“Why did you do that?” Sharah screeched in Keren’s ear. “You’re mindless!”
Before Keren could stammer a response, Nimr-Rada turned his horse about and faced her. His dark eyes glittered, and his voice was scathing. “I will choose to believe that you acted in pure ignorance, my sister. This time. Next time, I will beat you bloody.”
Without waiting for Keren to reply, Nimr-Rada snatched the lead reins once more and urged his own horse ahead. Glancing to her left, Keren caught a tight-lipped, sidelong look from Zehker, while Lawkham—at her right—said, “If you had been anyone else, He-Who-Lifts-the-Skies would have knocked you senseless and left you for the vultures.”
“You must learn,” Zehker muttered, his tone as cryptic as his words.
Their words wounded Keren more than Sharah’s furious pinches and digs to her ribs. No one spoke to her as they rode into the huge encampment—a series of smaller leather-tented camps, all encircling the most spectacular painted-leather tent, which obviously belonged to Nimr-Rada.
As Nimr-Rada’s horsemen were tending their horses and building small hearths for their evening fires, Keren noticed his guardsmen scurrying throughout the encampment, whispering to their newly met companions, gesturing toward Keren emphatically.
These new horsemen are learning that I’m like death to them, Keren realized, feeling ill. They’re telling each other that I must be managed like the most poisonous creature alive.
“You will sleep here tonight,” Nimr-Rada told Keren and Sharah, as he drew their horse to a standstill in front of a circular leather tent, set up within a stone’s throw of his own. He dismounted and helped Sharah down, ignoring Keren completely. “This tent will be your dwelling until we reach the Great City. There, you will each have your own household.”
“Will I be separated from you?” Sharah asked, seeming alarmed, touching Nimr-Rada’s leopard-skin-clad chest to make him answer her. Smiling, he enfolded Sharah’s colorless hand with one large, brown fist.
“You, my Sharah, will not discard me as easily as you discarded that Bezeq.”
His words sounded more like a warning than an endearment.
Stiff and sore, Keren managed to slide off her horse. As she entered the tent with Sharah, she said, “Such possessiveness from any man would frighten me, Sharah. Aren’t you afraid?”
“No.” Pushing her hair back in an airy gesture, Sharah said, “I’ll have the most powerful man on earth as my husband. What more could I want? You, however, will never have a husband. You will never be touched by any man. And you have only yourself to blame.”
I blame you, Keren thought, fuming. But it would be useless to say so. Yet it wasn’t just her fear of angering Sharah that restrained her. She realized that she did not mourn for Yithran as intensely as she should. Perhaps her regard for him would never have equaled the deeply rooted love she had recognized between her I’ma-Annah and the Father of her Fathers, Shem.
Keren’s thoughts of Yithran were dashed as two heavy bundles of furs hurtled through the tent’s entry flap.
Jumping up, Sharah screeched, “I won’t endure this! When we arrive in the Great City, no one will throw my belongings around like rubbish!”
“I’m grateful they’ve thought to give us sleeping furs at all,” Keren said. As she picked up the bundles and untied them, another bundle bounced through the entry flap, surprising Keren into a burst of laughter. Peering out the entry, she saw Lawkham sauntering away, obviously pleased with himself.
You’re a rascal, she thought, smiling. Her amusement faded when she saw Zehker. Armed with a spear, he stood just outside the tent. He gave her one impenetrable look, then deliberately turned the other way. Behind her, Sharah gave Keren a sharp nudge.
“See, he despises you. But forget him. Let’s prepare for the evening meal.”
One of the bundles, so rudely presented by Lawkham, contained a carved wooden comb, which Sharah immediately claimed for herself. Grudgingly, she shared the comb with Keren before the evening meal. Keren longed for a bath, but that was out of the question in this encampment of men. She used some drinking water to rinse her hands and face—a poor alternative to a refreshing scrub, or a swim in the river.
At dusk, they joined Nimr-Rada in a place of honor before the great hearth near his tent. Seated on the edge of the mat farthest from Nimr-Rada and Sharah, Keren gaped at the many foods offered for the evening meal. Tiny roasted birds—glazed and golden—presented on skewers, fragrant simmered grains, steaming root vegetables glistening with oil, pungent mixtures of fruit and wine, flat herb bread, and slices of venison so hotly spiced that she half choked.
