphan fawns or broken-winged doves, and who had once nearly scratched out a man's eyes for trying to drown kittens in a sack, found herself feeling oddly uncertain. She had counted Nasir a friend for some years; surely she should have felt more sympathy toward him than this? Sitting on a deer hide spread close to the fire, she let her gaze shift from Robin to the Saracen, lurking on the edge of the camp, and back again.
'Someone should talk to him, then,' she whispered, finally. 'I would, but … I don't know what to say.' There was truth in that: for all that Nasir had been among them almost since the beginning, in so many ways he was unknown to them. Faced with those intent eyes and that distant, controlled manner, Marion barely knew where to start. He was not frightening, exactly … but his world was so different from her own, and he gave so little back that speaking with him was like trying to find one's way in a strange place in the dark.
'Do any of us?'
'You might. He speaks to you more than he does to the rest of us combined, I think. Besides, who else should it be? Will?' Marion raised her eyebrows to show how ridiculous she thought that was. 'Tuck?'
Robin gave a brief, quick smile. 'You might be surprised at Will. He's the only one other than Nasir who's actually seen war, after all. He might know more about what's going on in his head than any of us.'
'Maybe," Marion conceded. 'But it's you he talks to. Will tries his patience, you know that.'
'And Tuck?'
'Don't bring me into it,' the portly friar huffed, catching the last of that as he lugged the cooking pot towards the low fire. 'He's never let his walls down around me, not really. It'll have to be you, Robin. You're the one he trusts. Don't try weaselling out of it.'
Robin, who supposed that he had known that all along, only nodded. As if he'd ever planned to do differently in the first place.
I get my talking to, and sooner than I had expected. As the sun draws low and the evening prayer approaches, he starts. He might have given me a little time, but Franks are ever importunate. And Robin is a brave one: he pushes, even follows me out of the camp when I walk away. I would tell him that some things are my own, and not to be cheapened by sharing, if I thought he would understand. These Franks, though, they talk and talk: they think words the cure for anything. But I know that some wounds need to be left alone so they can begin their healing.
Robin surprises me. He does not begin with soft words and awkward sympathies. He begins with accusation and challenge.
'What were you thinking, coming into Nottingham? I could have killed you today, you know that?'
Of course I know that. I am tempted to argue the point anyway, to tell him that even with a loaded crossbow to hand he is slower than my blades, but that is not fair. Of course he could have killed me, if he had been other than what he is. He has never yet killed a man without hesitating over it first, and I hope to Allah that that will never change. He is innocent still, and I treasure that about him. Somehow, it soothes my soul. So I tell him he is right, but I had no choice, and that is true too.
He shakes his head, so that his hair – and such a shade, a gold so pure it is almost white – flickers in the forest's fading light.
'There are always choices,' he tells me. 'If I had … if I'd killed you, thinking you were him … If I had done that, I would never have forgiven myself.'
He sounds like he means it. I point out that he didn't kill me, that we are both alive and well and so this discussion is of no merit, but he shakes his head again, more fiercely this time, and grabs at my arm as if he is afraid I will leave before he can say what he feels he must. This is a Frankish thing of course, and I know that: Franks do not understand that some things are written, and what-if is nothing at all.
'No. You're not listening. I appreciate your loyalty, Nasir. We all do. And no one doubts your courage. But if you ever … if it comes to … Listen. Your life is worth something too. I would rather die than have you sacrifice yourself for me. For any of us. Do you understand?'
I tell him, quite bluntly, I don't. Does he think these things happen by my poor will? If I thought he would comprehend, I would tell him that this is beyond him: he cannot choose his fate or mine. Or I could remind him that it was he who sent me to Sarak, and he who needed rescuing after. Should I have stayed away, only so that he might die with a clean conscience? No. To lose one friend today was enough. I would not lose him too.
I wish he spoke more Arabic than only the handful of words I have given him, or that my French was up to more than asking for food and water and throwing insults. So often it is as if we are speaking across a void, and half of the meaning falls away before our words reach the other side. If he wants to have this discussion – and I can see that he does: he is insistent, his hand warm on my arm and his eyes so sincere – we need a better language than the one that lies between us. This one is full of traps for the unwary, and we must both take care with what we say, lest we say too much. So often, I have found, silence is best.
