In the najashi’s reception room Medraut and the Star Master sat cross-legged, facing each other. Medraut had his hands spread before him, holding up a complicated maze of looped thread; Dawit was picking and pulling the pattern into a new design, his sensitive fingers counting lines and spaces while his milky eyes stared straight ahead in concentration. Watching them, deeply absorbed, Athena sat quietly in the najashi’s lap. On either side of Medraut an attendant waited, alert, each poised on one knee with his fists closed against his chest.
Muna went in first. Telemakos stood on the threshold behind her, hardly daring to breathe. Dawit heard them there and looked toward them vacantly. “Welcome at last, Morningstar,” he said. “The baby kept pulling at her father’s hair, because it looks like yours, so we thought she would like a string game. We are telling the story of Jacob’s dream.” He lifted the strings from Medraut’s hands, pulled his own hands apart, and made the thread go taut and tight into a new pattern of three interlocking stars. “Come in, come in.”
Medraut sat back and rested one arm idle across a raised knee. The familiar odd, critical half smile played about the corner of his mouth as he watched Telemakos come forward. Telemakos met his smoke-blue gaze steadily; Medraut and Goewin, alone of all the adults he knew, demanded his respect by forcing him to look them directly in the eye.
White skinned, white haired, Medraut seemed impossibly alien in the najashi’s chambers, and Telemakos realized suddenly that his father was dressed as a British native. Medraut’s kilt and tunic were of some dark, soft animal skin, and his boots were of the same stuff, supple and shining; over his shoulders hung a swath of fine wool, like a shamma but wrapped differently, woven in a chessboard pattern of blocks of green and blue and brown and gray. The cloak was pinned with a gold brooch in the shape of a snarling dragon. There was a knot of gold in his earlobe, and his pale hair was swept back into a single plait.
He looks like a king, Telemakos thought. If he were wearing a crown, you would mistake him for the high king of Britain. He is more regal than the najashi himself.
Medraut lifted his hand toward Telemakos in mute command. Telemakos suppressed the babyish urge to burst into tears and dive sobbing into his father’s arms; he understood that Medraut wanted Telemakos to acknowledge him with a formal greeting. Telemakos knelt before his father. He laid down the rolled maps that he carried, took the offered hand, and kissed it courteously. At Telemakos’s side, again like his conspirator, Muna also knelt. Telemakos held fast to his father’s hand.
“Look, Boy, that is the Ras,” said Athena helpfully. “The prince.”
“Ras Meder,” Telemakos agreed.
“That is our mother the prince.”
The Star Master spluttered with laughter. His fingers were still webbed in the string stars, waiting for Medraut to take his next turn at them.
Telemakos bit his lip. “You mean father, little Tena. He is our father.”
Athena wriggled out of the najashi’s lap and shuffled across the carpet to sit between Telemakos and the queen. “The Ras has got a snake in his hand.”
Medraut, still smiling his faint smile, tolerantly turned over the stiff fingers of his left hand to reveal the tattooed serpent hidden in his palm.
“I know, Tena,” Telemakos said. “I have seen it before. My lord—Sir—” The word came out as a ridiculous squeak. Telemakos choked, and swallowed. “Peace to you, Ras Meder, and welcome to San’a.”
“Indeed,” Medraut said dryly, and raised his chin with the slightest jerk, as if in defiance.
There was a fine chain wrapped twice about his throat. Telemakos had at first thought it to be a fastening of his cloak. It was of iron, not ornamental; its tails were thrown back over Medraut’s shoulders. Telemakos saw now that each of the kneeling attendants held an end of the chain. If they pulled on it, they would choke Medraut.
Still clasping his father’s hand, Telemakos turned to Abreha, lips parted in disbelief. Medraut, also, glanced at the najashi. Fixed by the twin bores of their cold, steel stares, Abreha lowered his eyes.
“My Morningstar,” the najashi said quietly, “there are things your father must not tell you. You cannot know how deeply it shames me to have to hold him in such durance. But we cannot come to an agreement about what you should and should not know, and the days fly past without you seeing each other. I swear you do not need one more scrap of dangerous knowledge in your head.”
