Meherah was in front of her house, tending a low, domed, earthen oven, accompanied by several of her younger daughters and her youngest son, who was stretched out on a grass mat, playing with a collection of tiny clay toys. The instant she saw Keren and Zehker leading the procession, Meherah screamed. She dropped to her knees, knocked her forehead against the dirt in front of the oven, and wailed. Clawing her black braids down into long, wild curls, she began to fling blind handfuls of dirt into her hair as her youngest children cried in terror.
Hearing the noise, Yabal came running from the side of the house, his hands covered with wet, darkened clay. When he saw the body of his eldest son, Yabal staggered and wept.
As she helped to gently lower Lawkham’s body to the ground, Keren looked into his blue-marked face, thinking, Never again. This must never happen again.
“Your sister believed you would die in the river,” said Zeva’ah.
Keren knelt with Ra-Anan’s wife on fleeces and mats in the hushed seclusion of her own residence.
“He-Who-Lifts-the-Skies also said you might not live,” Zeva’ah added.
“Does he intend to kill me now that I’ve survived?” Keren asked, ignoring the reference to Sharah.
“No, Lady,” Zeva’ah answered. “I’m sure he wants you to live.”
Keren stared at her lovely sister-in-law’s rounded, pregnant body and blooming face, wondering why Ra-Anan had sent her. Zeva’ah—faultless as always—was obviously here for a purpose, and it was not to console Keren in her grief over Lawkham’s death. Guessing aloud, Keren said, “Ra-Anan is unwilling to welcome me into his presence until I am forgiven by He-Who-Lifts-the-Skies. Am I right?”
Zeva’ah’s unmoving silence affirmed Keren’s suspicion. Feeling wholly emptied and cold inside, Keren said, “Tell me what Ra-Anan says I should do.”
She had practiced her every move, all her attendants’ moves, what they would wear, how they would adorn themselves, and how they would paint their faces. They were perfect now, and completely silent as they entered Nimr-Rada’s crowded ceremonial courtyard.
Keren kept her face impassive as she approached the majestic gold-and-leopard-skin clad Nimr-Rada, proud and remote on his dais seat. How I hate you!
Reaching her designated place, Keren waited while Revakhaw and Tsinnah knelt to untie her ornate gold sandals. When they were finished, Keren stepped out of her sandals, never once looking down. Revakhaw held the elaborate sandals attentively as she stepped behind Keren. Certain that all her attendants were standing exactly where they had been instructed to stand, Keren knelt on her mat, the others kneeling with her. Then, Keren removed her headpiece and set it aside. For a counted instant they paused, then bowed together in a single motion, touching their foreheads to the mats. Still in perfect accord, they sat up. Keren retrieved her headpiece and put it on again. Then she looked at Nimr-Rada.
His dark eyes were gleaming, smug. Beside him, dazzling in her white robes, gold, jeweled ornaments, and intense face paints, Sharah glared at Keren. To their right, Kuwsh was also fuming at her, resplendent in his leopard-skin mantle, pale wrap, and all his gold.
Ignoring her sister and Kuwsh, Keren faced Nimr-Rada, thinking, I have bowed to you, but I swear in my heart, which worships only the Most High, that I will repay you for Lawkham’s death. Even if it means my own life, I will find a way to destroy you. You have not won.
Eighteen
“IS MEHERAH coming this afternoon?” Keren asked Revakhaw, who was entering the courtyard from the gate.
Revakhaw tossed her gleaming curls, obviously pleased with herself. “Indeed, Lady. I told her that we’re going to do nothing but visit and talk and eat and laugh and rest, as we’ve not done in an age! She gives her word that she will come. Her daughters Hadarah and Chayeh begged to come too. I told them you would love to see them again.”
“And so I will,” Keren agreed, smiling, going back to her task of cleaning the courtyard with Alatah. She was grateful, as always, for Meherah’s continued friendship in the five years since Lawkham’s death. And Hadarah and Chayeh were delightful young women, so much like Lawkham that it sometimes hurt Keren to see them.
Shielding herself from thoughts of Lawkham, Keren rolled up a frayed mat, deciding that it could be mended and saved. Revakhaw knelt beside her now, unusually solemn. Keren lifted an eyebrow at her. “What’s wrong?”