His eyes are brightly, persistently blue. If he is kind, he will break me; I do not think I can withstand kindness, right now. I hope he knows that and is kinder still.
Robin sighed, frustrated. It was always difficult talking to Nasir when he was like this – he seemed determined to be alien, to deliberately misunderstand. The man had his shields up well and proper tonight. Robin supposed he could understand that. Nasir held himself tightly at the best of times, letting very little slip, and this was not the best of times. The look of ice that had been in his eyes by the lake was back, leaving a distance and remove that Robin found disquieting. He wished he knew how to make it go away.
'I know what I asked of you was difficult,' he began, only to be sharply interrupted.
'You presume. It is not wise.'
There was honest anger in that, beneath the carefully accented words. Well, that was better than ice. Robin braced himself, went on.
'I know it brought you grief. He was your friend, your brother. I've never lost anyone close to me. I was too young when my mother died to remember her. And I've never had a brother, but …'
'Then you know nothing.'
'But I do have friends, Nasir, and I would flay myself raw before seeing harm come to any one of them. Even you.' No, that was wrong. The young man took a breath. 'Especially you.'
The dark eyes flashed, brief and hard, then looked away. 'There was no harm.'
Yes, Robin thought silently, there was. There was. Even if you never admit it. Aloud, he said, 'Malik, for God's sweet sake …'
'Blasphemy is not worthy of you.'
'And lying isn't worthy of you!' Robin burst out, suddenly angry. 'I'm your friend. Did you forget that? And I'll not let you sit here and brood all night and tell me no harm was done! Do you trust me or not?'
'This,' Nasir said stiffly, 'is not trust. This is …' He paused, sighed, raised one hand in a vague gesture of surrender. He sounded tired and drawn. 'Ya Allah, Rob, it's done. Leave be.'
'No. I know you. I know when you're holding things back.'
'You do not. And some things are not for you.' Final, that was, and firm.
'Nasir …'
'Imshi, Rob. Utruk'nee wahdi. Min fadlak.'
'Don't.' Robin glared. 'Don't talk to me in bloody Arabic. You do that when you want to avoid something. Use English, so I can understand.'
'You don't understand anything.'
'Then make me!'
Nasir looked at him for a long moment, thoughtful and outwardly calm. Then, very clearly, he announced, 'I said, "Go, Rob. Leave me alone. Please."'
Well, at least his manners had not failed. Robin threw up his hands in despair. Curse the man and his pride and his need and his fierce determination to hoard his pain and beat himself bloody with the dregs of it. If Robin had only cared for him a little less, he'd have let him do it and be damned. Instead, he cursed under his breath and said, 'That's a weak thing to say. Feeble.'
'Be careful, Robert.' There was a low, throbbing sound to the Saracen's quiet voice that Robin could not quite identify. Warning was part of it. The rest might have been pain, or it might have been something altogether else. All at once, Robin felt the anger ebb out of him. He had been going about this all the wrong way – Nasir would hardly yield to this. Flinging himself against the man's shields was not going to prompt him to lower them.
'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I am. It's only …' The young man shook his head, made an unhappy sound of bewilderment. 'I know what you did for us. For me. And I know you can't be as easy with that as you seem.' He sighed and frowned, then raised hopeful eyes. 'Nasir. Malik. Please. Let me help. Why won't you let me help?'
For a moment there was silence, and then, suddenly and shockingly, a barrage of Arabic, so swift and harsh that Robin could make out no more than only sound flung like stones. He almost gasped at the fury of it – and then he did gasp, eyes going wide as a strong hand closed on his throat and squeezed hard. Nasir's teeth flashed like a knife in the gloom, his eyes glinted bright and sharp. Then, as quickly as he had struck, he moved away, letting go all at once so that Robin fell forward with a lurch.
'You know nothing.'
And he was gone.
It is remarkable how quickly a man can lose control. If I were a coward, I would say it is his fault as much as mine. He will not let things lie. Merciful Allah, if any other man pushed me the way this one does, I would cut out his tongue and string it around his neck to teach him to use his words with respect.