Medraut withdrew his hand. Telemakos sat back on his heels before his father, glaring murderously at the najashi. “Do you treat all your ambassadors like this?”
Athena crept closer to Telemakos. She recognized a battle when she saw one, and she wanted to be sure Telemakos’s anger was not directed at her. She climbed up to lean against Telemakos, with one hand in his hair and the other twisting the neck of his shirt.
“I will not have your father as my ambassador,” Abreha answered evenly.
Out of the corner of his vision Telemakos saw Muna dip her head aside as she sat back on her heels as well. Her gossamer veil covered her nose and mouth, and the silk shimmered and caught the light as she moved her head. Her eyes glittered pale green above the veil.
She never goes veiled, Telemakos thought. None of the Himyar women do. A Byzantine noblewoman might, I suppose, if she were being terribly formal. Why has Muna veiled herself for my father?
The najashi spoke again.
“Your father forfeited his right to diplomatic responsibility ten years ago, when he held his brother the prince of Britain to ransom, and used it as an excuse to torment him.”
That was true. Medraut had done that. Telemakos had lived for so long in the shadow of his father’s love for Lleu that he often conveniently forgot the story of their winter’s hunting, and how close they had come to killing each other in rivalry and envy.
Medraut looked directly into the najashi’s face and let one cool, accusing word fall from his lips.
“Hypocrite.”
Abreha raised two fingers. At the slight movement his servants pulled sharply on the chain that circled Medraut’s neck. They held him gasping and speechless until Abreha lowered his hand.
“I gave you fair warning,” Abreha said evenly, his black eyes grim beneath his heavy brow.
“What fair warning,” Medraut croaked, “to Britain’s heir—”
Abreha slashed the air with the edge of his hand, and the men pulled hard on the silencing chain. Medraut’s head went back and he plucked at his throat involuntarily.
Muna gripped her husband’s arm, and Abreha lowered his hand.
“You were never Britain’s heir,” Abreha scolded Medraut with quiet intensity.
Medraut, inexplicably, croaked forth one of Grandfather’s proverbs in Latin. “‘Spiderwebs joined together can catch a lion.’” It sounded strange in Latin, but it made the word lion into leo, a play on Lleu, the name of the lost prince of Britain.
“Do not make me do this to you, Ras Meder. Do not make your children endure such a spectacle.”
Indeed, Athena was gazing intently at the show with wide-eyed interest. Telemakos found himself panicking at the number of terrible things she saw and took for granted. How can I tell anyone anything, like this? It is worse than being in chains myself. Athena shouldn’t be here. I wish I wasn’t here, either, now. “Hold on to me, Tena,” he muttered in her ear. “Both arms around my neck, and hold tight. I’ll take you back upstairs to your favorite birds.”
She obeyed, but reluctantly. When he tried to climb to his feet she lost her grip, and he could not lift her himself. He bent over her awkwardly, the silver at his elbow making a racket, and tried to get her to put her arms around his neck again, but she was interested in what was going on and would not cooperate.
“Let the Ras do the string stars again,” Athena said.
“You can’t stay here if the Ras is arguing with the najashi.” Telemakos knelt beside her, frustrated and at a loss. “Now listen, Tena, these are your choices …” He could not th
ink of any choices to give her. He hesitated, grasping for an ultimatum that would work.
“You may not leave until I have dismissed you, beloved Morningstar,” the najashi said. “You are here to show your father your maps.”
The najashi turned to Medraut, his heavy frown fierce and forbidding. “Please, Ras Meder. Quit this battle, for your children’s sake.”
Medraut hesitated. Then he raised his eyebrows doubtfully and repeated, “Morningstar?” His deep voice was full of warmth, despite the cold of his eyes. “Why do you call him Morningstar?”
“Isn’t it a good name for him?” Dawit Alta’ir said composedly. With a clean, swift movement of his hands, like an illusionist, he swept the Jacob’s ladder from his fingers all at once, and the intricate web disappeared without leaving a single knot. “Athtar, the Morningstar. I named him myself. Prince of the rising generation!”
