Keren listened, dismayed. The thought of sharing an evening meal with Nimr-Rada, Kuwsh, and probably Sharah was enough to make her lose her appetite. She wished Kuwsh would—for once—include his wife, Achlai, in their plans. Kuwsh and Nimr-Rada neglected Achlai terribly and rarely mentioned her. In fact, Keren had met her only three times in the past five years.
A quiet woman with the same high cheekbones and full mouth as Nimr-Rada, Achlai apparently embarrassed her husband and her Great King son with her yearning glances. Therefore, Achlai spent her time with her youngest daughters in pointed isolation. Keren sympathized with her deeply.
Keren glanced at Kuwsh, ready to beg him and Nimr-Rada to invite Achlai to share their evening meal. But Kuwsh stiffened, clearly forbidding Keren to address him.
I wish you didn’t hate me, she thought to Kuwsh, discouraged. I wish I could tell you how much I’ma-Naomi and I’ma-Annah have always loved you. How I long to honor you. But you’ve never given me the chance. Instead, you want to destroy me to protect your “Great King” son and all your schemes—though you know you’re wrong to do so. I’ma-Naomi and I’ma-Annah would despair if they could see the man you have become.
She inclined her head, then pressed Shaw-Kak to trot in a brisk half circle around Kuwsh, remembering Zehker’s instructions. Never ride ahead of Kuwsh again.
Kuwsh turned, glaring at her steadily. Keren shivered. He truly wanted her to die.
Impudent child, Kuwsh thought, glaring over his shoulder at Keren. What is that sad, put-upon look for? Are you trying to make me feel guilty for wanting to be rid of you?
But her sadness did weigh upon him like a heavy burden. More often than he cared to admit, Kuwsh felt the genuine kindness and honor within this young woman. She affected him as gravely any of those Ancient Ones; she made him feel shamefully guilty, more than he had felt in years upon years. How he hated her for provoking that most deep-seated guilt—he almost hated himself.
But why should I feel guilty? Kuwsh wondered, justifying his contempt toward Keren. That misguided girl is a dangerous distraction to my son, and therefore an enemy—as much as if we were in battle. And as a threat, she must become a casualty of battle. If I must choose between a foolish girl and my son, then of course I’ll choose my son. Once again, Kuwsh mentally outlined his plans, seeking flaws and finding none. The next time he took steps to be rid of the Lady Keren, there would be no sudden fall to save her. Keren would do the deed herself.
Sobs and jostling hands shook Keren from a heavy sleep. “Please, wake up!”
“Revakhaw?” Keren thought she was still dreaming. But Revakhaw was here, in Keren’s own residence, among the stirring shadows created by Gebuwrah, Tsinnah, Alatah, and Na’ah. Wide-awake now, Keren sat up on her fleece-draped pallet, her heart thudding in alarm. “What’s happened? Revakhaw, how did you get here?”
Crying, hugging herself, and rocking back and forth, Revakhaw choked out, “I’ve been chased into the streets, Lady. Without my baby … Your sister took him.”
“Sharah?” Keren groaned. “Oh, Revakhaw. You’ve had your baby? When?”
“Two days past,” Revakhaw whispered. “He-Who-Lifts-the-Skies sent me to your sister’s household as soon as my pains began.” Sobbing again, as if the memory were too much to endure, Revakhaw gulped audibly. “She mocked me! She said I was nothing to him—which is true. And that my son is hers.” Revakhaw wiped her face, a quick, agitated movement in the darkness. “As soon as she found a woman to nurse my son, she put me out into the streets.”
Thrusting her fingers into her hair, longing to tear her cruel, vengeful sister apart, Keren shut her eyes hard. Hot color filled her mind. Be calm, she told herself sternly. Revakhaw needs you to be calm.
Finished with sleep for the night, Keren hugged her friend. “I’m so sorry! I feel as if I’ve been nothing but a curse to you. I’ll beg Sharah to return your son. Does He-Who-Lifts-the-Skies know that Sharah sent you away?”
“What doesn’t he know, Lady?” Revakhaw asked, desolate.
Tsinnah, Alatah, and Na’ah comforted Revakhaw as Gebuwrah lit a grass-wicked clay lamp. Revakhaw’s face was haggard in the wavering light, and wet with tears. “Help me, Lady. I just want my son.…”
Keren studied the tiny, chubby, dark-curled infant in her sister’s arms. The newborn was unmistakably a miniature of Nimr-Rada.
