He reached the bottom of the twisted crack. “Overpowerer, let me find her living.” He crouched in the dark and tried not to breathe, listening. He waited there a long time—one hundred, two hundred, four hundred beats of his heart. Then he heard it: a faint moan.
He felt his way along the crack until his hand brushed cloth. “Snow?” He found her face—she breathed, but she did not speak. He could see nothing; if she bled or her bones were broken, he could not tell.
He would have to carry her. He looked upward; climbing out with her weight on his shoulders seemed completely impossible.
“Thus,” he said. “Thus.”
**
“We are all blood criminals,” the slinger told Zeb, his nose burning with fury. “We are all liars. But we knew what she was. She came to no harm from any of us.”
“You knew?” The Avenger pulled back, pretending to take his attention off the giant. The giant lunged—and Zeb’s right hand came out from under his tunic with the knife he’d regained when he rolled through the brush. Up through the stomach he aimed it—
The blade hit bronze and skittered to one side. Zeb felt a moment of apprehension before the giant bashed him on the side of the head with the mace handle. The Avenger stumbled back.
Then the slinger was there, holding a dagger low. Zeb backed up, trying to watch the blade and the slinger’s face and the giant all three.
“She tried to kill me. She left me bleeding on the ground. She deserved to die!” Zeb snarled, feinting with his own weapon. But he was a swordsman, not a knife fighter; he did his killing at arm’s length. He was not close enough for his short blade to reach his enemy’s skin.
The slinger stepped in and punched him in the throat, ignoring the blade in Zeb’s hand. “That’s enough of your poisonous words.” Zeb struck at him, but the man was already pivoting away; Zeb’s blow only left a red line along his arm.
For the first time, the Avenger began to doubt the outcome of this battle.
He was experienced. He had killed many men… nine of Abimalk’s brothers, trapped and weaponless. Six of his own men, kneeling terrified before him. He had killed others by Abimalk’s side, hewing them down while Abimalk’s shieldmen guarded his back. He did not fear this scarred and hideous hillman.
He did not.
Still, it would be wise to reduce the number of his enemies. He would kill the giant first. The giant was slow—and probably dim-witted, like all his kind.
Zeb charged at the slinger. The giant lunged in, as the Avenger had known he would. Zeb caught the slinger’s blade with his own, then dropped to one knee in time to avoid the huge man’s mace. He jerked up his arm and tried to bury both knives in the giant’s stomach.
It was a sword trick, not meant for knives. He lost the slinger’s blade; only his own plunged into the giant’s flesh.
The giant growled and backhanded him across the face. Zeb fell backward, but caught himself and surged to his feet again. “Your death is on your own head. I would have let you go,” the Avenger said coldly.
“My death? Lad, I won’t die fro’ a little scratch like that.” The giant grinned angrily, showing square yellow teeth. “Throw t’ blade down. And maybe we will no’ kill you.”
Zeb stood straighter. Clearly, the giant was afraid to attack again. The Avenger favored his enemies with the cold smile that had terrified Azri and others of his kind.
“Not kill him? What do you want us to do with him?” the slinger asked gruffly. “Take him to the Refuge’s gates for judgment? No. What’s one more murder for the likes of us?”
The slinger and the giant looked at one another. The slinger snorted. “You and your ghosts. If you won’t do it, I will.”
“Y’ may mock at ghosts, but it was more than ghosts that came ridin’ across the fields at Qir Qatina.”
An expression that Zeb didn’t recognize passed over the slinger’s face. Then the fury rose into his eyes again, burning even more brightly than before. “Truly thus!” He rounded on Zeb with a snarl. “So, killer of women! Throw down your blade, and I won’t pour out your blood on the ground.” He advanced a step, and Zeb stepped back. “I so swear. The god curse me if I lie.”
The Avenger of Blood met the slinger’s eyes. There was no fear in them, and no mercy. Zeb clenched his teeth. Do you think I am a fool? If I threw away my weapon you would kill me where I stand.