Nimr-Rada laughed at her, obviously enjoying the sight of her sniffling and mopping her face. After their meal, however, he vanished into the darkness without a word.
Keren stood, planning to return to her tent, but Zehker detained her with a wave of his spear. “Stay,” he commanded, the word terse and toneless.
Beside Keren, Sharah sputtered contemptuously. “You, Zehker, are so …”
Her words were drowned out by the sudden thunder of drums and the blaring of horns, which instantly melded into a heartbeatlike rhythm accented by flutes and innumerable chimes. A herd of animals charged toward the fire from the fringes of darkness. No, not animals, Keren realized, but men clothed in the whole hides of a multitude of creatures: deer, lions, bulls, bears, and some creatures she had never seen.
The pulse of the music quickened, drawing Keren into the scene before her. A hunter, tall and powerfully muscled, burst in upon the portrayed herd with such speed that she pulled back, genuinely startled. The weapons in the hand of this hunter were more than mere weapons; they were instruments of balance, cadence, and astonishing grace. Keren had never seen such spectacular dancing before. This was not simply a celebration of joy before the Most High. It wasn’t a celebration for the Most High at all; it was a celebration of the power of one man—Nimr-Rada, the hunter.
As she recognized the hunter-dancer, he turned to her and to Sharah, his eyes fiery, his presence wholly captivating. Keren was so stunned that she couldn’t move, not even when he whipped his weapons toward her face, keeping time with the rhythm of his dancing. She swallowed hard, attracted despite her revulsion.
Now I understand why all the people of the earth long to follow you. I understand why they think you must be the Promised One sent by the Most High.
From the shadows, Zehker watched Keren. She was staring at Nimr-Rada, obviously captivated as a child in a dream. I am responsible for placing her in such danger, he thought, crushed by his sense of guilt. I should have helped her to escape while there was time. But that chance is gone.
The most he could do now would be to keep Nimr-Rada and his believers from destroying Keren with all their schemes. You must learn to outwit Nimr-Rada and his fanatics, he thought to Keren. I will be sure you do.
Nine
KEREN SHIFTED uncomfortably in her designated kneeling place on a mat shaded by a pale, rough-edged leather canopy. Sharah knelt at her right, and beyond Sharah sat Nimr-Rada, wearing all his gold and emanating power. They had arrived at this settlement only last night, but already Nimr-Rada was formally meeting settlement leaders and the leaders of nearby tribes.
The leaders sat on rough grass mats before the Great King, unprotected from the midday sun. The leaders’ families stood behind them, listening and staring at Keren, Sharah, and Nimr-Rada. Keren wondered how they could endure the heat. She was sweating and becoming parched. The rough-clothed men, however, talked endlessly with Nimr-Rada about harvests, gatherings, metalworking, water sources, and tribal disputes. And they begged Nimr-Rada’s permission to present some gifts he had previously requested of them.
Gifts? Keren stiffened, disgusted. Nimr-Rada had obviously demanded tributes from these people as protection against harassment from his horsemen. Even so, the people seemed glad to pay tributes—and to give Nimr-Rada authority over them.
As others retrieved the promised gifts, th
e energetic leader of the settlement crouched beside Nimr-Rada, murmuring explanations and descriptions.
Listening briefly, Nimr-Rada raised one dark eyebrow at Keren and spoke formally. “Lady, these are yours.”
Five leather-clad young women knelt before Keren. Eyes lowered, they presented her with a highly polished obsidian hand mirror; round gleaming copper trays; furs of fox, beaver, and marten; finely carved wooden bowls; and a lavish necklace of copper-hardened gold, set with striking bloodred stones.
The instant the necklace was presented, Keren felt her sister’s furious, jabbing nudges in her ribs. You may have the necklace, Keren thought, refusing to acknowledge the envious Sharah. Instead, she looked over at Nimr-Rada, who was staring at her hard.
“Why should I accept these gifts?” she demanded, suspicious.
