Thanks Wenrom31 and North Wyn for your comments!

Oh boy - here's where things get really bad for poor Safiyah, so I tried to keep the "present-day" story (that is, her adventures with Will and Allan) reasonably light-hearted in order to keep the chapter from being too depressing, but I may have just ended up creating too much of a change in tone. However, it is what it is, and I hope you enjoy it despite the rapid leap from hi-jinks to tragedy.

(The problem is, Djaq's story is rapidly coming to a close, whereas there's still quite a lot of Safiyah's backstory to be told. I've cleared up a good chunk of it in this chapter, so hopefully the present day and the flashbacks will be more evenly handed in forthcoming chapters!)

Chapter Eleven: The Feast of Saint Radegund

It wasn't getting any easier. Every morning she'd awaken to the realisation that Djaq was dead, and each morning the pain was as sharp and excruciating as it had been the first time, when Syed had returned to the house with the news, looking so old and beaten that his daughter had hardly recognised him.

She still roamed the halls listlessly, gazing dumbly at doors, pathetically hoping that Djaq would burst through, laughing his head off and declaring that it had all been a practical joke. Had that been the case she would have forgiven him; forgiven him for all the bitter tears she'd shed, forgiven him for their parents' grief, forgiven him for anything and everything, so long as he was alive for her to do so.

Come home Djaq. Come home.

But he wasn't coming home, and her inability to change that fact was slowly but surely crushing her willpower. Having spent hours among the wounded and dying, she had been a witness to the grief of hundreds of families, and her father would always tell them the same thing: that it was the will of Allah, and that the pain would heal in time. Now that thought horrified her, the very idea that there might come a day in which she stopped missing her brother, that she might one day find herself able to live and function in a world in which she was not one half of a set of twins, but simply herself: Safiyah, alone.

The truth was, she didn't know who she was without him. All her life she had defined herself by her role as Djaq's twin sister, guiding him through his woes, participating in his pranks, vicariously living the freedom of a man through his exploits. Now she was just a shadow without the body that created it, bereft without the only soul on earth that could ever make her laugh.

Somehow she was expected to leave behind the memories of her foolish, mischievous, beloved brother. She was expected to cope with this, like an amputee without his limbs, and in time, those around her would want her to press on, as did the millions of other human beings in the world who had lost loved ones.

No. Surely her grief was special. No one on earth had ever mourned like she did now. She could never leave him behind, and the alternative…the alternative was to be caught in this listless, dragging, endless anguish for the rest of her days. Well, so be it. Djaq was dead and so was the piece of herself that had been made up of all that he'd stirred in her: laughter and tenderness and happiness and the sense that she was older and wiser beyond her years. Those parts of herself – the parts that she liked the most about herself – had gone with Djaq to his sandy grave.

Only Safiyah was left. Whoever she was. And now a week had passed, the first week of her life in which Djaq was dead and she was not.

That evening she went to see Thomas, having not been to visit since the funeral. Thomas had missed the first opportunity to join her uncle's caravan to Acre, and although her father had told her that he had explained the family tragedy, she knew that the young Englishman must be going mad with the desire to escape.

She changed into her boy's clothes automatically, winding the turban around her black hair, and keeping to the empty corridors on her way to his room. Later on, she would be surprised that she still had enough presence of mind to take such precautions – even later, she would come to realise that there was an aspect of her being that cared for her wellbeing even when the greater part of her did not; a part that instinctively carried out the actions she needed to perform in order to protect herself.

Knocking quietly on Thomas's door, she heard his answering tap (they had long ago worked out a system so that Thomas would know exactly who was coming) and let herself in.

"Djaq! Thank God!" he gasped, grabbing her by the shoulders and looking at her intently. "I thought…I wasn't sure…I mean, your father told me you were alright, but he said his son had…had died. And I kept hearing your name..." he trailed off, clearly baffled.

She looked up at his distraught face, unsure about how much her father had told him.

"It is my brother who died," she said dully. "His name was also Djaq."