“My blade will not touch you. Don’t you trust my word?” the slinger asked with a death’s-head grin.
Trust your word? Zeb thought darkly. Truly not. He stepped back again—and lost his balance as his heel came down on emptiness.
**
Cedar and Thorn looked over the side of the cliff at their attacker’s body.
“Well, your blade did no’ touch him,” Cedar said at last.
Thorn growled. “What’s one more death?” But his face was set like flint.
Cedar reached out to thump the smaller man on the shoulder, but drew back his hand when Thorn glared. “Let’s go draw Yotam out of his hole.”
They turned away and left the Avenger lying at the foot of the rock.
**
Yotam couldn’t tell if Snow’s breath was still in her. He pulled her against his chest, then shifted her until she hung face down over his shoulder. He steadied her with his right hand and began climbing again. Rocks scraped his hip and shifted under his feet. Elishama would declare whole chapters of proverbs if he could see me now. How he’ll scold when he hears about this.
“God of mountains…”
He and Fig had thought that they were being so careful. Fig was watching Vine today; they had thought of no other enemy.
“Let your face shine toward us.”
His lungs burned with dust. He was thirsty but had no water; he had no place to rest. He felt as if he really might be climbing out of Sheol, with the rescued dead upon his back. The olive is anointed over the trees, but its fruit is pressed and its blood is burned... Let me burn, Overpowerer. Let her live.
He could not continue—but there was no place to rest. Praise the Overpowerer. Clearly he could not stop. He would keep on.
He slipped and slid down the rock for several cubits, clutching Snow’s limp form tightly; he would not drop her, though they both fell into silence. There—a foothold. He paused only an instant before heading upward again.
“Yotam?” A deep voice.
“Here she is,” he said, holding her up into the light. “Take her.”
He felt the weight lift. Thorn grabbed his wrist when he would have slipped again and hauled him out onto the ridge. “What were you doing, you young fool?” snarled the old mercenary. “Throwing your life after hers?”
“She was alive when I found her,” Yotam said, rolling to his knees. The cooler air was like a breath of kindness on his cheek. He stood up, his legs twitching from the strain, balancing himself with a firm grip on Thorn’s shoulder. The older man grunted but didn’t shake him off.
“She hit her head,” Cedar said darkly. He exchanged a look with Thorn. “But she might wake.”
Snow did not wake while Cedar carried her back to camp. She did not wake when Thorn bandaged her head, or when Fig tried to trickle water into her mouth. That night she did not wake while Yotam sat vigil beside her, talking to the heavens. She did not wake when the sun rose.
But she did not stop breathing.
Kaf.
It was Yotam who insisted that they take her to the prophet at Luz Bit-Aron-Ili. “The Overpowerer can save her.”
“Why should the god concern himself with a criminal and a woman? Should you waste your steps on a vain thing?” Cypress asked coolly. “She will wake or she will not. Take her to the village and wait, if it pleases you.”
Yotam shook his head. “I will take her to Bit-Aron-Ili.” He did not ask for permission to go. He had sworn himself to Cypress only for decent service—and allowing Snow to die would be far from decent.
“I’ll come with you,” said Fig, his hands already b
usy bundling up dried figs and pouches of barley.
Cypress stepped forward to grip Fig’s shoulder. “Fig, look at me. Do you desire to leave the band?” There was a threat behind the words: leave and I may not let you come back.
Fig did not look at Cypress. Instead he looked past him, at Yotam.
“Peace,” Yotam told him. “You don’t need to come.” He would not blame his friend for staying. Fig had been part of the band for years; he had been loyal to them and they to him.
“But I will come,” Fig told him.
Yotam did not care for the expression on Cypress’ face. The commander looked as if he might strike Fig for his defiance. “Will you journey to seek the favor of a god who will do nothing to help you?” Cypress demanded.
“Commander,” rasped Thorn. “The Overpowerer might help her. Are you forgetting the battle at Qir Qatina?”
Cypress’ lips tightened. “You also?”
Thorn said nothing more—just held his captain’s eyes, his gaze fierce and bitter.