“Indeed,” Medraut said. Then he shook with sudden laughter. “Oh, indeed. Abreha the Federator names him Telemakos the Bright One, and silences me!” He bit his lip and raised a hand quickly, warding off another choking blow. “No need, no need, my lord, I am an obedient guest. Will you allow your guards to slack their hold on me, so I may lean forward? I will hold my tongue. Let Telemakos Morningstar show me his maps.”
Telemakos glanced at the najashi, who blinked assent. The soldiers moved aside. Medraut’s throat was scored with faint red streaks where the chains had tightened around it, but he showed no sign of the discomfort, only cocked his head to watch as Telemakos set about unrolling the linen sheets.
It was one of a thousand small tasks that gave him no end of trouble. Athena worked attentively at his side so that they could hold down the map together, and Telemakos was glad of the distraction for her sake.
“Here, Ras Meder, is proof of your son’s growing store of knowledge,” Abreha said. “You’ll recognize the map, I think.” He drew Athena down into his own lap to keep her out of the way. He reached for the length of string the Star Master had put down and absently began to reconstruct the Jacob’s ladder between his own hands. Athena settled comfortably against his chest and pulled at the enticing threads.
“All the beacons in Britain,” Medraut observed. “I surely do recognize it. My father’s queen drew the original.”
He leaned over the chart to study it in concentrated silence. I could have hidden a message there, perhaps, Telemakos thought, if I’d known Ras Meder would see it. I must tell him about the plan to attack the Hanish Islands. The najashi hasn’t got decent maps yet, and can’t get into the fortress, but those agents of his may be in place on the emperor’s ships by now—I must tell Ras Meder, somehow, before he is sent home.
Medraut spoke at last. “Well done, Telemakos Morningstar,” he said warmly. “Your aunt Goewin should see this.”
Wild inspiration seized Telemakos.
“Send her my love when you tell her about it,” he said.
VIII
GIFTS AND SECRETS
IT WAS THE CODE his mother had instructed him to use in his letters. He was not sure his father would recognize it.
Medraut reached over the map to stop Telemakos’s mouth with a warning finger. He spoke softly, and with deliberation, mindful of the chain that was still wound about his neck.
“I’ll bear your message to her.”
Medraut understood, and was waiting.
Telemakos caught his breath. He was about to launch into the most treacherous perfidy of his life, and he realized it was not fear alone that made him hesitate. Something in the way Athena leaned against the najashi and played the string game with him, so confident and lovingly, made this a cruel and bitter betrayal.
“Athena is like a sandbar in the tide,” Telemakos said. He had started now. He drew another breath and went on steadily. “She’s like a little island impossible to map, always changing shape and size. You spoke such words yourself, Ras Meder, the day she was born, when you thought I was not listening, remember? A little ever-changing island, and the najashi will steal her from you, if you aren’t careful. She’s surrounded by his children and doesn’t know it; she looks at them and speaks their language, thinks they are her own family, and suspects no treachery.”
His father watched and listened impassively.
“Look at her, so content and at ease with the federator of Himyar! Your daughter doesn’t remember anything of the house of Nebir,” Telemakos said, and plunged recklessly further. “Tell our aunt that Athena has forsaken her. She’s like a ship with no loyalty, as easily guided by one hand as another. She’ll soon be more Himyar than Aksumite.”
Medraut’s face was quiet, but his dark blue eyes were ablaze.
“You’d better act soon, if you want to keep her,” Telemakos said to his father. “Or the najashi and his hunting dogs will win her affection from within.”
The najashi seemed absorbed in the game he was playing with Athena, but he surely must be paying close attention to everything Telemakos said. I’d better shut up now, Telemakos thought, or he’ll start to wonder why I keep babbling on like this.
“Isn’t that so, my najashi?” Telemakos finished, and his uncontrollable voice soared over Abreha’s title.
“Aye, I suppose it is,” Abreha agreed mildly. “She is my good companion.”