It sounded ridiculous, but Thomas's face cleared in understanding, then relief, and finally sympathy.

"Djaq…" he muttered, his eyes glinting in the midst of his darkened face. "I'm so sorry."

She couldn't answer, as all of a sudden that terrible choking pain was upon her again, and she turned away swiftly to hide the tears pooling in her eyes. It would never do to show weakness to an Englishman. Thankfully, Thomas didn't try to comfort her, and she forcefully swallowed down her sudden desire to wail in despair, instinctively picking up and clutching one of her father's scalpels on a nearby tray. After a few moments, she'd composed herself, and turned around to face him.

He had retreated and turned around to give her some measure of privacy. His head was bowed, and she vaguely noticed that once again he'd neglected to smear the back of his neck with the dye her father had provided. White skin peered out at her from between the base of his hair-line and the collar of his shirt. White skin. Her hand suddenly repositioned the scalpel in her hand, as a new emotion began to course through her body.

Djaq had died defending his country. Died because Englishmen had invaded her homeland and begun to wage war on her people. She'd lost him forever, and why? Because of a war that had been imposed upon him, that had tricked him into believing that it was his duty to defend his home and family. Red hot rage suddenly filled her head, and her hand clenched the scalpel. Djaq had hated the English, hated them so much that they had leeched away his high spirits till only that stupid, pointless desire to run away from home had remained. It was the English who had brought this pain down upon her, and here stood one of them, right in front of her, at her mercy. Djaq had wanted to rid his land of the English – as his twin, perhaps she should avenge his death by following in his footsteps. She could start with this one. Rid her country of one more infidel. Make the English suffer. Almost unconsciously, she raised her hand, the sharp blade of the scalpel flashing in the light, the nape of Thomas's neck beckoning her forward…already she was picturing the flow of blood that would surge out of him when she plunged her tiny weapon into that white slope of skin. No one would ever know – no one knew Thomas was even here except Syed, and what would her father ever do to her? In a few weeks she would be beyond his control anyway…it would be so easy…

Suddenly Thomas spoke, still facing away from her.

"When I get back – back to England, I'm going to talk to the nobles. And the peasantry. Anyone who'll listen. I'll tell them that we shouldn't be here. That King Richard made a terrible mistake in coming here. After your family's kindness, how can anyone justify this war?"

He was mainly talking to himself, muttering rather ineloquently, but it was enough to bring her to her senses. Numbly, she returned the scalpel to her father's workbench, though she was troubled to find that the bitter resentment remained. She wanted Thomas gone. Gone from her house and her life forever.

"My uncle returns in two days time," she croaked. "He will leave again for Acre the next day. You can go with him then."

Thomas turned, but Safiyah avoided his eyes, afraid that he would see the lingering hatred there.

"Thank you Djaq."

She nodded shortly, and as she turned for the door she told him:

"The back of your neck. You've forgotten it again."

Her father was walking down the hallway outside, and when he saw her, he raised a shaking hand to his heart, the colour draining from his face. She stared at him oddly for a moment before she realised – in the same moment he did – that he had mistaken her for her brother.

"Safiyah," he said, sighing. "I thought…thought you were Djaq."

"Wasn't that the point of all this?" she asked, gesturing to her clothes.

"Yes. Yes I suppose so."

For a few moments father and daughter looked at each other, unfathomable expressions on their faces. Finally they moved forward and met in front of a small divan set in an alcove against the wall, taking a seat next to each other in silence. Opposite was a window that faced the evening sun, and as they watched, the hall in front of them gradually began to fill with a strange light that stained everything around them with a dark red hue. Safiyah wasn't sure whether to find it otherworldly or sinister.

After a few moments of silence, in which she could tell her father was hesitating on the verge of words, struggling to find the right ones, Syed finally spoke.

"I never…understood your brother."

She gave a small, sad sigh and gently brushed Syed's wrinkled hand with her fingers, not knowing what to say. It was true that Syed and Djaq had never gotten on, their personalities being such polar opposites that it hardly possible that they could be in the same family, let alone father and son.

