"It's a troubadour's tale. Le Conte du Graal by Chretien 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 Chretien de Troyes tells of another document from which he took his story."
"But it could be this grail that's in the box in Tarik's chamber?"
"Or what Nasim thinks is the true grail. He worships power. He would do anything to obtain a magical grail that would give the possessor Godlike powers."
"He's an evil, evil man. I cannot believe God would give him any more power than he has already."
"But it's not what you believe but what Nasim believes. To him, God is Allah, and Allah has always smiled on him."
"It could not be. It has to be a troubadour's tale, as you say."
"Well, we cannot wake Tarik and ask him. He made it clear we'll have to wait until morning." He rose to his feet. "Go to sleep."
Go to sleep when her mind was filled with coffers of gold and magical grails? "Will you?"
"Perhaps." He leaned down, brushed a kiss on her forehead, and whispered, "I know a remedy that would make us both sleep deeply."
She did not answer.
"No?" He sighed and then moved toward the door. "Then I fear our minds will get no more rest than our bodies this night."
______
She was coming toward him, moving gracefully, rhythmically, her bare feet seeming to scarcely skim the stone floor.
Tarik waited.
She was almost there.
His heart was beating hard, he was sweating with anticipation.
She stopped before him. He could see the shimmering beauty of her dark eyes illuminating the impassive jackal face.
He took an eager step forward, reaching out to her.
She shook her head.
Agony shot through him. He could feel the pain twisting, tearing.
Why?
He could not see her mouth move but knew the word it formed.