But this is Robin, who calls me Malik when we are alone because it is the name I was born to and I shared that with him once as a gift, when he took his new name and wondered who he was. Sarak would have snarled at me for that, for giving him my name to sully with his infidel's mouth, but when Robin learnt that Malik means "king" he found it fitting, and said so. 'A prince should be called something princely,' he told me, laughing with those bright eyes. 'What's more princely than that?' No, I cannot silence that tongue, and I would kill any man who tried.
Even if, right now, I want to kill him myself.
I feel my hand close on his throat and hear my own words slash like fine Damascus steel, to the bone.
'You can't help because there is no help for it. Because some things are written, whether we will it or no. And because today I did for you what I would do for no other – not for ad-Din Sinan, not for my brothers of the Order. I lost my land and liberty for that refusal, and nearly my life, and now you come and you, you ask, only ask, and now I have done this thing and none can change it, and you will never know what it cost me, or that I hate how easily you sway me with your words and your loyalty and your friendship, and still you know nothing at all!'
Of course, he does not understand a word. He looks startled, and he has a right to; if I have surprised him, I have appalled myself. I did not know I was that angry. Or that irrational. To blame him for asking of me what others have asked before, and for less reason, only because this time I did not refuse? Where is the logic in that?
But this is grief, and grief does not bow to logic. And, by my heart, his kindness was not kind.
This time, when I leave, he does not try to follow.
Raising a hand to his neck, Robin touched the place where he could still feel the fading pressure of Nasir's furious grip. He stared into the dusk after his friend, amazed. He had never seen Nasir like that, never seen him lose his temper before now. The Saracen was always so in control, his self-discipline rigid to the point of pain. Now, at last, he had been pushed past the limit of endurance, and a part of Robin found it ironically amusing that the man could be unmoved by the sort of physical or emotional duress that would leave another in a weeping huddle on the ground, but be utterly undone by kindness and the offer of an open heart.
Another truer part of him found that distressing beyond words.
'Robin?' John pushed his way through the trees, face drawn tight with concern. Behind him, Will had his knife out, as if he expected to use it. 'Robin?'
'I'm here." Hauling himself upright, Robin drew a breath, winced at the way it seemed to catch in his bruised throat, and called out again. 'I'm fine.'
'What was all that bloody yelling about?' Will's eyes moved ceaselessly, looking for an enemy. John was still. Robin sighed.
'Nasir. He was … angry.'
That made John blink. "Naz? What did you say to him, lad? The last time I saw him let go like that was with those bloody Templars – he'd have killed them all, if Robi … if we'd let him. What did you say?'
'Nothing. And I don't know what he said to me, either, but it was probably something unflattering to do with my ancestry. Still, at least he's talking.' It was a poor joke. Will grunted, moved closer.
'Talking's not all he did,' he observed. 'Nice bruises you've got there. Try to rip your throat out bare-handed, did he?'
'No,' Robin said truthfully. 'If he'd tried to do that, I'd be dead. He only wanted to make sure I was listening.'
'Were you?'
'Yes.' That was true too; there were more ways of communicating than only words. 'Oh, yes.'
'Good,' Will said, tersely. 'You'll leave him be, then. Doesn't like people prying, that one. He put up with us today, down at the lake. That's all.'
'No,' Robin interrupted. 'Marhaban. It means welcome. He wouldn't have said it if he didn't mean it.'
'He's got the manners of a bloody prince, Robin; he'd say it just to be polite.' Will gave him a look of disgust. 'Leave him be. He's not a talker; he never was. Like as not he wants to forget the whole sorry mess. Bit hard to do that with you dredging it all back up, ain't it?'
He is a prince, you ignorant bastard. And he's bleeding. Robin did not say that out loud, though a part of him very much wanted to.
'Will's right, lad.' John shrugged in his heavy jerkin, looking like nothing so much as a shambling bear. 'He'll be back when he's ready. And ease off with the questions. He never answers them anyway.'
Yes he does, Robin thought, glancing over his shoulder once as he followed the others back to camp. He answers. You just have to open your eyes and listen.
