Nexus Point

28

Jabr leaned close, his dark eyes searching Paul’s face with a look akin to longing. “Tell me, Do-Rahlan, are you a king; a lord of many lands?”

“What? Why would you ask a thing like that, Jabr?”

They sat in a hidden chamber within the sanctuary of the library, and Jabr had fired coals in a low iron brazier to heat water for coffee and a meager meal. Jabr had rubbed warm oil on a few scratches Paul had suffered in his fall. His left shoulder and back had taken the worst, but it was nothing that would not heal in a few days time.

“Would you wear rich robes in your homeland, and place a golden crown upon your head?” Jabr’s eyes brightened with the light of discovery, his head cocked to one side, bent by curiosity.

“You’re really are serious, aren’t you?”

“And would you wield a great axe in need, the bane of all your enemies? Tell me, is it so? Is that why you were chosen to pass the Well of Souls?”

Paul smiled. “Jabr, I’m afraid that you are as much a mystery to me as I may seem to you most of the time. To answer you truly, no, I am not a great king. I have no lordly robes and there’s never been much of anything on my head but this unruly mop of hair. Why would you ask such things?”

Jabr, hesitated, as if he were trying to decide what to do. Then his expression warmed and he spoke. “Because of the token you carried.” His voice lowered and he turned his head, watching the entrance of the room with suspicion.

“Token? What are you talking about?”

“Forgive me, Do-Rahlan. I have done a thing that may be cause for my death.” He reached in his robes and drew out a small object, his hand unsteady as he handled it, as though he was afraid it would bite. Paul leaned forward to see what he held and a broad grin crossed his face.

“Well I’ll be… Where did you get that? You found that in my pocket, yes?”

“I do not know what possessed me,” said Jabr, his voice laden with contrition. “It is written that all clothing and effects of the Walkers should be gathered and burned in the forge of purity.” Again he cast a sidelong glance at the arched doorway. “I was bearing these things away and this object must have slipped from the bundle. I came upon it in the corridor an hour later, and thought it very strange. Indeed, I should have taken it to the fire at once, but… something gave me pause. I stared at it, as though charmed, and saw it was the image of a lordly king with a golden crown set upon his head. He was dressed in finery of many colors, and his eyes were fixed fast upon a great red diamond where a hand reached to grasp it by his shoulder. Behind the king’s head was an axe with a sturdy red haft.” He handed the object to Paul, his hand shaking visibly now.

Paul took it with a smile. “And you believed it to be some token or talisman, did you? You thought this was my image on the card?”

“It was forbidden to withhold such a thing,” said Jabr, “but it was so alluring that I could not bear to cast it away. Is it magic?”

“Magic? No. It’s just the King of Diamonds—or half of one. My friend Kelly has the other half. We cut it in two and laminated the halves so they would last longer. It was a sign of our bond to one another, and the promise of our friendship.”

“Then this friend of yours was a great sorcerer! I have never seen glass worked to such a thickness. It bends, but does not break!”

“Glass? You mean the plastic lamination?” Paul realized that Jabr would not know what he was talking about and changed his tack. “Yes, he is quite the wizard, my friend,” he said. “I would surely like to see him now, Jabr, because I think I’m in a bit of a fix here. I’m still not exactly sure how I got here, but yet, here I am… and there you are, and Taki ad Din is riding south in the night.” He folded his arms, a vacant expression on his face. “I don’t belong here, Jabr. You understand? I’m out of place, lost, and I don’t know how I’ll get home.”

Jabr’s eyes mirrored the forlorn expression on Paul’s face. “Then you know what lies ahead,” he said softly. “You know the fate that awaits you?”

“Me? My friend, I know the fate that awaits many, all of us, in fact. If I thought about it long enough I could quote you chapter and verse—all the history yet to come, the wars, the famine, the great deeds of kings, and the soaring muse of poets and scholars. I could tell you stories for hours on end, of all that might be—a regular Nostradamus.” Paul sighed heavily. “But my lips must remain forever sealed,” he said sullenly. “I cannot speak a word of the things I have seen; the things I know. My very presence here is an insult in time, an offence, a great transgression…”

He suddenly had a cold thought that his fate was darker than that of a simple man marooned in another time, destined to live out his days there alone. No! He was right in what he said just now. He was not supposed to be here. His fall was an unaccountable accident, a quirk; mere happenstance—and yet here he was! Something in that fall had sent him tumbling into the past.

Now his own theory emerged in a chorus of doubt and fear. He didn’t belong. Time would not bear this insult, and Paradox would have its way with him sooner or later.