After a few moments, he spoke again.

"Now I'll never have the chance."

She glanced over at him, witnessing abject defeat in his eyes, hearing the pleading in his voice, asking her to explain it to him.

"Djaq wasn't hard to understand," she told him. "He just wanted to be…happy. But he wasn't sure what would make him happy."

Syed stared out the window. He had not reacted in any way to her words, but she could only assume that he was pondering them deeply. Finally he turned to her and nodded, looking utterly defeated and resigned. She wondered if she'd done the right thing, hoping that there had not been any accusation in the assessment she'd given him.

Gently her father brushed her cheek.

"Regarding…your future," he said. "I would like you to stay here for longer. We can postpone things."

She shrugged, turning to the window and watching as darkness swiftly stole away the red glow of the desert sun. She didn't care either way. Sensing she didn't want to discuss it, Syed rose – as bent and weary as an old man, which she realized suddenly, he probably was – and patted her head before shuffling off down the hall.

She never saw him again.

Djaq crept out of the tiny cave as the sun broke over the tips of the treetops, and fell to her knees in the muddy earth for morning prayer.

Allah, let it be your will that this will work. Just once, let one of my plans be successful.

After a few moments – she had no time these days to indulge in lengthy prayers – she rose and turned to see Will and Allan watching her from the mouth of the cave, apparently fascinated by the ritual that was such an everyday occurrence to her. From behind his back, Allan pulled out the white shroud of her leper's costume and shook it at her invitingly, a grin breaking across his face.

Despite her jangling nerves, she could not help but smile back.

The three of them prepared in silence, pulling their robes – white for Djaq, brown for the boys – over their normal clothes, but there was a sense of enjoyment hovering in the air. There was something inherently fun about disguises and subterfuge, no matter how serious the consequences surrounding them.

Djaq reluctantly handed her sword over to Will, who strapped it alongside his own around his waist. It was not out of the ordinary that friars carried swords for self-defence, and though it was a little odd that Friar Scarlett would be wearing two, a heavily armed leper would be even more suspicious. Djaq watched stood still as Allan carefully wrapped gauze bandages around her hands, before Will held the end of one long white bandage against the back of her neck whilst Allan wound its length around her head, leaving only a tiny slit for her eyes.

"Well?" she asked, her voice muffled through the folds of the cloth.

"You look horrific," Allan told her cheerfully. "I wouldn't touch you with a three-foot pole."

She supposed that was a good thing.

"Let's go over this one more time," Will said, a little nervously. "We travel to Nottingham gates. Hopefully the guards will let us pass without interruption."

"Right – then we escort Djaq to the church, along with all the other lepers."

Allan looked distinctly queasy about that part. She picked up the train of thought.

"Then at the entrance of the church, we sneak around the back to the castle walls to this…um…"

"Chute," Will told her. "Where the kitchen staff throw away all the rubbish from the kitchens. It isn't pleasant, but it doesn't take much effort to hoist yourself up there."

"Then it's a simple matter of avoiding guards, following Marian's map, and finding K…what's-his-name," Allan said. "And then getting out again without anyone seeing us."

Djaq was glad her head coverings were hiding the guilty expression on her face as she realized just how much danger these two were placing themselves in for the sake of her little gambit. For a few moments, the three of them stood in a small circle, preparing themselves mentally for whatever the day's events might bring, and then nodded silently to each other.

"Let's go," Allan said quietly, raising his hood.

As they neared Nottingham Djaq acquired a shuffle in keeping with her role as a leper, and Will inched nearer to her as the gates appeared before them and the flow of people in and out of the township suddenly increased. The helmeted guards either side of the raised portcullis fixed their flinty eyes on her limping figure, and the crowd gave the three of them a very wide berth, but no one attempted to interfere. She felt horribly exposed and conspicuous in this get-up, but as Allan had explained when he'd first come up with this idea, it was safer for her to be hiding in plain side rather than lurking in backstreets, where no doubt her fellow Saracens and the men they'd hired to find her would be searching.