“We are still being followed by those strange guardsmen every time we leave the gates,” Revakhaw murmured, glancing at the servants listening nearby. “I don’t like it. They followed us more closely than usual today, yet I couldn’t tell if they belonged to He-Who-Lifts-the-Skies, or Kuwsh, or Ra-Anan, or your Great-Lady sister.”
Keren exhaled, disturbed, staring up at the cloud-hazed sky. “I don’t like it either. This has been going on for days. Did they say anything?”
“No, Lady. Alatah said they followed her yesterday when she went to barter for fish. They made her nervous.”
Gnawing her lower lip, thinking, Keren said, “Alatah told me the same thing. We should follow them next time. Who in our household was with you this morning?”
“That new guard, Qaydawr, and our devoted Erek.”
“Erek!” Keren sniffed, wishing she could be rid of him. But he was Nimr-Rada’s loyal spy—and Kuwsh’s. She was sure that Qaydawr was also an informant. Probably Nimr-Rada’s. “Tell Zehker what you’ve told me. We should track these new spies—confront them if necessary. Also, please tell everyone in our household that if they go outside for any reason, they must be accompanied by others.”
“I will, Lady.”
Revakhaw hurried away. Keren returned to her work, upset. She had already visited Ra-Anan, who denied responsibility for these new spies. She didn’t believe him. But then, it might be Kuwsh, stirring up trouble against her out of spite. And Sharah could also be sending spies after Keren’s household for the pure joy of intimidating them. Even so, whoever was having her attendants followed was certainly acting with the full knowledge of Nimr-Rada, who knew everything that happened in the Great City.
When will I be rid of you? she wondered to Nimr-Rada.
Nimr-Rada, as usual, had been tormenting her and indulging her by turns. At present, he was angry with her simply because she had trimmed her hair without his permission. Her hair. It had been down past her knees, unbearably heavy and always in disarray, so Keren had trimmed it to just below her waist. When he saw her, Nimr-Rada had actually thrown dishes and food at her, chasing her out of his presence while Sharah and Kuwsh laughed. That had been two days ago. Now, remembering the confrontation, Keren’s face tingled with anger and humiliation: how Sharah and Kuwsh had enjoyed Nimr-Rada’s rage.
So now I must send a gift to you and beg your forgiveness, Keren thought to Nimr-Rada, grimacing. Then I will ask you to stop these new spies. Perhaps Meherah can advise me on a gift.
By now, Keren also knew that Meherah was another one of Nimr-Rada’s informants—probably against her will. But Meherah was a tender person, as Lawkham had been. And Meherah had forgiven Keren for her part in Lawkham’s death.
Have you forgiven Nimr-Rada? Keren wondered to Meherah. I hope not. Because I haven’t. I took the blame openly, but I will never forget who threw that spear.
Finished rolling and binding the grass mat, Keren frowned at a mess of discarded fruit pits on the mats beneath her just-harvested almond trees. As she gathered the discarded pits, Zehker entered the courtyard, clenching his longspear. He saw her at once and strode toward her, purposeful as always. Bowing his head politely, he knelt and placed his longspear between them. Keren relaxed, watching him overtly, mindful that they were being observed.
“The spies are his, Lady,” Zehker told Keren quietly. “I saw them turn toward his residence.”
“Then he’s planning something,” Keren decided, accepting Zehker’s opinion without question. “And all we can do is wait for him to act. I wish he didn’t enjoy these little games—stalking us, frightening us, whipping my
entire household into a state of agitation.”
“A part of the hunt.”
“The hunt has lasted for nearly six years now. I’m ready for it to end—and not as he would have it end.”
Zehker was silent, lowering his head, studying his spear. Keren could almost read discouragement into his attitude. They had both been trying, without success, to think of a way to escape Nimr-Rada’s control without endangering Keren’s entire household. The thought of leaving anyone in her household behind to face the Great King’s vengeance made Keren ill.
“He is patient when hunting, Lady,” Zehker said at last. “As we must be.”
For the sake of the spies in her household, Keren rolled her eyes toward the swaying, leaf-draped branches above them, tapping her fingertips together as if irritated. But she was consciously extending her time with Zehker. Soon the leaves of this tree would fall, the rains would begin, and they would have fewer chances to be together. She was restless just thinking of the coming rains and the planting season.