“That’s it,” he said aloud. “I’ve been in a Nexus Point all this time! That’s why I’ve been able to sustain myself in this era, but I must have done something to change things somehow. My simple presence here was the knock that has opened some great door, and all the world is swinging on the hinge.”

Jabr’s eyes were wide as he listened, not understanding much of what he heard. But one thing came through the words, and he could sense the distress and emotion of the stranger. He touched Paul on the knee, gently, yet with an inkling of fear. “So you know,” he said quietly. “Those who come through the well often speak in such words. They see things, and hear things beyond our ken. We have thought them to be Angels sent from Jibra’el himself to work divine will upon the land, but they are only men; gifted men to be sure; men of great vision and skill, but doomed to die, as we all must. I am sorry that your time is running out, Do-Rahlan.”

Paul was lost in his own internal reverie, but he heard the emotion in Jabr’s tone as well and focused on the meaning. “Running out?”

“It is the seventh day,” Jabr said solemnly. “All those who come through the Well of Souls have but seven days to walk among us. Then they are called home to the place that was prepared for them.”

“Called home? Yes…” It all made sense to Paul now. The Nexus could only hold them safe and secure in this milieu for a given interval. Then they would be called back, just as he and Nordhausen were extracted from the mission in 1917 that started all this. The sand in the half-life clock ran out, and the retraction scheme was ready and waiting to rescue them from the mystery of their experience in the past. It found the pattern signature taken from them in the Arch and brought them home to the world where they belonged.

“But I am so sorry, Do-Rahlan.” Jabr’s eyes were glassy as he spoke, his voice unsteady. “It was said that you were not prepared. There is no home for you now, and the time is running out. A Walker has but seven days, and when the moon sets tonight, the end will come for you, I fear. My only hope is that peace will be upon you, and the wolves of misfortune will seek your spirit in vain.”

Paul heard the words this time, and his mind raced through the metaphor, transcribing it all with elements of his own time theory as Jabr spoke. He remembered Kelly; remembered that awful moment when they emerged from the Arch, jubilant, and found that their friend was gone, erased, his life snatched away as time engendered Paradox to balance her books. “The wolves of misfortune indeed,” he whispered. Still. One hope returned to him, a slim chance, but one he might gamble on. He looked at the token in his hand, his Red Arrow, and an idea occurred to him.

“Is there a very secret place in this library,” he asked. “A special place, where something might be written that will last a thousand years in peace?” A melancholy tone pervaded his voice, and even as he spoke he realized the bleak prospects for his plan.

“The Archive,” said Jabr. “We have a secret cache of manuscripts, forbidden to all but initiates. Why do you ask, Do-Rahlan?”

“I have a request—a last wish, if you would be so kind to grant me one.”

“Anything,” said Jabr, smiling through tears.

“Take this token and place it in your archive, will you?”

Jabr nodded understanding. “I would be honored, Do-Rahlan. There is a copy of the Koran that has been stored here for two centuries. I am permitted to touch it. I would be honored to bring it now, and to read to you during these last hours. Will you hear the verse?”

“Please,” said Paul with a smile. “I cannot think of a better way to end my days, Jabr. Go and fetch your book, and I will listen as you read.”

Jabr was very pleased. His duty as Mukasir had been fulfilled! It was his to greet the uninitiated, the unenlightened, and offer unto them the pathway opened by the Holy Koran. He hastened away, animated with hope and an energy of great purpose.

A moment later he returned with an old, leather bound volume. Its leaves were smooth papyrus, and the edges of the pages had been painted with gold. He opened the book, with great reverence, bowing low and whispering a silent invocation as he did so.

“I will go slowly,” he said, “for the words are written in Arabic, and I must translate. Hopefully, we will be granted a last interval of time for the verse to touch your heart.”

“As God allows,” said Paul. He settled into the bolster by the wall, closing his eyes and listening as Jabr began.

“In the name of Allah, the Compassionate, the Merciful. All praise is due to unto Him, the Lord of the Worlds, the Beneficent, the Merciful; Master of the Day of Judgment. Thee do we serve and call upon for help in time of need. Keep us on the right path, replete with the favor of Thy will; not the path set down for those who go astray.

“This Book, without any doubt, is a guide to all those who guard against evil. Those who believe in the unseen and keep faithful in prayer, and those who believe in that which has been revealed – It is they who are sure of the hereafter. They are on a right course set down by their Lord and truly, they shall be successful…”

29

Kelly stared at the King of Diamonds on his terminal, still struggling with the notion that it might be the mate to the card he held in his hand. How could this be? Yet the chilling call from Nordhausen about Paul harried him, and his gut told him something had happened.