Robin means well, I know that. He always means well. He meant well the first time he asked about my family, and about the struggle that tears my homeland apart, and about my cursed servitude to that misbegotten snake Belleme (may jackals eat his liver and piss on his bones!) and the things that still haunt my dreams. Robin doesn't know about memories that should be left to the shadows: his own life so far has all been bright sun. For his sake, I pray that it remains so. I would not like to see the light in him go dark.
I should not have struck him. My control should be better than that, stronger. It is to my shame that I acted so cheaply, lashing out like a spoiled child denied a favourite toy. Sarak would scorn me for my lapse. I can hear his voice, almost as if he were at my shoulder. 'Is this what I taught you? Have you forgotten yourself completely?'
No, Sarak, my friend. I forget nothing at all.
I did try to warn him. I knew his gentleness would be my undoing: I am better suited to silence and steel than to sweet words. There was a time when that was not so, but that time is not now. Not after this day, and this life.
I find myself at the broad pool that forms in the brook that is a tributary of the river the English call the Trent. This was my destination when I left camp, and my feet have remembered it even if my mind has not.
The water is bitingly cold, but not as bitter as it can be in the winter, when snow rests on the ground. I welcome the sting of it on my skin, the way it chases the whispers from my head. The Prophet, peace and blessings be upon him, teaches us that mind and body should be cleansed, purified, if we are to find our peace with Allah. Peace tonight would be a fine thing. To find it, I will do what I can. There is always sanctuary in prayer.
Ah, but Robin confounds me. What does he want from me? Tears and lamentations, rending of clothes and ashes in my hair? Even if my faith were not stronger than the need for that, still I would not give it to him. A man's grief is a private thing, surely. If he had known Sarak, perhaps then we would have some grounds on which to speak, to remember together the man he once was. But he did not, and no words of mine – English is a poor language, rough and simple and not enough, not ever enough – will make him see what he did not know. As for myself, if he wants me to cut out my heart and show it to him, he will be waiting a long time. There are secrets there that I can hope he will never see. Secrets I am not sure I want to see. It is best that way. It is best.
I told him that I hated how easily he could touch me, with his words and his foreigner's eyes. That was, for the most part, a lie. I don't hate that: I fear it and am drawn to it in equal measure. It puts me in mind of a sandstorm in the desert that a man must suffer through or die; a storm that might take all known ways and signs and leave a man flailing and lost, or that might uncover great treasure in its passing. One does not hate such as that. One respects its power and marvels at its beauty, but one does not seek it out.
Robin, sometimes, is like that storm. His eyes are the most striking blue. Like the faded sky on a hot day over the baking sands. And he has no business being kind.
It was Much, in the end, who decided things for Robin. The others had turned in, leaving only Will's drunken snoring rumbling through the camp and Much awake for the night's first watch. Marion had gone to her blankets safe behind the wall of Tuck's bulk, casting one long complicated glance at Robin as she went. Robin, who had read in her eyes only two words – not yet, not yet – felt a certain resignation at that. She had begun to soften towards him, to smile in spite of herself at his clumsy flirtation, but she was still with Loxley, in her heart. Still with that irreproachable other, whom Robert of Huntingdon could no more fight than he could fight a shadow, and no matter what name he took.
Nasir had not returned to the camp, for which Robin decided he was grateful. Will had set about determinedly getting drunk as soon as night had fallen, and John had matched him for long enough to lead to raised voices and blurred, off-kilter bawds that would have made a whore blush had the two of them been able to remember all the words. That they were celebrating being alive and free in the best way that they knew, Robin understood. He also understood that Nasir, reserved and stoical even on a good day, would have found in himself little patience for their lack of tact.
Much shifted where he sat near the low glow of the fire, drawing a tattered old cloak more tightly about his shoulders to ward off the growing chill. His eyes caught the dim red of the fire, making him look infernal in the dark. It was such an incongruous image that Robin smiled, stretching out opposite the lad with the fire between them. Much was the least infernal person he knew.
Wriggling his feet in front of the fire, Much announced, 'Nasir ain't back.'
'No.'
Much thought about that for a moment. 'He is coming back, ain't he?'