“Patience is becoming more and more difficult to cultivate.” Very softly she added, “I wish Lawkham were here. Even after all this time, it’s still hard to greet Meherah and not feel the guilt, and the loss of his laughter.”
“She loves you.”
“Partly for your sake; she loves you as her son,” Keren answered, staring hard at one particular leaf, which was fading. “At times I fear I will bring her more sorrow. I feel I should remove myself from her life—as I should remove you from mine. If anything happens to you …”
“Don’t.”
“I know. I shouldn’t think of these things. I should get busy before our spies wonder what else we might be discussing apart from his new spies.”
“Be your sister, Lady,” he said, reminding her of her role.
In silent agreement, they parted in their usual way; Keren dismissed Zehker with a petulant wave of her hand, as if she couldn’t wait to be rid of him. Her best imitation of Sharah.
Sometimes Keren acted as if she were furious with Zehker. But she didn’t have the spirit to pretend a temper today. Nor did she have the time; her guests would be arriving in the early afternoon, and everything had to be perfect because Sharah might show up unexpectedly and criticize things. Zeva’ah, too, would be quietly critical if anything was amiss. But Zeva’ah’s criticism was softened by her four-year-old daughter, Demamah, who was loveable, gentle, and Keren’s particular delight.
“Do you think our Great Lady will appear today?” Alatah asked, her sweet voice full of dread as she joined Keren to clear the fruit pits from beneath the almond trees.
“I pray not,” Keren murmured. “I want to rest and enjoy the evening.”
Her hands still busy with the cleaning, Alatah said, “Yesterday, while I was being followed by those spies, I found a seller of carved wares and weapons. His work is marvelous, Lady—not like anything we’ve seen. Forgive me, but I invited him to come this evening, to show you the treasures he has created. If I’ve been too hasty …”
“Alatah.” Keren interrupted her nervous apology. “Don’t fret. Your taste is always perfect. As is your timing. I need to select a gift for He-Who-Lifts-the-Skies. If this craftsman has some treasure worthy of him, then you’ve saved me a morning of pacing through the streets. Thank you.”
Alatah sighed, relieved. Keren smiled, and they continued their work in peace.
Her disgracefully trimmed hair clean and shining beneath her gold headdress, and her garments and face paints impeccable—thanks to Tsinnah—Keren relaxed and watched her guests.
Meherah was talking to Zeva’ah, their quiet conversation brightened by occasional bursts of laughter. Meanwhile, Meherah’s radiant, dark-haired daughters, Hadarah and Chayeh, were clapping cadence for Demamah, who was dancing a game song with them, bare brown feet pattering over the clay brick pavings as they sang.
A bird in spring cannot be caught except by hawks or nets—such as the nets I’ve cast for you!
Demamah squealed and laughed as Hadarah and Chayeh lunged at her, catching her and swinging her around. Keren laughed, enjoying Demamah’s wholehearted glee. Usually Demamah was so serious and wide-eyed about everything. But now, safe on the ground again, she ran to Keren, highly excited. “Come dance with us, Lady!”
“I will,” Keren promised. “After you’ve worn out Hadarah and Chayeh. And after I’m sure that my own sister won’t visit and be unhappy with me for ruining my hair and my robes.”
“But you won’t ruin your hair and robes just dancing,” Demamah protested, widening her dark eyes, which were huge and fringed with incredibly long, black lashes. “And you look beautiful anyway.”
“You’re wonderful to say such things!” Keren hugged Demamah, who suddenly crawled into her lap, giggling as the mischievous Chayeh growled and pretended to claw at Demamah like a monster. Chayeh’s sparkling eyes and brilliant smile pained Keren—she looked so much like Lawkham.
“Demamah,” Zeva’ah scolded, “your feet are dirty.”
Abashed, Demamah scooted off Keren’s lap. But Keren patted her back and said, “We’ll clean her up, Zeva’ah. Forgive us; we’re to blame.”
Zeva’ah was satisfied. And Demamah was thrilled to be the center of attention as Keren and her attendants brought water for her face, hands, and feet. “Make me look like you,” Demamah begged Keren in a whisper.
“Well, I wish I could look like you,” Keren answered, staring into Demamah’s marvelous black-brown eyes. “You’re perfectly lovely.”
