Chapter 24: The Weight of Dust and Stone
The mornings were quiet now—more than Ethan remembered from months past. Jerusalem's streets echoed less with panic and more with hammer and voice. The cries of market vendors rose earlier each day, joined by the rhythmic calls of laborers and the clatter of wheels bringing olive oil, wine, wool, and clay from the hills.
It was not peace, not truly. But it was a lull. A moment between storms.
And he meant to use it.
Ethan stood on the citadel's eastern parapet, watching the stone of the Mount of Olives warm beneath the rising sun. His hand rested easily on the crenelation, ungloved. The skin beneath the bandage still itched, but it was no longer cracked or bleeding. A thin, pink layer of new flesh now stretched across what had once been raw, seeping lesions.
He flexed his fingers again. No pain.
Behind him, boots echoed.
"Balian," Ethan said without turning.
"My lord," Balian d'Ibelin replied, stopping beside him.
They stood in silence a moment longer. Birds wheeled overhead. Somewhere beyond the city walls, church bells rang for the feast day of Saint Alexis.
Ethan finally spoke. "You rode back from Hebron yesterday."
Balian nodded. "And met with scouts along the Dead Sea ridge. They followed the valley as far as the Wadi el-Arish. Saladin is regrouping—but slower than we feared. He's keeping the bulk of his army near Cairo."
"Still in Egypt, then."