“Paul has traveled in time?” Maeve was immediately skeptical. “Robert must be off his block. Does he think this technology is on sale at Sears or something? We’ve got millions of dollars with of equipment here, a facility half the length of a city block, an electric bill that’s astronomical—and that’s even with our own on-site power generation.”

“I know it sounds crazy,” Kelly agreed. “Yet add it all up, Maeve. Paul is apparently missing, and something has convinced Nordhausen that he’s shifted in time. What that may be is anyone’s guess. He mentioned someone else in that message—Rasil, and it was clear that he didn’t want the guy to find out about that phone call. Would you agree?”

“I’ll give you that, but where was he calling from?”

“Let’s find out.” Kelly swiveled quickly in his chair and keyed several commands. “The calls are being logged with GPS data riders now—in fact they’ve been tracking cell and satellite phone calls for years because of this terrorist thing. Let’s see… The corporate account here allows us to access the GPS data as a security feature. Here it is. The call originated from these coordinates.” His fingers were a blur on the keyboard and Maeve instinctively bit her lip, remembering that errant keystroke that sent Paul and Robert off to the late Cretaceous. “It’s near the Arabian border with Jordan—Wadi Rumm!”

“That’s not where the dig was.”

“No. It’s well south and west of the place where they found the Ammonite. What was Robert up to here?”

“Probably trying to slip the thing out of the country illegally, if I know him.” Maeve folded her arms, a disapproving frown tugging at her features.

“I’ll have a few Golems take a look at some real-time data base servers on satellite imaging.” Kelly was all business again. “Let’s have them fetch any unusual imagery from the vicinity of these coordinates.”

The Golems did not disappoint. In a matter of minutes they had returned links to NASA and private industry data bases, one of which had some unusual readings on infrared. “Something was generating a lot of heat near the source of this call,” said Kelly. “Getting other readings as well.”

Maeve sighed. “Alright, let’s say something is going on there. God only knows what. Let’s give Robert the benefit of the doubt. God only knows why. Let’s say Paul was with him and something happened to him—perhaps a residual effect of the original time shift.”

“Right,” said Kelly. “We may be seeing some kind of after effect that is commonplace. Maybe he’s slipped out of sync and lapsed somehow. Maybe we didn’t have a good hold on him when we brought him back.”

“Why not call Robert back with the redial feature on your phone?”

“No, he sounded spooked. I’m as tempted as you are, but it was clear to me that he did not want to be discovered making that call. We have to assume he’s in some kind of danger here as well.”

“From this Rasil?”

“Right—an Arabic name, if I’m not mistaken.”

“This is starting to smell,” said Maeve. “What if someone found out about our first mission and the bad guys are up to some mischief here?”

“Terrorists? We re-wrote that whole history. Ra’id Husan al Din was never even born in this Meridian.”

“True,” said Maeve, “but think for a minute. We could have never completed that mission without help from Mr. Graves. He was carrying the vital clues that enabled us to zero in on the incident at Kilometer 172. Remember how desperate he seemed? His little group of scientists and researchers in the future were on their last legs. It was all they could do to get a single man through the shadow cast by Palma so we could use the Arch from here. And Graves waited seven years in this Meridian to make contact with us. That’s patience, planning, and real determined intent. Suppose someone else from that era didn’t like what Graves and his fellows accomplished?”

“You think the Meridian is being tampered with by someone in the future?”

“Obviously! We’ve been sitting here on the only Arch known to be in existence right now, and then your little Golems start going crazy and we get a phone call saying Paul has shifted in time. We just finish locating the probable origin of the variance, at least the temporal locus. The contamination all begins late June of 1187, right before one of the most pivotal moments in the history of the conflict between the Western world and the Muslims. Everything before that time is quietly green on the chronometer.” Maeve was piecing it all together now, just as she would fashion her briefing arguments for the Outcomes Committee.

“The Golems flag a high variance data file,” Kelly continued her train of thought, “and we’ve got an image of a token I know Paul carried with him at all times—right there, near this place called Masyuf.”

“Ma-sigh-af,” Maeve corrected him again.

“Right – exactly where we isolated the beginning of the Heisenberg Wave. He’s there, Maeve. Thick as thieves with the Assassins—the prototype for all our modern day fundamentalist terror cells. I just know it.”

Maeve stared at him, deep in thought. Her mind was ticking off details, drawing silent conclusions, the look in her eyes reflecting her inner states. “I agree,” she said. “Now, what do we do about it? We didn’t send Paul anywhere. We’ve no pattern signature on him for this jump and, correct me if I’m wrong, we need that to bring him back. Right?”