'Yes.' Robin was sure of that, if nothing else. After all, the man had no other place to go.
'Good.' Much nodded. He seemed to think about that too, then said, 'He don't usually stay away so long, is all. Usually just for when he does his praying and all, or if he's hunting. Or if Will's bein' too loud.'
'Will was pretty loud tonight.'
'Aye.' Much looked relieved. 'Aye, he were. Naz probably heard that and decided to sleep somewhere else. He's smart like that. He'll be back.'
Robin chuckled softly. 'The noise Will was making tonight, Gisburne probably heard him all the way in Nottingham.'
'D'you think so?' Much peered at him in worry, then smiled when he realised the joke. 'Aye, well. I hope it gave 'im nightmares.'
'I suspect Will gives Gisburne nightmares on a regular basis.'
Much seemed to find that thought cheering. He grinned, toeing another dry branch into the fire. 'Robin?'
'Yes?'
'That man Nasir killed today, the one what came with the new sheriff … Were they really friends?'
'Yes. A long time ago.'
'Oh.' Another thoughtful pause. Then: 'Only, it's hard to think of Nasir having friends, really. He just ain't the friendly type.'
That made Robin sit up, frowning. 'He has us, doesn't he? He's our friend.'
''Course he is. I know that. But …' Much grimaced, struggling to find the right words for what was in his head. Robin waited, watchful. 'But,' the lad said at last, 'he's always sort of on his own, ain't he? Even when we're all together. Always apart, like.'
That was more true than Robin could stand. He felt something inside him clench, leaving a cold dull ache. With a muttered curse, he got to his feet, reaching for his swordbelt and strapping it on. Much eyed him curiously.
'Where are you going?'
'To find Nasir,' Robin said. 'And bring him back.'
For one who grew to manhood in walls of stone, Robin does well enough in the forest. He has learnt stealth, and the patience of the hunter. It is not his fault if I know he is there long before he speaks. I can smell him, for one thing: the tang of wood smoke from the campfire, the low scent of Tuck's rabbit stew, the sharp taint of ale. Too sharp for Robin, really; he usually curbs his appetites when it comes to that.
I suppose I have been expecting him. He was never one for leaving a thing half done. When he calls my name into the dark, soft as a cat's paw, I can't help myself. I laugh because I have waited for him and I am glad.
The Saracen's voice came low and warm out of a deeper patch of dark by the bank of the brook. 'Robin. Allahu akbar, but you're as persistent as sand.'
'Is that a good thing?' Moving forward, Robin came to the other man's side, crouching on the edge of his shadow in a shifting fall of moonlight. 'Did I startle you?'
That earned him a slow, amused glance. 'Sand? Perhaps. Nothing stops it. It eats whole cities. There are places I have seen in the desert … And no, I am not … startled.'
'And here's me doing my best stalking.' Robin tried to make his tone light. 'How did you know I was here? An owl's alarm call? The scuttle of fleeing rabbits? A flutter of errant night birds against the moon?'
'No.' Nasir wrinkled his nose. 'Ale. You were drinking.'
'Ah.' Robin grimaced, casting a glance down at his soiled trews. 'Not really. Will was drinking. He was careless with his bowl.'
Nasir nodded, as if that made perfect sense. He gave the faintest of shrugs. 'Will is often careless.'
'He is.'
Silence. Then a deep breath, and Nasir said, 'As was I, tonight. Careless of my temper, careless of you.' Dark eyes came up, direct in the moonlight. 'I ask your forgiveness.' He raised one hand, gently tracing a line in the air around Robin's throat, not quite touching. 'For my words, and for … that.'
Sweet Christ on the Cross. Robin swallowed, looked away. His skin, where Nasir had not touched, pulsed warm. His voice came out rougher than he liked. 'Ask nothing. I provoked you.'
'Even so.'
'And no harm was done.'
Nasir's head dipped in acknowledgement. 'Even so.'
Robin laughed, a little desperately. To his own ears, it sounded oddly strangled. 'I didn't even understand what your words meant.'
'Even so.' Soft still, but implacable.
'Nasir …'
'Rob. Forgive, please. I would hear you say it.'