“You can’t have him,” Sharah told Keren, smugly triumphant. “He’s mine, and no one will take him from me.”
Sharah was truly exquisite this morning, her pale hair in thick, gleaming braids crowned with gold, her face paints emphasizing her full lips and remarkable eyes as her light robes and gold adornments called attention to her perfect figure. But more than that, she was truly happy. Anyone seeing her for the first time would have been dazzled and deceived. Sharah’s joy made her seem incomparable and worthy of adoration.
“I’ll be the perfect mother,” Sharah said, smiling, caught up in her own delightful reverie. “Won’t my husband’s dear citizens be thrilled to see his child in my arms?”
Nauseated, Keren bit down a grimace. “Claim as much of the glory as you please, my sister. But will you at least allow Revakhaw to nurse her own child?”
“And give her a place in his life? Never! I’m his mother now; he will adore me.”
“Unlike your own Gibbawr? I should tell everyone of him!” Keren whispered.
Sharah stiffened. “If you say another word, I’ll have that Revakhaw chased out to the steppes to face the wild animals. Don’t think I won’t!”
Keren withdrew from Sharah’s household, heartsick. How can you be my sister? You don’t care that you’ve ruined a woman’s life. Revakhaw, I’m so sorry!
Sharah entered Ra-Anan’s courtyard unannounced, too angry to be intimidated. As she had suspected, Kuwsh was visiting Ra-Anan, both of them scheming over their precious temple ceremony. They stared as she waved her attendants off and knelt on the mats near Ra-Anan. Leaning forward, she said to Kuwsh, “We must be rid of her! I don’t care what we have to do—I want her gone before she destroys my life!”
Kuwsh studied her silently, then relaxed, as if satisfied. Sharah admired his handsome face, regretting endlessly that Nimr-Rada hadn’t inherited his father’s looks. Instead she had to be satisfied with her husband’s power and wealth—and with as much of those attributes as Nimr-Rada chose to share with her.
“I want her gone,” Sharah repeated fiercely, challenging both men. “Whatever you’re planning, let me help you!”
Ra-Anan hesitated, but Kuwsh smiled invitingly. “As you say, daughter.”
Na’ah crept into the eerily shadowed temple, hating everything about this tower and this Great City. She longed to return to her parents and to the pleasant dullness of her childhood. But her parents had gladly given her up and would be humiliated if she returned to them without Nimr-Rada’s permission. Her one comfort was that the Lady Keren appreciated her, though no one else did.
Na’ah watched now as the Lady Keren—accompanied by the hateful Lady Sharah—listened to Master Ra-Anan’s tense instructions. The ceremony tonight must be extremely important to Master Ra-Anan; he was snapping at everyone, particularly the Lady Keren, who was holding a large gold cup and frowning at Master Ra-Anan’s commands.
A rustle sounded behind Na’ah, and she nearly screeched as a man murmured into her ear, “Little dove …” Na’ah felt faint, recognizing the voice as Qaydawr’s, the most handsome of the Lady Sharah’s servants. He was talking to her, and she was scared as a stupid child.
“Listen,” he urged in a caressing whisper, “they’re plotting against your lady. Tonight she will drink from that cup, but it’ll contain worse than wine. Somehow you must save her.”
Before Na’ah could recover, Qaydawr had slipped away. Was he telling the truth? No, he had to be teasing her. Yet she knew he was grateful to the Lady Keren for saving him from Nimr-Rada, therefore he would certainly try to protect her. As Na’ah studied the spiteful Lad
y Sharah and Master Ra-Anan, she realized Qaydawr was right; the Lady Keren’s enemies were plotting against her. But what can I do?
Terrified, she glanced around. She wanted to ask Alatah or Tsinnah for help, but they’d never believe that the charming Qaydawr had trusted silly, cowardly her of all people. Think, she told herself fiercely. For once in your life, be brave.
“Are you ill?” Keren asked Na’ah as they finished their evening meal.
“No, Lady,” Na’ah squeaked, looking ashen. “I’m well.”
Unconvinced, Keren said gently, “If you’re worried about the ceremony, you don’t have to attend; I’ll think up some excuse for you.”
“No-no, I’m going,” Na’ah insisted. “Forgive me, Lady!” She fled outside before Keren could ask anything more.
Gebuwrah sniffed, contemptuous. “She’s probably broken a dish and is afraid to confess it. But forget her, Lady; we need to prepare for tonight.”
“From what I’ve heard, most of the tribal leaders will come to the temple to honor He-Who-Lifts-the-Skies,” Alatah told Keren eagerly. “Some of the Lady Sharah’s servants were talking—though they hushed when I approached them.”