“Generally…” Now it was Kelly who was working the problem in his head. He took off his baseball cap, and scratched the back of his neck. “I was moved without a pattern signature,” he said slowly. “Paul said it was possible if you have an exact location on someone. That’s how Graves and company pulled me out. They saw my location on the DVD footage from Paul’s security camera. We talked about it privately afterwards. Paul seems to think that when someone travels in time their very presence is offensive, as he termed it, in the new Meridian. Time doesn’t want them there. She’s a bit like you, Maeve: a place for everything, and everything in its place.”

“So we get Paradox cleaning up everything that doesn’t fit after the protective interval of the Nexus fails.” The implications of what she was saying hit home to both of them. “Which means Paul could be in trouble—at the brink of complete annihilation, just like you were before Graves’ people pulled you to safety.”

“Right…” Kelly bit his lip. “So we’ve got to try and fetch Paul.” He looked at her, drawing the obvious conclusion to their thinking.

“But how?” Maeve returned the obvious question.

“We’ve got the Arch on standby and I can have coordinates set up for the temporal and spatial location of this hidden archive in thirty minutes.”

“But Kelly, how will we know Paul is there?”

“The Red Arrow,” said Kelly with finality. “It was to be used only in matters of utmost importance. The coming of that damn King of Diamonds is a sign of grave and present danger. He’s there, Maeve. I’ll bet my life on it. He used the token as a sign to indicate his geographic location at the moment of greatest danger.”

“Kelly…” Maeve saw the pain in his eyes but she had to speak her mind. “That book could have been moved a hundred times in the last thousand years. Sure, it was unearthed from its final resting place, but that’s not evidence that Paul was in that archive. He could have dropped the card anywhere before it got stuck it in that book. See what I’m driving at?”

Kelly had a frustrated look on his face, but he put his baseball cap back on and pointed at the screen. “Then we’ll go look,” he said firmly.

“What?”

“We’ll run a spook job and take a peek.”

“Now you’re not making any sense again,” Maeve protested. She hated to play the devil’s advocate with Paul’s life at stake now, but facts were facts, and that part of her who ruled on Outcomes and Consequences could not overlook these things. “Spook job?”

“Sorry,” said Kelly. “That’s just my term for a recon operation. We think we have a good picture of events from the written history that has accumulated over the years, but we don’t. We only see the account of a few key writers and researchers—perhaps only 1% of what actually happened was written about. Sure the big stuff gets a lot of coverage, but we all know that it’s the little stuff that really matters. The humdrum moments of inconsequential time on the Meridian can hide Pushpoints that set all the big events in motion.”

“True,” Maeve relented. “I was going to argue this in the Research Committee, but it seemed to play right up Nordhausen’s alley, so I didn’t push it. To really know if we’re going to open the right spot in a Meridian, we have to run a lot of reconnaissance. That way we could take a look at a situation and see if our research is correct.”

“Exactly!” Kelly had the fire lit in his belly now, and he was already walking over to the coordinate module. “Ninety-percent of our actual Arch time would be short jumps to simply take a peek at something—spook runs.”

“Why do you call them that?”

“Because on a recon operation we just open the Meridian for a few seconds—we don’t do a full breaching sequence. The traveler just appears, like an apparition, if you will, and then vanishes again. But for that brief moment they should be able to see the milieu we’re targeting. Then we bring ‘em right back home. I know it may be a long shot, Maeve but I have to do this—for Paul. I’m going to take a peek inside that damn archive in the year 1187 and see what’s there. If anything, it might give us some clue—or at least confirm if this line is anywhere close to the mark.”

“But you don’t have a spatial locus yet.”

“I will in a second or two. All archeologists use GPS to mark the exact locations of their dig sites. All I have to do is key the researchers name in the Geo-Sync database and I can read all their recent registries.”

He was already throwing switches and Maeve knew that there was nothing she could do to take this away from him. She breathed heavily. “Alright,” she said with equal finality. “You’re the only one who can run all this.” She waved expansively at the banks of glowing computer terminals. “We’ve got a hundred thousand Golems running wild out there, so I’ll go, while you keep watch on everything from here.”

Kelly stopped cold, pivoting to face her. “I didn’t mean to drop this on you, Maeve. Look, I’ll take the risk. I can program things and automate the jump. The retraction sequence can be triggered five seconds after I open the continuum. You just wait—“

“Oh, no, mister.” She deliberately imitated the tone of voice Kelly would always use with Paul in their secret banter. “The three of you have already bounced all over infinity and back while I sat here worrying about it all.” She folded her arms, decided. “It’s my turn.”