Once inside the walls of Nottingham, Djaq spotted several other white-shrouded, hunched-over figures, many of whom carried wooden clappers or tin bells that heralded their coming. The noises they made were inevitably followed by a dispersion of the village-folk. Some were accompanied by stoic-faced churchmen, but more often than not they moved in little groups of their own. One in particular caught her attention; a small looking leper whose size suggested that behind the bandages there struggled an adolescence. Her heart ached for the solitary figure, skulking in the shadows in a pathetic attempt to remain unnoticed. She was an outcast in a foreign country – how much worse it would was to be an outcast in one's own country.

Watching the way in which the people drew away from the lepers – including herself – as they moved through the streets, she was suddenly glad of Allan and Will's reassuring presence either side of her – even if Allan was compromising their disguise by shying away from the real afflicted lepers. They turned a corner and Djaq found herself looking at a large grey building with a cross-shaped window carved into the stone and a tall bell-tower at its rear. This was where Christians came to worship, she told herself. Praying to a god to help justify their destruction of my home. Pushing down the sudden (but disturbingly familiar) surge of bitterness, Djaq tried to take in her surroundings as best she could through the tiny sliver in the cloth.

There was a slow but relatively steady stream of lepers filtering through the large wooden doors of the church, and a crowd of nobles (she could tell by their clothing) milling about outside, all with expressions ranging from grotesque fascination, to angelic pity, to supreme revulsion. It was as though they had all arrived for street-entertainment without fully knowing what it was they expected to see, or whether or not they should be enjoying the spectacle. With a jolt she recognised Marian, flanked by an older man that she assumed was her father, and a larger, black-clad man whose hawk-like eyes stared distastefully over the small white handkerchief he held over his nose and mouth. He lowered the cloth momentarily in order to lean down and say something to Marian, who simply nodded impassively and turned her attention back to the crowd in front of her.

That must be Guy of Gisbourne, Djaq thought. Despite registering his arrogant posture and cruel expression, she could understand why Robin might feel a little threatened by his attentions to Marian. Yet Marian herself seemed a little uncomfortable at Guy's close proximity, and was perhaps displaying a level of interest in the lumbering progress of the lepers that she didn't necessarily feel.

Djaq turned her attention back to the church doors, letting Will and Allan take her by the arms as though she was barely capable of walking, watching as the priest by the door sprinkled water over the heads of the lepers as they entered. He was a young acolyte, and looked like he'd rather be somewhere – anywhere – else but here. Somewhat curious as to what the inside of a Christian temple looked like, Djaq craned her neck to see the interior, but Allan and Will were gently ushering her to the side of the church, preparing to make their dash for the castle walls.

It was then Djaq gave a small cry that made Will jump and tighten his grip on her arm, but she quickly shrugged him off and gestured discreetly to the source of her alarm. Amongst the crowd were two Saracen men, finely dressed, heavily armed, and with watchful eyes scanning the crowd. Like the lepers, most of the Englishmen and women were keeping their distance, save for one stodgy man that Djaq had recognised as the leader of the men that the outlaws had ambushed in the forest – the one that she had threatened with her "truth serum." Now he was muttering something to one of the Saracens, looking sullen and tired.

"Do you know them?" Will hissed in her ear.

"No…but they must be Khalid's men. I'm sorry – seeing them just startled me. Let us keep going."

But her reaction had caught the attention of the acolyte at the church door, and he called out to them.

"You there! Lepers enter the church from this entrance. Don't you want to be blessed?"

"Yeah, it's all right, er…brother," Allan yelled back. "He's feeling a little poorly at the moment."

Djaq obediently went limp and fell back into Will's arms.

"We're just gonna let him lie down for a moment," Allan explained as Will half-dragged, half-carried her around the corner of the church. "Be back soon!"

Will released her (somewhat reluctantly, or so it felt) once they'd reached the odd, cramped space between the back of the church and the high wall of the castle keep, and a few moments later were joined by Allan.

"All clear," he said. "As fascinating as it sounds, no one really wants to see a leper fall apart."

