The Treasure_ A Novel - Iris Johansen [45]
“I was just thinking.”
“Ah, a dangerous practice in a man like you,” Tarik said as he poured wine from the pitcher into his goblet. “I believe you need another goblet of wine too.”
“No.” Kadar met Tarik’s gaze. “I believe I need to see the object that made Nasim send me here.”
Tarik stopped pouring in midmotion. “I was wondering when you’d retrieve that particular promise.” He set the pitcher down. “But I was enjoying your company so much that I’d almost forgotten I’d given it.”
“I don’t think you did. But you made it easy for us to forget.”
“You believe I’ve been lulling you into a false sense of security? You’re wrong; you are secure here. Every day that passes convinces me that endangering you is the last thing in the world I’d want.”
“The object,” Kadar prompted.
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Tonight.”
“You’re very stubborn.” Tarik sighed. “Very well, tonight.” He set his goblet down and picked up a candelabra. “Follow me, it’s in the chamber at the end of the corridor.”
The room to which Tarik took them was small and sparsely furnished. A long oak table and two chairs occupied the center of the room. On the table was a wooden pedestal on which a brown leather-bound manuscript rested.
Tarik gestured. “There it is.”
“That’s no treasure,” Selene said.
“But it’s what led Nasim to seek the treasure,” Tarik said. “And a manuscript’s value is in the eyes of the beholder.”
Selene felt a surge of excitement. “An entire chamber for one manuscript?”
“Don’t read importance into that. If I could obtain more volumes, I would do so. I have a passion for words. What a rare delight they are in this rough world.”
Kadar was already seating himself at the table and carefully opening the volume. “I’ll need light. Leave the candles, Tarik.”
“The light would be much better if you’d wait for morning.”
“Leave the candles.”
Tarik set the candelabra on the table. “You’ll go blind. The script is none too good. It was done by a scribe, not a monk from the abbey.” He turned to Selene. “Will you, at least, be sensible and go to your bed?”
“Presently.” She sat down in the chair across the table from Kadar. “I’ll stay awhile.”
Tarik’s gaze went from one to the other, and a faint smile curved his lips. “I should have known to argue would be of no avail. A sip is never enough when you have a great thirst, and you both have a voracious thirst for life.”
“And so do you,” Selene said.
“I once did. But I’ve drunk deep enough to quench my thirst.” He moved toward the door. “Well, I’m going to my bed. Don’t wake me. I won’t answer any questions until morning.”
As the door closed behind him, Kadar’s gaze eagerly fastened on the parchment.
Selene settled back in her chair, watching his face, waiting.
She was being carried up the stairs.
Selene opened drowsy eyes to see Kadar’s face above her. His expression held excitement and tension.
Were they going to the tower chamber?
No, this was different. No scent of hashish . . .
“Kadar, where—”
“Shh, you fell asleep at the table.” He was taking her to her chamber, laying her on the bed.
She had fallen asleep at a table? What a strange—the manuscript!
“What did it say?” She sat bolt upright in bed, wide awake. “What was in it?”
He sat down on the bed beside her. “Nothing to become excited about. I think the manuscript must be a jest of Tarik’s.”
“A jest?”
“It’s a troubadour’s tale. Le Conte du Graal by Chrétien de Troyes. It’s the story of a king and a wandering knight named Perceval.”
“And it does not mention the box?” she asked, disappointed.
“No.”
She could barely see him in the moonlit dimness, but there was something in his tone. He was not telling her everything. “Or what’s in it?”
“I don’t think so.” He paused. “Unless it’s the grail.”
“Grail?”
“A goblet used by Christ at the Last Supper. A cup with special powers sought by the knights of King Arthur’s court.”
“Dear God,” she whispered.
“A troubadour’s tale. Though sometimes it does not read like a tale, and Chrétien de Troyes tells of another