Free Call of the Trumpet by Helen A. Rosburg’s

auction. Tears sprang to her eyes when she voiced her fears about Jali’s fate. She finished by saying, “Then you and your men came. And now I am here. But …”
    Cecile paused, trying to sort out the confusion of her thoughts. “But … why?” she continued. “Why did you take me? You don’t even know me.”
    “No,” he answered calmly. “Yet I had seen you.”
    “But where? I saw almost no one until …” The enormity of the answer hit Cecile with the force of a blow. “The auction!”
    “Of course, I saw you and knew you were … the one.”
    The trace of a smile curved at the corners of his mouth, and Cecile felt her temper flame anew. Never had another human being had such power to provoke her.
    “So, rather than pay for me, you simply stole me … Is that it? Picked me up and carried me off like a sack of grain! And now I am your property—your prisoner—correct? To do with as you wish?”
    Cecile was about to add that she would die first, but he gave her no opportunity. Folding his arms, he said, “We are all prisoners of some kind, are we not? However, you are not mine. You are free to leave my camp, if you like. But tell me, where would you go?”
    Beneath the veil, Cecile’s jaw dropped. Had she heard correctly? “I … I don’t understand,” she stammered.
    “It is quite simple. I asked what you would do if you left my camp.”
    Do?
Cecile repeated to herself. Beyond escape, she had hardly considered it. The time, however, miraculously appeared to have arrived. She tried to collect her whirling thoughts. “I … I suppose I would return to Damascus.”
    “That hardly seems wise, with the caliph’s men looking everywhere for you.”
    “But I … I have a … a contact there. At least I think I do,” Cecile amended. “There is a man my father told me about, Andrew Blackmoore. I told you I had written to him. He’s surely wondering what became of me. And there’s my servant, Jali. If he’s alive, and I could just find him …” She let the sentence trail away, aware of how impossible it all sounded.
    “As to the first,” he said, filling the silence, “Andrew Blackmoore passed away some time ago. His son, Matthew, has taken over his father’ affairs, but he is not, at this moment, in Damascus.”
    Cecile’s eyes widened. “How do you know?”
    “I know many things,” he replied without boast. “I know also that you will not find your servant in Damascus. If he lives. It is a large city, and you are a woman … alone. With the caliph’s men at your heels.”
    It felt as if a balloon had deflated inside her. Was this El Faris to be her only hope, then? Straightening her spine, Cecile stared firmly into the shadow that concealed his eyes. “There are many things I do not understand,” she said slowly. “For instance, why you saved me from the caliph’s harem. Or why, having taken me, you would let me go free. I can only presume it is because you are an honorable man. As such, I would bid you grant me a request.”
    The ghost of a smile returned. El Faris nodded.
    “You know I wish to find Haddal. Will you let me travel with your camp?”
    His lips pursed ever so slightly. It was maddening, Cecile thought, not to be able to see his eyes.
    “That might be a solution,” he responded finally. “With tomorrow’s dawn we begin our journey into the desert where, with the rest of the tribes, we will spend the summer months. And, hopefully, stay out of the caliph’s very long reach. It is likely we will meet with Haddal’s camp. However …” He paused and stroked his chin. “If I allow you to travel with us, of what use will you be? Resources are precious. We can afford to squander nothing, and everyone must contribute. What can you do?”
    Cecile managed to bite her tongue. She could not, however, conceal her suspicions. “Just what is it you suggest? Do you perhaps think to make a trade with my body?”
    She was not quite sure how she had expected him to respond.