Djaq yanked the cloth off from around her head, thoroughly sick of it, and pulled apart the bandages around her hands.

"Rubbish chute now?" she asked breathlessly.

"This way," Will said, nodding his head down the length of the high wall and taking off at a fast-paced jog. Djaq and Allan were close behind, and a few minutes later Will pointed at a small chute situated one-quarter of the way up the wall, a pungent smell emerging from the large stone bin that was built below it. Will hoisted himself up onto its rim, wincing as he cast a glance down into its contents, and then edged around to the chute itself.

"All clear," he told Djaq and Allan softly, and they scrambled up to join him, Djaq teetering dangerously close to the pile of kitchen waste rotting away below her. Steeling herself, she followed Will as he pulled himself up and into the dingy hole in the wall, shuffling up its tilted slope till he disappeared down into the small courtyard on the other side. He reached up to help her down as she reached the end of the small tunnel, and as much as she hated the chivalric gesture (she still hadn't given up her hope that one day she'd be treated like a man whilst among these outlaws) she knew that jumping down from such a height could only end with her face-down on the paving stones. Taking his hands, she hopped down as lightly as she could and sent up a quick prayer to Allah that he'd allowed her to land with a reasonable amount of grace. Which was more than could be said for Allan, who lost his footing and ended up sprawled at her feet. He picked himself up and glared at Will.

"Thanks for the hand, mate."

Will mumbled an apology, and the three of them thankfully pulled off their stained and smelly robes, though to Djaq's surprise Allan carefully folded each one up and tucked them under his arm.

"What do you want to keep them for?" Will asked.

"Hey, these are top-quality disguises," Allan said defensively. "It took a lot of time and effort to nick these."

Will and Djaq cast a semi-amused glance at each other, before Djaq turned her attention to her new surroundings. The courtyard was full of small gardens full of neat lines of vegetables and other plants that she couldn't identify at a glance. She had to admit that despite the stench of their unlawful entrance into the castle grounds, the rubbish deposit was the perfect way of entering undetected, considering the nobles of the castle wouldn't deem a simple kitchen garden worthy of guarding – if indeed, they even knew that such a garden existed.

"This way," Allan said, once Will had returned Djaq's sword to her and she'd buckled it firmly around her waist. "We'll cut through the kitchens – none of the workers there will mind – and then take a gander at Marian's map."

Feeling a little nervous at the thought of being witnessed by so many people, but trusting that Allan knew what he was doing (after all, surely the outlaws had snuck into the castle hundreds of times) she followed without argument.

The kitchens were noisy, steamy, crowded and bustling, with what seemed like a hundred different people trying to achieve several different things at once, with each one needing the same space and resources that all the others did. The workers of the kitchen – made up entirely of women – barely glanced up as the outlaws threaded their way through stacks of food and boiling cauldrons and sweaty bodies, though Djaq did hear a slight muttering pass through the ranks: "Outlaws…Robin Hood…"

As they reached the door and Will took a swift glance out in either direction, she heard Allan grumble beside her:

"It's always Robin Hood…never Robin's loyal subjects…"

"Shhh, come on," Will said from the door and ushered them out into the comparatively dark and quiet hallway. Seeing that the hall was remarkably free of guards, Will pulled the folded map out of his pocket and smoothed it out on his knee.

"I can't understand it," he said, and Djaq looked up to see Will and Allan staring at her expectantly.

Misinterpreting their intention, she assumed that the map was too roughly drawn to be followed properly, and she searched her brain for another solution. Finding a perfect opportunity to test out the newfound word in her vocabulary, she gestured to the door they'd just passed through.

"Perhaps we should ask the lads in there."

Now it was the boys' turn to look blank.

"What lads?" asked Allan.

She opened her mouth for a sarcastic retort, but the sudden realisation that she might not have properly translated the word "lads," made her face redden.

"The…lads," she said weakly. "It does not mean a group of people?"

Allan began to chuckle.

"Yeah, it's a group of people alright – a group of man-shaped people."