Nimr-Rada seemed offended. “These young women will be your attendants,” he informed her coldly, ignoring her question. “They will be with you constantly from this time forward. Never come into my presence unless they are with you. Never go anywhere, or speak to anyone, unless they are with you.”
Appalled, Keren looked at the pretty young women, who were obviously terrified. Two trembled visibly; the other three bowed their dark heads, clasping their hands tightly in their laps.
“They are as frightened and unwilling to leave their families as I was, O King,” Keren pointed out, too angry to be cowed by Nimr-Rada’s glare. “How can you justify taking them from their loved ones?”
“You will not question me!” Nimr-Rada snapped. “You will simply obey. As for you, my Sharah, these attendants will be yours.” Waving a broad hand, he indicated another group—some of them wearing their hair braided and bound in the manner of married women.
Sharah leaned forward eagerly, staring at the gifts in the hands of her would-be attendants: shimmering furs, trays of beaten copper, folds of light cloth, darkly glazed bowls and pitchers, gold necklaces and bracelets set with crystals, and a collection of gleaming stones as pale as the moon. She pouted coaxingly. “These stones are so pale, Mighty One; red stones would actually show best against my complexion.”
“The red stones are for your sister,” Nimr-Rada said, tapping his flail, plainly forbidding her to argue. “You will have the stones resembling the full moon. Later, you will have stones as golden as the sun and as blue as the sky—but those will be brought to you from other lands.”
Placated, Sharah gave Nimr-Rada a beguiling smile and avidly inspected the tribesmen’s gifts. Keren wondered how Sharah could possibly ignore the women themselves, who seemed so unhappy with their new roles. Determined to speak for the silent attendants, Keren asked loudly, “Will all these women be taken from their families to do nothing but wait upon us?”
Nimr-Rada struck Keren’s chest and left shoulder with his flail, stopping the very breath in her lungs. As she recoiled in pain, Sharah and the women surrounding them shrieked, terrified.
Nimr-Rada snarled. “One more word from you, my sister, and I will flay your skin to bloody strips! You will be an example to everyone here—do not doubt me!”
“Lady,” the young woman nearest Keren begged timidly, “please, don’t trouble yourself for us. We’ll go with you gladly.”
Catching her breath, Keren recognized the sincerity in the girl’s huge dark eyes. All five of the young women were silently imploring Keren to agree. Rebellion against Nimr-Rada was out of the question. Struggling against the impulse to put her hands to her burning shoulder and chest, Keren nodded to her would-be attendants, and they relaxed.
Nimr-Rada gouged Keren with the haft of his flail. “Go with them before I lose patience with you altogether—ungrateful she-cat.”
As Keren joined the young women, she noticed Sharah’s look of satisfaction, and the way she leaned toward Nimr-Rada, clearly inviting his touch. Revolted, she turned on her heel and marched toward her tent. She had gone perhaps seven paces when she realized that everyone was staring at her, openmouthed, and none of her young attendants were following her. Looking back, she saw that the girls had stopped to gather Keren’s gifts and to bow to Nimr-Rada. His dark eyes flashed from their humbly prostrated forms to the defiantly upright Keren.
I’d rather die than fall at your feet, Keren thought, looking Nimr-Rada in the eyes. You’re not the Promised One, and you are certainly not the Most High!
Controlling herself, she waited for her attendants. When Nimr-Rada dismissed them with a growl and a wave of his flail, the five girls scuttled toward Keren like frightened rabbits. She led them to her tent, pausing to look over her shoulder before going inside. Nimr-Rada was still glaring at her.
The young women introduced themselves to Keren: Na’ah, Alatah, Gebuwrah, Tsinnah, and Revakhaw. Then they set down her gifts and confronted her.
“How can you defy the Great King?” Alatah demanded, her thin, brown face scared, her voice sweet and childish. “When you refused to bow, Lady, I was sure he would kill you.”
“I was certain he would,” Gebuwrah agreed. She was the biggest and sturdiest of the five girls, reminding Keren of her cousin Khuldah, without her kindness. “You shouldn’t have defied the Great King, Lady. But perhaps because you challenged him, he will regard you as one of his cats to be tamed and subdued.”
The other four girls nodded in agreement.
“What cats?” Keren asked, curious. Nimr-Rada had indeed called her “she-cat.”