Robin drew a breath, let it out very slowly. It seemed to shudder in the air. He understood, in a deep, distant way, that it was not only he that Nasir was speaking to now, out here in the dark. Dead men, though, had no mercy at all: Sarak would not speak from the grave. Robin said it for both of them. 'If you want my forgiveness, poor as it is, you have it.' He wanted to set one hand on the other's shoulder, in friendship and support, no more. He didn't, not trusting, in this peculiar atmosphere that he did not understand, that such a gesture would not go wrong. 'You always have it.'
There was the faintest movement in the dark, but Robin didn't have to be able to see to know that Nasir had answered him with a lifted eyebrow and a twitch of a smile. 'Shokrun, sadiqi.'
'You called me that before. Earlier. At the lake.' Robin gave himself a shake, leaning forward to dip one hand in the brook's cool water and wipe it over his face. The cold thrill of it on his over-warm skin made him feel more alert, less like a stammering idiot. 'What does it mean?'
'Sadiqi?' Nasir shifted again in one of those tiny shrugs. 'My friend.'
'And am I?' Robin asked, because he had to. His eyes caught the moonlight, pale and silver, like hope. 'Malik? Am I?'
'Yes,' came the reply, barely above a whisper. 'You are.'
'Even …' Robin waved his hand in a vague, encompassing motion, taking in their differences, their silences, the gulf of words between them in the things they did not say. 'Even so?'
'Even so.' Reaching out, Nasir set two fingers, very lightly, on the back of Robin's hand, paused, then moved away. There was something strangely intimate in the gesture. 'Especially so.'
Robin felt his breath catch then, and had to look away. He felt sure that he had been given something just now, something of great value, even if he did not know what it was. He had the good grace not to question it, and to be silent until the moment passed.
It was Nasir who spoke first. Nasir, who could hold his silence for days on end, communicating only with a glance or a flick of his hand, said, 'If you have questions, I will answer. If I can. But some things …'
'Are your own. I know.' Robin smiled. 'No questions, Malik. Sidiqi. But if you would talk, I will listen. Is that enough?'
'For me? Yes.' Dark eyes glinted in the moonlight: Robin recognised the gleam of them as laughter. 'But for you?'
'It's enough.'
'Liar.' That was said affectionately, though. 'You Franks, you are full of questions. So full of questions you have no room for answers.'
'And you Saracens talk in circles. When you talk at all.'
Another amused glitter of eyes from the shadows. Then: 'He was a good man, in his heart. Before ad-Din Sinan drove him too hard, and he lost his way.'
So. They were talking about Sarak now, were they? Robin said nothing, only nodded.
'He remembered who he was, in the end. Saw a way to be good again, to make things right. He gave me back your lives when Mark would have taken them, and for that I am grateful.'
'As are we.' Robin looked thoughtful. He had wondered how Nasir had known so surely where they were and what to do. He supposed it made sense. Strange, though, to think that the difference between his sitting in Sherwood tonight and his head on a spike over Nottingham's gates came down to a Saracen warrior he had never met and Nasir's hidden past. Well, his father's chaplain had always said that God moved in mysterious ways.
'We were kin. He knew me almost from the time I was born. My training was given to him, when I was old enough. Knife, bow, sword. Mostly sword.'
'Would he regret that, now?' Robin asked, and chuckled as Nasir swatted him lightly around the head.
'No questions you said.'
'Can't help it. We Franks, remember?' Robin shifted, lying back on one elbow to make himself more comfortable. 'Would he?'
'You Franks. Yes.' Nasir paused, considering Sarak's last words of praise. Tidy work, the man had said, and meant it. 'I think not,' he answered, after a moment. 'He would be proud that I learned so well, I think. That I was worthy of him, in the end.'
Robin thought about that. There were times when Nasir's world seemed utterly incomprehensible to him, with its rules of courtesy and codes of honour and long proud traditions drawn from deep in the sands. And then there were times, like now, when Nasir was not incomprehensible at all.
'Did he know,' he asked, 'that you loved him? In the end?'
For a long while, Nasir did not answer. Robin was beginning to think that he was not going to, but then the man murmured something low and soft in his native tongue and dipped his head, conceding. 'He did.'
