"I came because I hoped to find them," she said, staring forward, her tears falling. "I came here because last night I dreamed of the priests in the temple, and how they used to tell me that I ought to read the old tales."
Still I didn't answer.
She looked up, and then with the back of one hand, she wiped at her tears. "I could smell the scents of the temple, the scent of papyrus," she said. "I saw the Elder at his desk."
"He put the Parents in the sun, Eudoxia," I said. "Don't slide into a dream that makes him innocent. The Elder was evil and guilty. The Elder was selfish and bitter. Would you know his ultimate fate?"
"In my dream, the priests told me that you took the books, Marius. They said that, unopposed, you came into the library of the temple and took all the old scrolls away."
I said nothing.
But her grief was heartrending.
"Tell me, Marius. Where are those books? If you will let me read them, if you will let me read the old stories of Egypt, then my soul can find some peace with you. Can you do that much for me?" How bitterly did I draw in my breath.
"Eudoxia," I said gently. "They're gone, those books, and all that remains of them is here, in my head." I tapped the side of my forehead. "In Rome, when the savages from the North breached the city, my house was burnt and my library destroyed."
She shook her head and put her hands to the side of her face as though she could not bear this.
I went down on my knees beside her and I tried to turn her to me, but she would have none of it. Her tears were shed quietly.
"I'll write it all out, all that I remember, and there is so much that I remember," I said. "Or shall I tell it aloud for our scribes? You decide how you will receive it, and I'll give it to you, lovingly. I understand what you desire."
This was not the time to tell her that much of what she sought came to nothing, that the old tales had been full of superstition and nonsense and even incantations that meant nothing at all.
Even the wicked Elder had said so. But I had read these scrollsduring my years in Antioch. I remembered them. They were inside my heart and soul.
She turned to me slowly. And lifting her left hand, she stroked my hair.
"Why did you steal those books!" she whispered desperately, her tears still flowing. "Why did you take them from a sanctum where they had been safe for so long!"
"I wanted to know what they said," I answered candidly. "Why didn't you read them when you had a lifetime to do it? " I asked gently. "Why didn't you copy them when you copied for the Greeks and the Romans? How can you blame me now for what I did? "
"Blame you?" she said earnestly. "I hate you for it."
"The Elder was dead, Eudoxia," I said quietly. "It was the Mother who slew the Elder."
Her eyes suddenly, for all their tears, grew wide.
"You want me to believe this? That you didn't do it? "
"I? Slay a blood drinker who was a thousand years old, when I was just born?" I gave a short laugh. "No. It was the Mother who did it. And it was the Mother who asked me to take her out of Egypt. I did only what she asked me to do."
I stared into her eyes, determined that she must believe me, that she must weigh this final and all- important piece of evidence before she proceeded in her case of hatred against me.
"Look into my mind, Eudoxia," I said. "See the pictures of this for yourself."
I myself relived the grim moments when Akasha had crushed the evil Elder underfoot. I myself remembered the lamp, brought magically from its stand, to pour its naming oil upon his remains. How the mysterious blood had burnt.
"Yes," Eudoxia whispered. "Fire is our enemy, always our enemy. You are speaking the truth." "With my heart and soul," I said. "It's true. And having been charged with this duty, and having seen the death of the Elder, how could I leave the books behind? I wanted them as you wanted them. I read them when I was in Antioch. I will tell you all they contained."
She thought on this for a long time and then nodded.
I rose to my feet. I looked down at her. She sat still, her head bowed, and then she drew a fine napkin from inside her robes, and she wiped at her blood tears.
Once again, I pressed my promises.
"I'll write down all I remember," I said. "I'll write down all that the Elder told me when first I came to the temple. I'll spend my nights in this labor until everything is told."
She didn't answer me, and I couldn't see her face unless I knelt down again.
"Eudoxia," I said. "We know much that we can give to each other. In Rome, I grew so weary that I lost the thread of life for a century. I am eager to hear all you know."
Was she weighing this? I couldn't tell.
Then she spoke, without raising her face to me.
"My sleep this last day was feverish," she said. "I dreamed of Rashid crying out to me."
What could I say? I felt desperate.
"No, I don't ask for placating words from you," she said. "I only mean to say, my sleep was miserable. And then I was in the temple and the priests were all around me. And I had an awful sense, the purest sense, of death and time."
I went down on one knee before her. "We can conquer this," I said.
She looked into my eyes as though she were suspicious of me and I were trying to trick her.
"No," she said softly. "We die too. We die when it is right for us to die."
"I don't want to die," I said. "To sleep, yes, and sometimes to sleep almost forever, yes, but not to die."
She smiled.
"What would you write for me?" she asked, "if you could write anything at all? What would you choose to put down on parchment for me to read and know?"
"Not what was in those old Egyptian texts," I said forcefully, "but something finer, more truly universal, something full of hope and vitality that speaks of growth and triumph, that speaks—how shall I put it any other way?—of life."
She nodded gravely, and once again she smiled.
She looked at me for a long and seemingly affectionate moment.
"Take me down into the shrine," she said. She reached out and clasped my hand.
"Very well," I said.
As I rose, so did she, and then she went past me to lead the way. This might have been to show me that she knew it, and, thank the gods, her retinue stayed behind so that I did not have to tell them to do so.
I went down with her, and with the Mind Gift I opened the many doors without touching them.
If this made an impression upon her she didn't acknowledge it. But I didn't know if we were at war with each other any longer. I couldn't gauge her frame of mind.
When she saw the Mother and the Father in their fine linen and exquisite jewelry she let out a gasp.
"Oh, Blessed Parents," she whispered. "I have come such a long way to this."
I was moved by her voice. Her tears were flowing again.
"Would that I had something to offer you," she said, gazing up at the Queen. She was trembling. "Would that I had some sacrifice, some gift-"
I didn't know why but something quickened in me when she said those words. I looked at the Mother first and then at the Father, and I detected nothing, yet something had changed within the chapel, something which Eudoxia perhaps felt.
I breathed in the heavy fragrance rising from the censers. I looked at the shivering flowers in their vases. I looked at the glistening eyes of my Queen.
"What gift can I give you?" Eudoxia pressed as she stepped forward. "What would you take from me that I could give with my whole soul?" She walked closer and closer to the steps, her arms out. "I am your slave. I was your slave in Alexandria when first you gave me your blood, and I am your slave now."
"Step back," I said suddenly, though why I didn't know. "Step back and be quiet," I said quickly. But Eudoxia only moved forward, mounting the first step of the dais.