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Outside there were sharp-edged peddlars shouting their wares, crusaders turning up their noses at the turbaned Muslim lords, pilgrims, their eyes bright with the light of God’s holy city. But none of this penetrated the thick walls of the palace.
Where Baldwin sat behind a veil of sheer cloth the only sounds were the whispering of the robes of the servants. He longed to walk the streets of his sun-drenched kingdom, but the days when he could do so without people drawing away from him in horror were long over. Even if he could have walked as any other citizen or visitor it would have taken from him more than he could afford to lose. His duty was to stay alive as long as possible. He sat behind his walls, moving his chessmen, waiting to die, dreading it and longing for it.
There was a slight sound to his left that Baldwin automatically ignored. With his mask he had the vision of a bird, and it wasn’t worth the effort of making a full-quarter turn to watch a servant with a tray of coffee or tea. Moreover, if he moved at every sound he would give credence to the rumors that he was growing paranoid in his decay.
They would be disappointed in the coffee. They were trying to tempt him, but in truth he was no longer temptable. He never had an appetite anymore.
A chuckle, and he drew his breath in, dismayed. That hadn’t been him, not unless he really was gone mad in this metal coffin. Now he did turn, if only to reprimand whoever had the impertinence to laugh in his presence.
It wasn’t a servant. This figure was cowled in resplendent purple, keen eyes barely visible in the shadow. He chuckled again and sat down, tilting his head to better observe Baldwin.
Baldwin had seen the palace ghosts when he was a child, but they had never made any sound, never spoken to him. He had a feeling that this one might.
“What brings you here, my lord?” He kept his voice calm, leaning back to get a better look at his visitor from behind his mask.
The man reached up and pulled his cowl back in one swift movement, and Baldwin found himself looking at a man much like himself, or as he had been. Dark featured, with hollow cheeks, a slightly bent nose, a mouth much used to smiling, and the eyes…the eyes were ancient and kind.
“I am a king of this city as it was, just as you are king as it is, and my purpose is to discuss its future with you.”
“Not its past?” Baldwin couldn’t place the man, though he had studied the history of this region extensively. Histories rarely included pictures, but in any case there was something about the stranger that would have felt out of place in any story or written account.
The king ignored the query. “You are uneasy about the future of the city.”
“The city has no future, I will die and there will be war. Every man, woman and child here will be killed.” He knew with aching certainty that it was true. As much as the disease that ate his flesh pained him, it pained him even more to know that ultimately he had failed.
“Perhaps.”
“There is no perhaps about it. I don’t need to be a seer to read the future. As the situation stands war is inevitable. Are you offering an alternative?” The creeping sense of hope that had sat at the pit of his stomach ever since the stranger had appeared leapt at the thought, much as he tried to quash it.
“Not for you.”
“Then to whom are you offering it?” A thought occurred to him. “Is it because I am unsound of body? I will secede if it will give my people a chance for survival.”
The king was shaking his head. “You will secede, but not in the fashion that you are referring to.”
He said with a sense of fatalism, “Then there is no chance for the city.”
“On the contrary, there is a chance for the city, just not for you.”
“My lord?”
“Take off the mask Baldwin.”
He reached up with shaking hands and did as he was asked. There was no gasp, no horror. The king only looked at him steadily.
“This city, this people, will suffer, but survive. I thought that you would want to know that before.”
“Before what?” but he already knew.
“You have already worn one mask, Baldwin, don’t wear another.”
Baldwin bowed his head, whispering, “Thank you for telling me.”
He felt a gentle hand on his head, and drew in a sharp breath, both because no one had touched him in many years, and because a ghost should not be able to touch, but he could not respond because his tongue felt thick, his eyes heavy.
Distantly he heard a murmering voice: “Once, the kings were not only kings, but intercessors for the people.” And then he knew no more.
Thus Baldwin, the fourth king of Jerusalem, died.