“You didn’t want to talk to them anyway,” Tsinnah said, joining them. “They didn’t help our Revakhaw in her misery.”
“Where is Revakhaw?” Keren asked, looking around. Revakhaw had refused her evening meal and wandered away.
“She’s climbed to the roof, Lady,” Gebuwrah said. “I hope she won’t throw herself off.”
Keren rushed outside and clambered up the ladder to the roof. Revakhaw was kneeling at the far corner of the roof, her head lowered, her dark curls veiling her face.
“Revakhaw.” Keren went to her and knelt, frightened by the woman’s stillness. “Give me your word that you won’t harm yourself!”
Revakhaw shook her head, then leaned against Keren and wept. Her throat aching, Keren hugged her friend. “I’ll talk to He-Who-Lifts-the-Skies tonight. I’ll beg him to let you care for your son. Whatever he asks …” She couldn’t finish.
“Silly,” Alatah teased Na’ah. “Why are you carrying that?”
Unnerved, Na’ah clutched her sealed flask, determinedly forcing words from her dry throat. “It’s for the ceremony—I-I’m just holding it … keeping it safe.”
Alatah shook her head, smiling, unconcerned. “You worry too much.”
Do I? Na’ah wondered. Am I being a fool? I wish I knew what to do.
“Be careful, Lady,” Zehker warned softly as he brought Shaw-Kak to a standstill beneath the night-darkened skies near the tower.
Meeting his gaze in the torchlight, Keren saw that he was deeply concerned about something. He didn’t want her to participate in this ceremony any more than she did. Keren nodded. She would be cautious, but she longed to hold him and to cry out all her distress and rage. If she behaved tonight, it would only be for Revakhaw’s sake. Otherwise, she wished Nimr-Rada’s accursed tower would crumble into the river, taking him with it.
Warning Zehker in turn, she breathed, “Whatever happens tonight, don’t touch me. He-Who-Lifts-the-Skies has planned something unexpected, I’m sure.” Reverting to her usual imperious Sharah imitation, Keren waved Zehker away. He obeyed reluctantly.
“We are the last to enter the tower, Lady, am I right?” Tsinnah asked uncertainly.
Keren nodded silently. She had been severely admonished to hide herself from Nimr-Rada’s tribal-leader guests until the ceremony.
Now the leaders were gathering at the tower steps. Giddy with wine, and awed by Nimr-Rada and the beginnings of his marvelous tower, they loudly proclaimed that this ceremony would surpass all previous ceremonies beneath these heavens.
Studying their swaying, weaving behavior, Keren realized that the tribal leaders were susceptible to whatever Nimr-Rada had planned for them. And she was a part of that plan.
“I despise this,” she whispered to the Most High. She felt ill.
“Lady,” Gebuwrah beckoned. They rode nearer the tower, dismounting apart from the others to avoid being noticed by the guests. Keren allowed Tsinnah and Alatah to adjust her heavy gold headdress and check her garish face paints, while Gebuwrah refastened Keren’s gold sandals and smoothed her linen robes.
One by one, the celebrants climbed the tower steps. Ra-Anan led everyone, bearing a smoking, fragrant brazier. He was followed by Nimr-Rada, resplendent in all his gold and a magnificent leopard-skin cloak, tended by a trusted servant holding a bundled fleece. Kuwsh ascended next, coldly dignified. Then each of the tribal leaders, accompanied by musicians, climbed the balustraded steps, carrying flaring torches and tiny ornate flasks.
Sharah was conspicuously absent, but Keren soon forgot her, for the musicians were exhaling long, eerie, hypnotic notes on flutes and drones, making Keren’s skin crawl. She wanted to run away. Behave, she reminded herself. For Revakhaw. Slowly she climbed the steps with her attendants and entered the temple above.
As rehearsed, Keren halted before a waist-high raised brick hearth, which Ra-Anan had lit from his fragrant brazier. Gebuwrah stepped forward now, so haughty that Keren longed to shake her. Instead, she raised an eyebrow at Gebuwrah, then accepted a deep, symbol-engraved gold cup from her attendant’s hands. The musicians reached an echoing crescendo, making Keren shiver, but she lifted the gold cup as she had been instructed. This was the signal for the tribal leaders to come forward.