Yotam did not see what happened next; he was wrapping another cloak around Snow. Her skin was too cold. Carrying her all the way to Bit-Aron-Ili would be difficult, but with Fig along to help it might be possible.
“Thus,” Cypress said, his voice flat. “We’ll all go. Cedar, go down to the village and buy a donkey.”
“What?” Vine squawked. “But—”
“Are you questioning me? We are going.”
**
They travelled south past Shilo to the Yamini lands and the sanctuary at Luz. Vine circled the band like a stone in a sling, staying out of earshot of Yotam’s prayers.
They came to Luz during the olive harvest. As soon as they sighted the town—arranged in its terraces on a single rounded hill—Fig ran ahead. He soon returned. “The prophet’s at the olive press,” he told them. “This way.”
There was a crowd at the press, but Yotam hardly noticed them. Overpowerer, great in mercy… He lifted Snow carefully from the donkey’s back. Cedar began marching through the crowd, scattering the townsfolk out of his path. Yotam followed close behind him with Snow’s forehead pressed against his chest.
The young man scanned the crowd. Behold. That is the man. The prophet was old, with gray hair and far-seeing eyes. His tunic was of wool, not fine linen, and his sandals were shabby.
He met Yotam’s eyes and waved the Luzites out of the way. The young man laid Snow at his feet. “My father, will you help your maidservant?”
The prophet crouched down with much creaking of knees. He laid his hands on either side of Snow’s head, then lifted her eyelids to peer at her eyes. “She sleeps a sleep unto death. What is it that you desire from me, my son?”
“That you wake her.”
“This is foolish,” Vine muttered, twisting his broken tassels around his fingers until his skin turned white. “He can’t do anything.” Cedar, who stood warily distant from the prophet, silenced him with a thump.
The prophet nodded, then paused. He looked at the olive press with a frown.
Why doesn’t he answer? Yotam wondered, focused on the old man’s face.
“We’ve brought you this donkey as a gift, father,” Cypress said coolly.
Truly, I had forgotten the gift, Yotam thought. A donkey was valuable—a fine present.
“As the Overpowerer lives, before whom I stand, I have no need of a riding donkey,” the prophet replied. “All who seek me come here—or if not, the Overpowerer takes me where I must go.” He still wore the frown, as if the words he spoke tasted bitter in his mouth.
Yotam’s shoulders stiffened. The prophet was rejecting the gift? Overpowerer, what is this? Yotam had never doubted that the prophet would heal Snow. To have come all this way only to have him refuse—surely the god would not allow it? Perhaps he should offer something else. “If you heal her, I will serve you all the days of your life.”
“Master, please,” Willow scolded nervously. “What use does this venerable prophet have for a servant? Perhaps this silver will be enough.” He laid a bag of money on the oil press. Yotam blinked at it. He hadn’t known that Willow had any silver, yet he must have carried it since they fled Aphirah.
“What use is silver to the man whose days are short?” quoted the prophet, making no move to take it. His eyes searched the band, coming to rest on Vine.
Yotam glanced behind him in time to see Vine twist and back away. “What’s to me and to you?” he snapped.
At another time, Yotam might have paused to wonder why Vine recoiled so violently from the prophet’s gaze, but today he had other matters on his heart. “What can I give you, father? What do you desire?” Yotam asked.
“You offer to serve me all the days of my life,” the prophet said thoughtfully. He closed his eyes. “My days will not be long, and your service would be short. A longer service is required of you, a more permanent gift.” He opened his eyes. “Will you give me your two hands?”
“What?” asked Fig.
Yotam followed the prophet’s eyes to the olive press. Ayeh. It’s a strange thing you ask.
The olive may seem to be the lord of trees, yet its fruit is pressed and its blood burned for the honor of gods and men, he thought. Would I not die for Snow? Why not give my hands? “Cedar, will you lift the upper stone for me?”
“Master, what are you doing?” Willow hissed, gripping his shoulder.