30

The wind howled about the high stone walls of the Eyrie Of Sinan, whistling through the lancet windows in greeting. The Master of the Tower had come home. Three riders reached the castle gates at dusk, and a hush had fallen upon Massiaf. The troops of the faithful Fedayeen were assembled in silent ranks in the courtyard beyond the gate, breathless with the sight of Sinan. The Old Man dismounted, throwing back the thick hood of his riding cloak, his dark eyes scanning the brothers, black as basalt, yet lit with an inner fire. He had seen much on his journey from the east. The land was alive with movement and the din of marching men at arms. The hooves of fifty thousand horses troubled the earth, and he knew a turning point had come

The Kadi had given orders that the severed head was to be left untouched where the Sami’s men had planted it in the courtyard, a silent testimony to the misdeeds of his rival. Sinan took notice, but passed quickly on, as though the doings of the castle were well known to him. He was bound for the high tower, driven by some pressing need. There he would meet with the two stewards of the castle, and hear their complaints.

The Kadi came first to him, and departed soon after, his face ashen white, his eyes vacant and confused. He returned to his chambers without a word while the Sami climbed the long gray stair to the tower, head lowered with shame. Sinan sat upon the high chair and watched while the Sami prostrated himself in submission, begging forgiveness for his failure.

“And how have you failed me?” Sinan’s voice was icy cold, yet it seemed to reach for that which it already knew.

“The Wolf,” the Sami whispered. “I have failed in my charge against the Wolf.”

“Oh? What charge do you speak of?” Sinan waited while the Sami groveled in uncertainty.

“I received your ring, Lord, with an order to strike the Wolf at an hour and a day that would be appointed. All was made ready—the Fedayeen prepared. Then this stranger came upon us, and I was possessed with madness.”

Sinan leaned forward, “Rise and face me,” he said harshly, and the Sami drew himself up, still kneeling, as he looked upon his master’s face. “Hear me, Sami of Massiaf: I sent no ring, and laid no charge upon thee. Quite the contrary! It was my judgment that the Wolf, Arnat, must live. Did you not receive the signs late sent to you? The Wolf is an enemy, to be sure, yet he is reckless and overbold. He will stir the Christian camp to rash deeds, and such will play into the hands of Salah ad Din.”

Sinan raised a single hand the long fingers held wide, and reached for a thin shaft of light that skirted the edge of his dais. “See the ring where it sits now upon my hand?” He let the light play upon the ruby red gem there, the gleam of light on gold a condemnation of the Sami’s headstrong ways. “Had you done this thing,” he whispered, eyes alight with distant flame, “then all of Christendom would not now be marching. The great castles would still stand well guarded, unassailable, as they have for decades past. The time appointed for them would never have come, and the heads of all the Templars would remain fast upon their shoulders to bring untold misery to the faithful, for years to come.”

Sinan drew his hand into a fist now, his voice hardening as he continued. “Yet that error has been avoided—perhaps by mere circumstance. The Christian host is doomed!” His voice boomed in the tower; his fist tightening as he spoke. “They will fall like wheat before the scythe. The Wolf lives, and you may count the coming of this stranger a boon. Had you carried out this deed, striking down Arnat before his time, you would have surely done the work of our enemies. Undoubtedly the Order was at play in this matter, and you were deceived. It was they who sent you this command; not I. It may be that the stranger is one of the faithful, in clever guise, and so I have come hither to see with my own eyes the truth of this matter. I say unto you now that not by your hand, but by the hand of Salah ad Din himself, will the Wolf be slain—and all the Templars will kneel before the Sultan’s tent and be pressed to renounce their faith, embracing the truth of Islam. They will all refuse and, one by one, their heads will be severed by the Turks. So I have seen this, and so it will be. It was only mine to assure that no change would be worked upon the threads of time by our enemies.”

He let the Sami kneel before him, head lowered, as the realization of what he was saying wrapped itself about him like a coiled rope. “Yes,” Sinan tugged on the cords now, “even you, Sami of the Seventh Gate, have fallen into confusion and misdeed. This is why I placed the Kadi here as equal!” His voiced rebounded from the hard stone walls of the tower. “It was given to you both to reach agreement where the death of another was concerned. I have seen the severed head in the courtyard below, and I know what passed in the night, and why.”

The Sami quailed, transparent before the all seeing eye of Sinan. All his argument, all his reason, now seemed a small and foolish thing. He had been deceived, manipulated, made a pawn in the game of his enemies, and his blood ran cold with the shame of his failing. He lowered his head, unable to look upon his master.

“The stranger,” said Sinan. “The Kadi tells me that you wished to kill this man. Is that so?”

“Yes, Lord. I feared he was an enemy; sent here to bring harm.”