Djaq sighed in frustration. She hated being wrong, almost as much as she hated being laughed at.

"Besides," Will was saying. "They probably can't read either."

He handed over Marian's map, and the problem suddenly became clear to her. Will and Allan couldn't read, and it was up to her to read the instructions Marian had scrawled across the hastily-prepared parchment. Glancing over it, she soon had the necessary directions.

"We're close," she told them. "Just up these stairs and down a few halls."

"Lead the way," Allan told her, and this she did, holding the map before her as she went.

Safiyah awoke on the narrow divan, having fallen asleep there after her father's departure. Groggily, she raised her head – what was that noisy, shuffling sound, as though dozens of people were racing through the halls? And what was that odd smell? It couldn't possibly be smoke…

She jolted to her feet when a scream ripped through the air. Something was happening. Someone was inside her house. Instantly her thoughts raced to her parents, but as she started down the corridor toward her father's room she was met with the sight of thick black smoke pouring from around the corner, along with the pulsating shock of incredible heat. Suddenly the noises she'd only vaguely registered in the back of her mind intensified: along with screaming and the movement of rushing bodies there was the crackle of fire, and the more distant sounds of chaos on the streets. Her drowsy mind quickly shifted into gear as adrenaline poured through her system, and her mind flitted over the possibilities.

A raging fire was cutting off her passage to the bedrooms – and Thomas was still in the surgery room. What if someone had found out he was here? What if her family was being punished for aiding an enemy of the country? Her protective instincts kicked in, and she rushed back to Thomas's door, not bothering to knock as she threw it open. He tumbled out of his small cot in fright, and looked up at her through his dishevelled hair.

"Huh? What's going on?"

"I don't know!" she cried, forcing herself to remain calm. "There's a fire – we have to leave!"

Thomas jumped to his feet and grabbed the small bag that Syed had filled with necessary supplies for his trip to Acre. Safiyah scrabbled about in her father's medical and scientific equipment, unsure of what to take and what to leave – all of his tools were infinitely precious, and couldn't be left to burn.

"Djaq!" Thomas shrieked, and she spun around to see a shadowy figure lumbering toward her, a sword flashing in the dim light. Instinctively her hand reached for the nearest weapon, and closed around a tiny bottle. Praying for a miracle, she flung the contents in the figure's face, and felt a sharp thrill of spiteful glee when her attacker reeled back, screaming in fright and agony.

Acid, she thought triumphantly, darting around the stumbling figure and into Thomas, who grabbed her arm and pulled her into the hallway, now full of thick smoke.

"Who was that man?" Thomas cried as Safiyah slammed the door shut behind them, blocking the sounds of pain from her would-be killer.

"Don't know!" she yelled back. It had been too dark to see if he'd been a Saracen or an Englishman. "We have to find my parents!"

They rushed away from the fire that was now billowing out from the end of the hallway, hearing the sounds of panic everywhere. As they turned the corner into the living areas Safiyah skidded on something, and as Thomas roughly hoisted her upright, she realised with mounting horror that it was a pool of blood. She could hear loud crying, and voices screaming out, and horses whinnying in fright from outside. Suddenly some of the voices became clear: they were English voices, and they were shouting out instructions to burn and loot the place.

Crusaders! she thought. Here! In my house!

Neither one of them were safe, not a young Saracen maiden, nor a man disguised completely in face paint and Eastern clothes. They had to flee while they had the chance, before someone spotted them, but she couldn't abandon her home. She couldn't leave whilst her parents were still somewhere inside.

The instinct to flee crashed inside her head with the desire to find her remaining family, and her indecision gave Thomas the advantage in pulling her along behind him, frantically searching for an exit. Having never seen the interior of Safiyah's house he was running blind, and she could feel his panic increase, though her mind was too frantic with fear and indecision to take charge. They burst through a set of doors into the woman's quarters, and Safiyah charged in, screaming for Fatima.

"She's not here!" she wailed. "My mother!"