“Why should the lad lose his hands?” Thorn said gruffly, shoving Yotam out of the way. “He’s guilty of nothing.” He laid his own hands on the millstone with a meaningful look at the prophet.
Fig held out his left hand. “She was my friend. Why not some fingers from each of us?”
Cedar moved forward at last with a deep chuckle. “If it’s fingers y’ want, I have a few to spare.” He waved six-fingered hands at the old man. “Two fingers from two of us, three fingers from two of us—there’s your two hands.”
They were good men, these murderers from the hills. Yotam smiled at Fig, his heart no longer troubled. “Since it was I that he asked, I think I must be the one to give. Thus?”
“Thus,” the prophet agreed, with a solemn nod.
“Then—the stone.”
“As the gift is for me, I will decide the manner of its giving,” the prophet said calmly. He held out his own hands, callused and stained. Yotam laid his fingers obediently in the prophet’s grip. The old man squeezed them once, then let go. “You have given your hands. It will be reckoned to you.” Then he knelt down beside Snow once more.
Yotam blinked at him. Was that all?
“Arise, sleeper.” The prophet touched Snow’s forehead.
She sighed, and her eyes opened.
**
Snow felt strange—weak, hungry, her kidneys fluttering uncertainly. What had happened? Where was she? The hills around her were not familiar; the old man who knelt watching her was not familiar.
“Snow.” But there was Yotam. He crouched in the dust beside her and held her hand. “Thank the Overpowerer, great is his mercy.”
“How do you feel?” Fig asked, squatting on her other side. “How many fingers am I holding up? Are you thirsty?” Before she could think of counting his fingers, he was thrusting a waterskin at her. Yotam steadied her while she drank; his shoulder was warm against her back.
“Let’s get t’ girl out of t’ dirt,” Cedar rumbled.
Memory came back with a rush. “Yotam, I didn’t kill Zeb! He’s alive. I didn’t kill him!” She smiled brilliantly at him, completely happy for the first time in over a year. From the corner of her eye she caught a strange glance between Cedar and Thorn.
Yotam looked stunned. She didn’t wonder why—Zeb’s appearance had stunned her too. She felt as if she had just come out of a prison house into sunlight.
Thorn grunted, lifting her to her feet. “Hold her up,” he ordered Yotam. The young man put an arm around her.
Snow leaned on him. She was happy—but something was nagging her.
“Get the girl out
of the dirt”? “Hold her up”?
She straightened, her hand tightening on Yotam’s arm. She looked at the band. “You … know, then?” Had Vine told them?
“Of course,” Cypress said, looking her up and down—as if the merest glance made her sex obvious.
“True, for I told you that first morning,” Thorn reminded the leader sharply.
“An’ Thorn told me after a time,” Cedar added, with a friendly nod.
“Did you all know?” The three older men had known her secret before Vine discovered it? Yet none of them had confronted her. Why had they allowed her to stay with them?
“I knew when I met you,” Yotam said. “And Fig knew before me, though I don’t know how.”
Vine looked at the others with wide eyes.
She was free of blood guilt. She was free of her secret. Overpowerer, for your abundant grace I thank you. How have I found favor in your eyes? She didn’t know where she would go now or what she would do, but with Yotam holding her and Fig hovering beside her she couldn’t manage to worry about it. “Ayeh. Was it truly so obvious?” She had thought she was being so careful.
“Only when you smiled,” Yotam assured her, his thumb making circles on her shoulder. “Your smile is—not a man’s smile.”
“But what happened?” she asked. “I remember falling into the ravine.”
“You hit your head,” Fig told her.
“Yotam dragged you out,” rumbled Cedar, clapping the young man on the shoulder. “He talked us into coming down to Luz.”
“He offered his hands for you,” Fig added.
“What does that mean?” Snow asked, looking up at Yotam.
As Fig explained, Willow edged toward the oil press, eying the bag of silver. He took it in his hand and weighed it on his palm. Then, with a reluctant sigh, he turned to the prophet. “He would have given you anything, and you took nothing,” Willow murmured. “The money is yours.”
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