"I have been an orphan since I was eight summers. How old are you, sir?"

He opened his mouth to reply, but she rattled on. "My name is Zara Sophia. I have no surname because . . . because I was born a slave. In Constantinople. What is your name?"

Alain gritted his teeth. "I am called Alain de Montfort. I have thirty-one summers."

And after four days and nights of incessant chatter and more questions than he had ever answered in his life, he deposited young Zara Sophia in Granada, at the household of his half brother Karim ibn Saud. Then he turned his horse north and rode away to join the crusade across the sea in Syria.

* * *

Then a slim young woman settled herself on a stool and picked up a small harp. Karim jabbed an elbow into Alain's ribs. "Do you see her?" he whispered.

Alain nodded. She was quite beautiful, with dark hair that fell in waves below her shoulders. "Does she belong to you?" he asked.

Karim hesitated. "Yes, in a way. And in another way, she does not," his brother added.

"Ah."

Karim sent him a sharp look. "Do you not recognize her?"

"I do not. She is pretty enough. Beautiful, in fact. I envy you. But she is a stranger to me."

Karim laughed as the girl ran her hands over the harp strings and rippled out a chord. "Then, my brother, you are not only weary in spirit, you are blind as well. That one is called Zara Sophia."

Alain jerked. "You cannot mean that scrawny, chattery child I brought to you from Carcassonne years ago?" He shook his head. "That is not possible."

"It is possible," Karim said with a laugh. "Now, listen!"

The girl began a song so plaintive and full of longing it tore into his heart. His breath choked off, and unbidden tears stung into his eyes. Quickly he turned away.

"Alain?" Karim touched his arm. "What ails you?"

Alain gritted his teeth. "I cannot listen." He bolted for the courtyard.