From upstairs came the sound of dreadful screaming, and Safiyah quailed at the thought of what might be happening, shrinking away from the noise even as she told herself that she should run to the rescue. Better to be killed as a man than live on as a woman after such horror, and she longed desperately for a weapon – any weapon. She turned to Thomas frantically – all she needed was a knife, but her words disappeared into a strangled yelp at the sight of three armoured crusaders tearing into the room, carrying drawn swords and flaming torches.

"No!" Thomas cried, leaping in front of Safiyah, his arms out in supplication. "I'm English! We're both English!"

But the eyes of the crusaders were hazy with madness and bloodlust, and from behind Thomas's protective body Safiyah's eyes darted around the room for something to defend them with. There was nothing. Never mind then – she would use her teeth and fingernails! A feral growl was rumbling in her throat, she began to crouch in anticipation of springing forward as Thomas continued to stammer and cry out his allegiance.

In the moment before she flew at the invaders, to meet almost certain destruction on their blades, someone else reached them first. A black-clad figure, shrieking and ululating like a crazed spirit tore out from the entrance of the staircase and flung itself at the men, clawing and biting and shaking them with a fury that gave it a wild strength. Fatima had always been such a frail woman, and now with her veil torn away and her slender fingers bent into vicious claws, the writhing, shrieking, hacking sight of a middle-aged woman throwing herself at three fully-armed men seemed nothing short of ludicrous.

With a snarl of vicious pride, Safiyah lunged forward to join her mother in tearing at the infidels, only to let out a howl of defiance when two arms fastened around her waist and began to drag her away. Fury dissipated instantly into stark terror as her mother's body was swiftly overcome by the men she attacked and Safiyah found that all she could do was watch as the indistinct scene of three men overpowering her mother shrank before her eyes as she was dragged away. With a mighty crash Thomas hurled the two of them through the delicate wooden shutters, and fell backwards onto the paved courtyard where she and her brother had spent so many hours in each other's company. Fire roared from the upper stories of the house, screaming and shouting filled the air, but all Safiyah was aware of was the horrific silence that was now coming from the room she had just been pulled from. Why couldn't she hear her mother?

Crying out words that made no sense, Safiyah struggled back to the destroyed window, only to be thwarted once again by Thomas's arms clamping themselves around her shoulders.

"It's over Djaq!" he shouted in her ear. "We have to run!" Far beyond the capacity for words, Safiyah simply screamed and struggled, her hands tearing at the air before her as though she could somehow use it to pull herself forward. But there was nothing to be done as Thomas dragged her backwards, as the fire from the top floor swept over the rest of the house, as in one terrible moment that would haunt her for the rest of her life, the roof collapsed and buried whatever life still remained under its burning weight.

Hers was not the only house that had been attacked. As the two rushed out into the street it seemed to Safiyah that the whole city was on fire, with armed crusaders crashing through the debris on horses and her own people racing about in every direction, unsure of whether to fight the flames or run for safety – wherever that might be. Either way, they were cut down where they stood, and that night she owed her life to Thomas as he pulled her away, though at the time she felt nothing but hate toward the youth who was forcefully denying her the death that had been rightfully hers.

He yanked her through smoking ruins and darkened streets, clamping a hand over her mouth when her grief and shock could not be contained, and whispering garbled pleas and apologies and orders in her ear. She fought and scratched and tried to bite him, but he was panic-stricken now, finally dragging her into a darkened alley and using his last remaining strength to pin her to the sandy ground.

"It's over Djaq," he told her. "They're gone."

True story: I told my sister the outline of this chapter and she started crying. Needless to say, it was not pleasant doing this to my poor Djaq/Safiyah, and I'm afraid it's only going to get worse (there's still a slave-ship to come, remember?)

However, the good news (for you lot, anyway) is that Chapter Twelve isn't that far away. When writing this chapter I realised that once again it was FAR too long and I had to make some significant cuts - which means that quite a lot of the next installment is already written. Expect Djaq being rather impressed by Will and Allan's unique abilities at guard-evasion and door-breakage.

Reviews always welcome - I like to know that you're out there!