They scrubbed her clean, then combed her long, straight dark hair, which was certainly like Ra-Anan’s would be if he weren’t always shaving his head. But Demamah sighed wistfully for curls and waves, so Tsinnah and Revakhaw dampened her hair and began to braid it artfully.
“Wear your hair this way overnight,” Revakhaw told her, “and in the morning when you comb it out, it will be full of waves.”
“Like yours?” Demamah asked Keren, hopeful.
“Better than mine,” Keren told her ruefully. “Yours will behave and mine won’t.”
Which was why she had to send a gift to Nimr-Rada. Though Keren knew that Nimr-Rada’s tantrum was provoked by more than her unlawfully shorn hair. What? Keren wondered to Nimr-Rada. What have I done now?
Soon, Gebuwrah and Na’ah presented their food to the accompaniment of a band of musicians—also arranged by Alatah. Delicate notes from harps, flutes, and chimes floated upward as the fragrance of roasted meats, spiced sauces, sweet fruits, crisp breads, and savory vegetables filled the air.
Keren was serving Demamah when the bundle-laden tradesman arrived. He was small, hunched, and dusty, with rough hair, glittering little eyes, and a nervous smile. And he shrank back at the sight of Keren’s pale eyes. To put him at ease, Keren asked the tradesman to sit on a mat and offered him some cool honey-sweetened barley water to drink. Obviously afraid to refuse, he drank a sip of water, stared at it, then finished the cup and licked his lips. “May I say that this is very good, Lady?”
“Our Na’ah thanks you,” Keren murmured, smiling at Na’ah, who ducked her head, delightfully self-conscious. “Please, let us see what you’ve brought us.”
Eagerly the tradesman untied various bundles of leather. Combs, flasks, slender pins, pendants, and exquisite knives of wonderfully polished pierced and carved woods, ivories, shells, and gems, all flashed and glittered in the sunlight. Keren stared, amazed. “You carved all these things yourself? They look so delicate; I’m afraid to touch them.”
“They are truly strong and durable, Lady,” the tradesman assured her, unafraid now, defending his remarkable work. “Holding them and using them will only add to their color and beauty. Perhaps the little one will test these works for herself?”
The little one, Demamah, waited for a nod from Zeva’ah, then crept forward. She accepted a pendant and a knife and brought them to Keren. The knife, from its fine-edged blade to the iridescent shell carvings set in its hilt, was perfect. And Demamah to
uched the round ivory pendant over and over, plainly enthralled.
Keren couldn’t blame her. She studied the craftsman and his wares again. “What’s in that large bundle? Your tools?”
Distressed, he said, “No, Lady. It’s a sword—not something to attract the eyes of women.”
He didn’t want her to see it. Keren guessed why. “Is it an offering for the Great King? Please, I am obligated to find a gift for him. And if this sword is acceptable, then I will exchange its fair worth in goods, but …”
She allowed her words to trail off, implying—rightfully—that the Great Nimr-Rada wouldn’t barter for a sword but take it as his due. Now that Keren had hinted at such a dreadful possibility, the tradesman couldn’t open the parcel fast enough.
They all gasped to see the sword. The blade was fashioned of one long, curved piece of bone, perfect and shining from tip to hilt. And the hilt—of ivory—was richly carved in hunting scenes, ornate leopards, lions, and bulls, with fiery red-stoned eyes. Demamah retrieved it for Keren, walking cautiously as if the sword itself were afire and might burn her. Keren smiled at the little girl, loving her tender, sweet-serious face.
Keren studied the sword, feeling its weight, testing its balance, pondering its craftsmanship. Its edge was surprisingly keen, and everything about it was unparalleled. Keren had seen enough weapons by now to appreciate this sword. But Nimr-Rada, she knew, would use it only for show. Nimr-Rada loved to kill for the sake of killing—he was a vicious, blood-loving hunter—and he could destroy this wonderful sword with one ferocious blow. Even so, useless gold-and-gem laden objects appealed to the Great King. Keren considered herself to be living proof of that appeal. Such objects were tributes to his power, and this sword was exquisite. “What do you ask for this sword?”
The tradesman shook his dusty head as if arguing with himself. Seeing that he was unable to articulate what he wanted, Keren said, “Would you like your own field near the river? With half its harvest from this year—from which you’ll have seeds for planting with the coming of the rains. I will give you the tokens before you leave today.”
He Who Lifts the Skies Page 22