“As the name of Nimr-Rada declares, our Great King subdues leopards for sport,” Tsinnah told her. Tsinnah, diminutive and rosy brown, was the girl who had pleaded with her before Nimr-Rada. “My father took me to see these leopards once. They are kept in cages and hate their guard-keepers, but I’m told that they love the Great King and rest in his presence.”
“They have gold collars with jewels,” Revakhaw added, as if the gold collars were most important. She was apparently the youngest of the attendants. Her glossy black curls and her eyes were dancing merrily now that her fear was fading.
“But, Lady …,” Na’ah hesitated, glancing uneasily toward the open entryway of the tent, her round face somber. “If one of the leopards refuses to be tamed within a reasonable amount of time, then the Great King kills it and wears its hide. We’ve seen that he won’t spare you. Please, be careful.”
Remembering Nimr-Rada’s spectacular leopard-skin mantle, Keren shivered. “Thank you for your concern. I’ll remember what you’ve said. Also, you shouldn’t be so formal with me. My name is Keren.”
“But we are commanded to serve and respect you, Lady,” Revakhaw explained, her hands fluttering. “We must call you Lady, particularly when we arrive in the Great City, because they are so much more formal there and pay great attention to manners—which I dread. Even so, I’m glad that we’re tending you, Lady, and not the Pale One. I can see that she wouldn’t care what happens to us as long as she’s happy.”
“Shhh!” Na’ah put a finger to her lips, again glancing toward the tent’s open entryway. “I was told that the Pale One will marry He-Who-Lifts-the-Skies. I’m sure you’d be whipped for speaking against her.”
“The Pale One would be sure of it,” Keren muttered dryly, still enraged that Sharah had abandoned Bezeq and Gibbawr for Nimr-Rada. Keren was equally sure that she herself would be severely punished if she revealed that Sharah was already married, and a mother.
Nimr-Rada’s own guards had been sworn to silence in this matter with death threats, which made Keren nervous. Would Nimr-Rada kill Bezeq and Gibbawr to hide Sharah’s past? Sharah certainly wouldn’t care. Sickened, Keren lowered her head into her hands, murmuring, “O Most High, save us from my greedy sister.”
“You still pray to the Most High?” Gebuwrah asked, sounding as if Keren was afflicted with a childish superstition. Keren eyed Gebuwrah and the others.
“You don’t pray to the Most High?”
They all shook their heads or grimaced in denial. Tsinnah spoke gently. “We have no need for such prayers. He-Who-Lifts-the-Skies has said
that we should be free of our fears of the Most High.”
“Which is why you bow and tremble before that same He-Who-Lifts-the-Skies man,” Keren scoffed. “One who leaves marks like this upon your flesh.” Keren lifted the left sleeve of her tunic, showing them the still-burning weal of blood-tinged flesh left by Nimr-Rada’s flail. Revakhaw, Na’ah, and Tsinnah winced, but Gebuwrah and Alatah looked away uneasily.
“I’ll get some water for you, Lady,” Na’ah told Keren, snatching a clay pitcher from its matching basin.
By unspoken agreement, the other four girls began to tidy up the tent and arrange their sleeping pallets for the night. Obviously they were determined to avoid any discussion of the Most High, or of Nimr-Rada’s cruelty. Aggrieved, Keren remade her own pallet. As she worked, she realized that all of Sharah’s belongings had been removed from the tent during the meeting.
So you will go to Nimr-Rada tonight, pretending to be his wife, Keren thought to Sharah, flushing, mortified. How will I be able to endure all this in the Great City? I dread it. I’d rather submit to a beating—though my skin still burns from Nimr-Rada’s whip, and I can’t imagine having wounds like this all over my arms and back. O Most High, what should I do?
Na’ah approached now, her eyes lowered. Keren took the basin of cool water from her, saying, “Thank you, but next time, I’ll get my own water. Don’t wait on me.”
“We will wait on you, Lady,” Gebuwrah answered severely, before Na’ah could speak. “If we don’t fulfill our duties, we’ll be sent home in disgrace, and our parents will be too ashamed to receive us. We are bound, as you are bound.”
He Who Lifts the Skies Page 11
