He wanted to comfort her, to reassure her that couldn’t be true. But the priest and the vizier were complicated, ugly creatures, locked together, feeding off each other’s weakness and pain. How could he say if they loved her well or not? No wonder she dreamed of a world without humans.

‘Moraima, I’ve heard what they want. But what do you want? What kind of life?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said honestly. ‘I can’t imagine it. Things are too complicated. But . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘It doesn’t feel complicated when I’m with you.’

His heart hammered. ‘If it wasn’t for the others - my father, yours, the vizier - if things were different—’

‘If Jesus and Muhammad had never existed? What’s the good of talking like that? Things are as they are; you can’t change the past.’

But her father, he thought, seemed to believe that the past could be changed. ‘But even so. If it was only a question of the two of us, could we make a life together?’

She said firmly, ‘We can never know. Because it isn’t going to happen, is it? All we have is this moment.’ Her face was before his, softened by nearness, her eyes huge, the colours of the wild garden reflected in her smooth skin. ‘That’s all anybody has.’

‘Then we should grasp it.’

Their lips closed together. Her breath was like the breeze off the desert. ‘I don’t even mind,’ she whispered into his mouth, ‘that you smell so bad.’

They kissed again, and he felt as if he was passing through another arched gateway into a still more wonderful place yet.

XIX

XIX

Orm and Sihtric sat on floor cushions inside the priest’s study, as he called it, in a corner of the palace complex. It was a nest of shelves heaped with books and parchments, and there was a lingering smell of lamp oil and candle soot. The room was in poor condition, the ceiling blackened by some ancient fire, the wall hangings musty and frayed; this part of the ruined palace was only poorly restored. But the room was far from the bustle of the vizier’s court, and Sihtric said he liked it this way.