“Yet the only harm worked within these walls came at your bidding.” Sinan let the Sami endure the brand of his words, a long silence tightening the ropes of recrimination until the Sami was bound in submission. Then Sinan ordered the Sami to stand. “Arise,” he said. “I foresaw your misdeeds and so I hastened to come here and restore the harmony of these walls. Now you will do a thing that I command with my own voice. Hear me! Go to the faithful assembled below. Choose five men and hasten to the vault of the hidden archive—you know of whence I speak. There you will find the stranger. If you are swift and determined, you will serve me well. Even now you harbor a poisoned blade within your robes. Do not use it! Go instead and bring this man here that I might speak with him. Had I come here sooner I might have placed two eyes upon this stranger and seen the full truth of this matter. Now the hour is late. It is the seventh day! You must reach the archive, and return, before the setting of the moon.”

The Sami was shaking with emotion as he rose. His Lord had passed judgment, and dispensed his mercy in the same cup. The Sami drank deep, his fear quenched; his resolve restored. “It will be done,” he said quickly. “Before the hour of the setting moon.”

Maeve stood in the chamber of the Arch, her eyes mesmerized by the scintillating whirl of the lights, her ears ringing with the thrum of the generators, her body tingling with cold fire. She only had a few minutes to prepare herself, her heart racing as she shed her clothing, obedient to her own rules about contaminating the time line. Now she draped herself in the only thing she could find, a single white sheet from the rest quarters above. The tachyon infusion was riveting every atom of her being; taking an imprint that Kelly would use to keep a fast hold upon her in the brief mission ahead.

She was dreadfully afraid, yet she forced herself not to think of what she was doing. The hard yellow line was painted there on the floor before her. Three small steps and she would cross it, leaving this time and place behind, and relinquishing the tight hold she had on her life up until the Arch had come into being. Every instinct in her mind argued against what she was about to do, yet stubbornly, she took the first step, tightening the drapery of the sheet about her slender frame, and covering her head until she seemed a veiled spirit, alight with a thousand hues of eternity.

Voices clamored at her from within. What if something went wrong? What if Kelly made a mistake? What was she doing—leaving it all like this, letting go? This was the most difficult thing she had ever forced herself to face, but she took the second step, her eyes fixed on the status light on the near wall: red for the first step, Amber the second.

The light turned green.

Her heart leapt with fright, but her body moved, as if with a mind of its own, compelled by the fiber of her determination. She would see this through. Just one small step and she would cross over the line, pass the threshold of the moment and disappear into the infinite possibility of time. One small step, and she would vanish from the here and now, joining the dizzying spin and flow of the auroras in the Arch

In the chamber of the Archive Paul sat listening to Jabr as he recited the holy verses of the Koran. He had been reading for some time, pausing at intervals to take water and to add oil to the guttering lamp by which he read. All the while the day passed beyond the portal of the cave, and Paul began to feel a cold lightness of being, a feathery frost settling over him, warmed only by the brown eyes of Jabr Ali Sa’d and the quiet meter of his recitations.

He had reached the eighty-sixth sura, which spoke of nightly visitations and the temporal fiber of a man’s being. Of all the world’s great religions, Paul had never studied Islam. Born a Catholic, he had been drawn to the Eastern traditions after reaching an age when he could think on his own. Now his office and home were littered with Buddhas and trappings of the East, and his mentors were writers like Alan Watts, Krishnamurti and Joseph Campbell. Yet there was something familiar in the rhythm and spirit of the verse that reminded him of those sermons on Sunday, reverently spoken by the church pastor from the pulpit, relating one parable after another to the rows of the faithful.

Islam was a beautiful religion, he thought, and surely he could not hear, in any of this verse, the hatred and awful vengeance that some men, claiming to be Muslims, held against the West. Yet, even as he listened, two great hosts were assembling near the Sea of Galilee, at a place called the Horns of Hattin—the Gate of the West. He ran through the history in his mind.

They had come to that place after decades of hostility and misunderstanding. Each side had made a claim to holy ground in Palestine, and one city in particular had been the great bone of contention between these rival cultures: Jerusalem.

There, in the place where the Muslims built the Dome of the Rock, the Knights of the Temple and the Sepulcher had set up their headquarters in the city. The Muslims claimed the ground and said that Muhammad and his steed ascended to the heavens above, where he visited Allah and then returned. The Christians said it was where Christ, the Savior of all, was laid for a time before he rose in glory and ascended the heavens from the Mount of Olives. The Muslims called the city Al Kuds, and held it third in the hierarchy of all holy places, behind only Mecca and Medina. The Christians claimed the relic of the True Cross was kept safe there in the shrine of the Patriarchs. The city guarded the Garden of Gethsemane and the Rock of Calvary, all sacred sites orbiting about this holy center of great strife and paradox. Each side quoted sura, and chapter and verse, yet while they strove with one another, all thought of holiness and righteousness was made as nothing.