They approached by turns: Sons of Tarshish, Mitzrayim, Put, Rifat, Kena’an, and Aram all poured liquid tributes into Keren’s gold cup. As instructed, Keren stared each leader in the face, enduring their reactions to her shockingly pale eyes. The leaders trembled and nearly spilled their tributes, making Keren steady her cup uneasily. Some of the liquid tributes, less than a swallow each, didn’t look like wine. Soon, a pungent aroma wafted from the cup. And I’m to drink this stinking stuff?
Doubtful, Keren turned, glancing at the resplendent Nimr-Rada, who waited on the opposite side of the raised hearth. Silently Nimr-Rada’s dark eyes coerced her to drink the tributes. As Keren hesitated, Na’ah sidled up timidly and began to pour the contents of a decorative flask into her cup. Keren blinked, perplexed. She didn’t remember Na’ah having any part in this ceremony. Na’ah’s flask contained more liquid than any of the others, filling Keren’s huge cup almost to the brim.
Before Na’ah had emptied her flask completely, Ra-Anan tugged her away, his eyes glinting dangerously. Cowed, Na’ah retreated, shaking visibly. Nimr-Rada stared hard at Keren, inducing her to drink. Remembering Revakhaw, Keren obeyed.
The gold cup was heavy and so full that Keren had to drink slowly. At first the liquid tasted sweet, but then her mouth began to tingle; the liquid turned acrid. She drank as much as she could, then placed the cup on the raised edge of the hearth. Satisfied, Nimr-Rada lifted his hands and invoked a resonant, lengthy course of praises. “All that is above, receive our thanks! From the heavens, She mesh, you give us blessings.…”
His voice was mesmerizing, rich, hypnotic as the music, the darkness, and the wine. Keren felt herself swaying; she concentrated hard on Nimr-Rada, but the whole temple seemed to shift and move around her, making her dizzy. Then her mouth went oddly dry. Her heart fluttered unevenly, and she gripped a corner of the hearth for balance. Shutting her eyes, she opened them again and realized that the hearth flames were unnaturally blurred; she couldn’t trust what she was seeing. Her senses twisted.
“… and for life and our losses, yet we are blessed,” Nimr-Rada intoned.
Losses? Keren tried to comprehend his meaning. She was aware of a servant stepping forward, opening a fleece. Nimr-Rada removed an oiled-linen bundle from the fleece and placed it in the lowering hearth flames. The bundle blurred as it caught fire.
I can’t see! Panicked, Keren tried to focus on Nimr-Rada’s face. Useless. Her terror grew as a stench permeated her nostrils. She was going to be sick. Wildly she lunged for the doorway, gasps and shrieks filling her ears. Hands restrained her. Sh
e fought them off like a madwoman until she dropped into darkness.
She became conscious of screaming. Sharah. “This is your fault!” Sharah accused, shaking Keren where she lay. “You’ve made my husband hate me!”
Keren opened her eyes, confused, trying to see. A pale blurred face filled her sight, gasped, then vanished.
“Her eyes …” Sharah’s voice faltered. “Her eyes are black.”
“They’ve been black since we brought her home.” Alatah’s voice sounded thin to Keren.
“She was raving,” someone whimpered. Na’ah. “She’s dying.”
“I’ll die with her,” Revakhaw said.
Keren tried to speak. Darkness stopped her.
They covered her completely with linen, then carried her into the predawn streets. Her sight was returning, but it was difficult to breathe or speak, and her heart was beating too swiftly. Her muscles twitched involuntarily and ached from violent spasms of nausea and prolonged digestive torments. She didn’t know where they were carrying her, but she was too exhausted to care.
After lapsing into a stupor, she awoke when cool air touched her face. Tsinnah, Na’ah, and Alatah were lifting the covering from her face. Their eyes were swollen, and they wept softly when they realized she was watching them.
“You’re still alive,” Tsinnah whispered, shocked. Zehker appeared behind them, shadowed in torchlight, cautiously studying Keren.
You’re alive, Keren thought to him, relieved. She vaguely remembered hands restraining her in the temple and was now alert enough to be thankful that Zehker had obviously not touched her. But her fear grew. She motioned to Alatah, who leaned close to listen. “No one died?” Keren pleaded.
“No man touched you, Lady,” Alatah promised. A noise distracted her, and she hastily knelt, staring past Keren, then bowing abjectly with the others. Turning her head, Keren perceived that they were in the main room of Nimr-Rada’s residence. And Nimr-Rada was entering the room. Kuwsh, Ra-Anan, and several of Ra-Anan’s acolytes followed soon after, all of them uneasy.
He Who Lifts the Skies Page 26