Muna touched Athena’s springing bronze hair. Athena swatted her hand away absently, then noticed the veil. She reached over the najashi’s arm and grabbed and tugged at the sheer silk. “Where’s Muna hiding?”
“Perhaps I should take the little princess home with me,” Medraut said quietly.
“Sir!” Telemakos gasped in protest. “I meant only—”
Medraut was suddenly intent, with his eyes on his daughter, oblivious to the menace at his throat and the guards at his back.
“Princess.”
Athena looked up.
Medraut held out his left palm so that Athena could see the blue serpent and the staff of Asclepius tattooed there. Medraut had used the mark to announce himself as a physician, during the years of silence that had been his private penance for not having died with his brother Lleu in the battle of Camlan. Reaching toward his daughter, he made it seem as if, for a moment, there were a minute, dark dragon nesting in his cupped hand.
Athena ducked beneath the najashi’s arm. She dropped lightly to her hands and feet and crawled over to Medraut, intrigued.
Medraut did not move, watching her, still. He closed his hand.
“Gone,” Athena said. “See that snake again.”
Medraut opened his fingers. His face was expressionless, impassive, immobile as his body.
Athena stood by his side and pointed to the gold dragon that crouched coiled at his shoulder. “Athena see this snake?” she asked politely, careful not to touch without permission.
“Why doesn’t she walk yet?” Medraut asked prosaically.
Telemakos was stunned. It had never occurred to him that his father might have the faintest inkling about when a child should normally take her first steps.
“She should be walking,” Medraut said. “She’s nearly three years old. There’s nothing wrong with her legs, is there? Can she stand?”
Medraut took Athena’s hand and made her step away from him. She swung against his arm and fell over but pulled herself back up. “Athena see your pretty snake, please, Ras?”
“Can she stand on her own? Will she walk with you if you hold her hands?”
“I can’t hold both her hands at once,” Telemakos said.
Athena fell over again. She was doing it on purpose. Medraut looked up from her sharply, giving Telemakos a shrewd, assessing glance. “So you can’t,” he said. “Nor can you lift her anymore.”
Telemakos clenched his teeth. He managed to keep his voice even as he said, “Forgive me the contradiction, sir, but if she holds on I can lift her easily.”
Medraut deftly unfastened his brooch and, letting the folds of his cloak fall away from his shoulders, tossed the golden dragon across the roo
m. It landed in a cup by the door; his aim was effortless and accurate.
“Go get that, if you want it, little princess. But you must walk to it.”
“She does not walk,” Muna said.
It was the first she had spoken since they had all come into the room, and Medraut looked at her. She buried her face in her hands beneath the veil.
“My lady,” Telemakos said, “Athena is an ungrateful little wretch and does not deserve your attention. She doesn’t walk because she’s lazy. She knows I’ll carry her. It’s no blame of yours.”
He caught Athena around the waist and hoisted her to her feet again. “Walk a little—come on, Tena, I’ll hold your hand.”
“Not Tena.” She sat down contrarily. “Athena.”
“And you, Telemakos,” Medraut said gently. “Your maps are very good. I don’t doubt you can draw them from memory. But you can’t lift a child or unfold a sheet of cloth. What else? Can you sleep through the night without screaming?”
“Sir—”
But the word came out like the squeal of metal on stone, and Telemakos could not answer.
“Why does he scream in his sleep?” Abreha asked quietly.
Medraut answered with deliberate care. “I took him hunting in the Great Valley of Aksum, two years before he came here, and one day when we had gone separate ways, he was captured by salt traders and taken as a slave to the emperor’s salt mines. He was evilly mistreated there, blindfolded and bound, starved, lashed if he stumbled in his work. It was two months before we found him. He still dreams of it. He does not complain of it, though; perhaps he finds it shameful to speak of.”
Medraut made it sound so simple: an accident, a mistake, while they should have been hunting together. There was no secret mission, no secret name, no need to hide as Gebre Meskal’s sunbird.
“Ai.” The najashi gave a sudden sigh, as though surprised by a sharp pain. “I understand now. Beloved Morningstar, I am sorry. I might have spared you a deal of suffering this year, had I known that.”
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