The Christian host came, some thirty thousand strong, from every castle and keep of Outremer. From Syria, and Egypt, Persia and beyond a much greater host of Muslim warriors assembled, the chafe of their countless steeds fretting the air with the urgency of war.

Like two great animals the armies sat facing one another in the heat of early July, the year 1187. The Christian camp was set at Saffuriyah, and it was led by many lords in the finery of their gowns, some strong and clear thinking, some vacillating and misguided. The hapless Guy had lately been made the new king in Jerusalem, taking the crown from the hand of Baldwin’s sister, Sybil. Yet it did not fit him well, for he was weak, and malleable, and undecided in the issue that was now before him. Many lords argued that the Muslim host was too great to assail. Only by waiting here, barring the way to the coast and standing on defense, could the army of Outremer hope to prevail.

One among them would not agree, however: Reginald of Kerak, Arnat, the Wolf. It was he that lit a fire beneath Saladin by daring to set his greedy hands upon the Sultan’s caravan. It was he that broke the long truce between the East and the West, and set a hundred thousand souls marching to this place in anger. When Guy relented and thought to stand at Saffuriyah, Reginald was fretful and beside himself with anger. It was an insult, he said, that heathen soldiers should come to Tiberias and sully the land of Galilee with their blasphemous words an deeds. It was unseemly, he bellowed, that with all the might of Christendom at hand the King should cower, and wait for the hand of his enemy to strike. One man refused the council of all others, Reginald, Arnat, the Wolf of Kerak. Then, to his side came De Riddeford, the dour head of the all the Knights Templar. Together they would go to the King’s tent that night, and argue with him until the sun was nearly up, bending his mind to another, more dangerous course. Poor Guy had not the spine to stand by his earlier decree, and he wavered, reversing himself in the hot morning, and ordering instead that all the Christian host should set forth to attack.

The assembled lords protested, for there would be no water for two long days until they reached the Sea of Galilee where Saladin waited for them. They would be in grave danger under the merciless sun, extreme with thirst and then forced to fight while their need was greatest. Yet, Guy, set upon in the night by the Wolf and his accomplice, would not hear their words. Reginald shouted the dissenting voices down, accusing them of cowardice and sacrilege, and demanding they hold their allegiance to the king and march as he ordered.

Paul knew the history, yet he doubted if he would see any of it play out. His time was ebbing away. The chill of eternity was settling around him, and he seemed to be fading, insubstantial, a ghostly figure waiting for the final moment to strike. He heard strange sounds at the edge of Jabr’s recitations—otherworldly sounds, like hounds racing wild over the purple veiled highlands, braying at the slowly setting moon. He shook himself, gathering strength by sheer force of will, and he listened once more to Jabr’s voice—his one tether to the here and now.

“I swear by heaven and the one who comes in the night;” he chanted the Sura of Nightly Visitations. “And how may you learn of the one who comes by night? The star of piercing brightness shines; so remember, there is not a soul that roams this earth without a keeper. Then let man consider of what he is created: He is created of water pouring forth, pure and flowing water…”

How true, thought Paul; how thin and insubstantial was the life of a man, constantly flowing away to some unknown end, merging at last in the ocean of life and time. But there was hope in that verse as well—there is not a soul that roams this earth without a keeper, he repeated the phrase in his mind.

As Jabr spoke Paul shivered with an icy chill. Could this be the moment, he wondered? Then he saw how Jabr shuddered as well, pulling his robes tight about his thin frame and looking over his shoulder. His eyes opened wide at the sight of a strange, frosty mist hovering near the arch of the hidden vault. Paul saw it too, and he struggled up with a start, seeing a human form take shape in the haze!

It was a woman, veiled in white, with tawny hair. The light of her eyes shone upon him briefly, with strange recognition. He gaped at the spectacle, as if an angel had come upon him in his hour of greatest need, a visitor in the night, called to this place by Jabr’s faithful reading of the holy Koran.

The spirit quavered in a mist of a thousand colors, reaching an arm towards him as though she were come to lay claim to his soul. Poor Jabr quailed at the sight, bowing low. Then the icy fire of the mist and light failed, and the vision was gone, fading to blue vapors that fled into the shadows.

Jabr started up, his face beaming with celestial joy. “Jibra’el has sent an angel, Do-Rahlan! An angel has come to guard your soul and call you home!” He clutched the volume of the Koran to his breast and stood. ”I will go bring offering. We will burn sweet incense here, Allah be praised!” All of his hopes had come true. Allah, the Compassionate, the Merciful, had seen fit to accept this man as a believer.