'Good. That's fitting.' Flicking back a stray strand of hair from his brow, Robin went on, 'Tell me one other thing. That … thing you just said. Yin sara't yisra'a jamal…'
Nasir laughed out loud. 'Stop! You butcher it.'
'I only heard it once, and you were mumbling.' Robin gave the other man a playful tap. 'What does it mean?'
'If you steal, steal a camel.' Nasir's accent blurred the words in odd places, sharpened them in others, making them sound exotic. 'And if you fall in love, fall in love with beauty.' He gave Robin a considering look, a little too long for comfort, then shrugged. 'If you tell the truth, tell it all. Yes, I loved him, as a brother, as a friend. Yes, he knew. We made our peace, in the end.'
There was something to that. Robin gave a slow, careful nod. 'And with us? With me? Can you do the same?'
Nasir frowned, tilted his head. Robin clarified.
'I sent you out there. I pushed. Do you forgive me for that?'
'Rob.' Nasir sounded surprised, then soothing, as if he were talking to a child. 'There is no forgiving …'
'But …'
'…because there is no fault.' The Saracen made a staying gesture with one hand, cutting off whatever Robin was going to say. 'These things come from a will greater than yours, I think.'
'But I …'
'Think you that your will is greater than God's? Would you blaspheme again? So soon?' Nasir's tone was gentle, though, to show he meant no threat. 'It was not your doing. How should I forgive you for bringing me no wrong?'
There was no point in arguing with that. Robin accepted it with a small smile. 'Peace, then?'
'Of course. Salaam. Peace.'
'Then come back to the camp. Please.' That did not win a response. Robin tried again. He said, very softly, 'You're one of us, Malik. We need you. I need you.'
'Soon.'
Damn the man. Robin frowned. Surely he wasn't still brooding? He had thought the Saracen was beyond that. 'Nasir …'
'You go. I will follow.' A faint, barely hinted at smile went with the words. 'Soon. My word on it.'
Pushing himself to his feet, Robin narrowed his eyes at the other man, thoughtful, half-concerned. 'Stealing camels again?'
'One last thing,' Nasir agreed. 'And yes, to be done properly. Go. I will join you soon.'
Robin nodded, then stepped to his friend's side and rested one hand, lightly and wordlessly, on his shoulder. Then he turned and disappeared into the night.
I am as good as my word. Once Robin is gone, I do the last thing that is left. Next to my heart, wrapped in wool and slipped beneath my jerkin, is the medallion Sarak left for me. I know it well; he left it for me once before, at Acre when he left everything else. We have traded this thing back and forward between us for years, it seems. I would have left it with him where he rests, but that did not seem right at the time. Now I know why.
The forest at night is alive, a whole and breathing thing. I, who have seen the beauty of the sprawling desert and cities of rose and gold, the gardens of Damascus in bloom, and water pour like music from fountains of marble that glitter in the sun, find this place at night, in the cool northern summer, more beautiful still.
When the moon is high, it strikes this pool in this brook just so, setting it all to silver. The medallion makes a soft splash as it falls, sending ripples of light over the water. The silver will rest among the stones and silt, and glimmer sometimes at the sky above, like a fallen star longing for home. And this is right. This is right.
Robin is in his blankets already when I return to the camp. He is awake, though, and greets me with his eyes.
'Get that camel?'
'Quiet, you. Sleep.'
'As if I could with that noise going on. Give Will a kick, will you?'
He has a point. Will is snoring fit to shatter stones. Kicking him will not help, I fear: I know from experience that when Scarlet is this drunk, he stirs for nothing. I drop a blanket over his head instead. It does a little to muffle the sound.
If, during my time in Masyaf, any man had told me that I would one day look upon a ragged group of uncouth Franks – or, worse yet, drunken English barbarians – and call them friends, I would have laughed at him and called him a fool. And if that man had also said that one of those Franks – pale skin, pale hair, bright pale eyes – would be a friend above all others, dear to my soul and close to my heart, I'd have killed him where he stood.
And I would have been the fool.
For truly, Allah is most great, and His wisdom is hidden from us.