Paul gaped at the place where the apparition had appeared. The cold residue of fog was strangely familiar to him. Something in his mind tugged at him, whispering some inner knowledge of what he had seen, but he did not heed it. Jabr was up and gone to another chamber of the vault, and Paul waited, a feeling of hope and redemption dawning on him.

Then the distant sound of men’s voices came to him, echoing in the stony recesses of the archive. There was anger in the words, though he could not make out what they said. A clamor of strife and warning resounded from the entrance to the cave. They had been found! Aziz was barring the way, guarding the entrance while he shouted the alarm.

The Sami had come, with five men on fast horses. Even as Aziz drew his sword, faithful to his charge, black arrows whistled from the shadowy slopes and struck him down. The Sami had come, his heart flushed with the thrill of the hunt, and the vengeance he would soon mete out upon the stranger for the shame he had endured. He could not allow the man to stand before Sinan, no matter what his master had pressed upon him. He would say the man cursed him, and fell upon him with death in his eyes. Sinan could not condemn him, for in his heart of hearts he knew as well that every action would simply make a new truth. The Sami would act by the credo he held dearest. Everything was permitted, he thought to himself as he sped on up the hill, and nothing was written. Nothing at all.

A thousand years, and half a world away, Kelly sat breathlessly at his terminal, monitoring the progress of Maeve’s brief jump. He kept a tight rein on her, just a five second window opening at the coordinates he had fed into the machinery of the Arch. He hoped it would be enough for her to see whether his hunch was correct—that Paul was actually there in the place where the token had been unearthed. Even as he closed the breach, bringing Maeve back to the year 2010 in Berkeley, doubt gnawed at him. He heard all Maeve’s arguments alive in his mind, but then, a second later it was her voice in real time that commanded his attention, speaking over the intercom from the Arch corridor below.

“Kelly? It worked. I’m back. Good God! It was amazing, but he’s there. He was right in front of me, gaping at me like he had seen a ghost!” The excitement was driving her on. “Eight feet… maybe ten feet away from me, Kelly; and directly in front.”

“The angel has spoken!” Kelly beamed with elation. “Get dressed, Maeve. I’m adjusting the Arch coordinates now. Make sure you’re out of the chamber!” His hands moved with feverish motion as he began to key commands. Easy, now, he said to himself, forcing calm on his agitated movements. You have to get this right.

He was feeding in the last known pattern signature on Paul from the first mission. It would not be precise, but there would be some data there that would find a match. He wanted the system to open a breach and locate the centermost point of any matches it found—and he would set the search coordinates just where Maeve indicated, ten feet from the GPS position where she had appeared. Once he had this central anchor he could tell the system to expand outward from that point. It was a gamble, but it was his only chance. He was going to scoop up a tiny segment of reality from another time and place, and bring it here to the Arch corridor. He had the retraction set to shift everything spatially as well.

Now he could only hope that Paul’s theory was correct—that time did not want him there, and would do anything possible to send him on his way. The system would be looking for anomalous readings within the sphere of his retraction scheme—anything that didn’t belong in the milieu of 1187.

His coordinates were in, and the Arch was spinning out smoothly at 100% power. He raced to the retraction module and opened the safety on the switch. “I hope you’re right, Paul. For God’s sake—let this work.”

The Sami’s men swept past the fallen body of Aziz as they reached the top of the ridge. They found the hidden cleft in the hillside and burst through, sharp knives drawn at the ready. They were driven on by the Sami, as much by the fear of his following as anything else. The Sami strode into the hidden vault, his hand tight on the hilt of his dagger. Just one flick of his wrist and the blade would run true. Its poison would steal away the life of the heathen in their midst. The wolf in the fold would be slain, and Sinan would see the wisdom of his deed in the end.

The five assassins fanned out, flitting from one chamber to the next like silent shadows. Then there came cries of fright and alarm. The Sami rushed after them, finding at last the hidden vault of the archive. There was a chill upon the air, unearthly cold, and the room shimmered in a wavering mist. The blue fire flared in his eyes as he sought for his enemy, and he thought he saw the shape of a man cowering on the floor, a heavy fog surrounding him. At once he moved, his hand striking out like a coiled snake, his dagger lancing at the formless shape in the shadows. Yet he heard, to his great dismay, the chink of the blade where it struck the hard stone wall, glancing harmlessly away and falling with a dull thud on the thick carpeting of the alcove. He rushed forward, braving the frosty mist when his men quailed at the sight. His arms reached out, striking this way and that in wide arcs as he groped in the violet haze, but all to no end. The stranger was gone.