He Who Lifts the Skies

by Kacy Barnett-Gramckow

  “Zehker and Lawkham?” Nimr-Rada pursed his full lips thoughtfully. “They have been in my own household almost continually since they were children. I have tested them time and again; except for their secrecy in obedience to their commander, Neshar, they have always proven themselves loyal to me.”

  “That Zehker is more strict than our father,” Sharah grumbled. “Also, he has never liked Keren. Or anyone.”

  “He is one of my best guardsmen,” Nimr-Rada said, as if to forestall any further complaints from Sharah regarding Zehker. “He will stay in her household. And Lawkham is the son of one of my brother’s sons. He will stay, provided he does not forget his place. At times, he takes too much upon himself.”

  “Perhaps we should add new members to her household,” Ra-Anan suggested. “Ones who are loyal only to you, my Lord.”

  “Good,” Nimr-Rada agreed. “I want to know everything she says and does. Her every breath. And, of course, I will unsettle her at every turn.…”

  Ra-Anan was pleased by Nimr-Rada’s reaction. And he noticed that Sharah was now smoldering, her glistening lashes lowered. She was jealous of Keren. Perfect. He could use that jealousy against both sisters to crush and reform their spirits. Then they would become everything he envisioned. No other women alive would compare to them—particularly where Nimr-Rada was concerned. Let my sisters be his weakness.

  Eleven

  BEWILDERED, KEREN stared at the heap of gear that Lawkham and Zehker had piled in her courtyard. Oddly shortened wooden combs, tough grass cordage, blades of obsidian and flint, retouching tools, a clay pot of resin, sinew, feathers, ointments, a collection of soft swatches of leather, and a long ashwood spear. In addition, she saw the unmistakable makings of their favored weapons—their bows and arrows—consisting of a handful of slender wooden rods, unstrung bow staves made of yew, and a long, thin pouch of leather stiffened by slim rods stitched along its sides. “What is all this?”

  “Orders,” Zehker said. “For your horse, and for hunting.”

  “As soon as you’ve learned to use weapons properly, you will be hunting with our Great King every day,” Lawkham informed Keren.

  “Every day? But why?”

  Lawkham shrugged. “Dear Lady, there are only two reasons our He-Who-Lifts-the-Skies will take anyone hunting: either you are an exceptional hunter, or he intends to ‘guide’ you until you comply with his wishes.” Quizzically birdlike and cheerful, he asked, “Are you an exceptional hunter?”

  Frustrated, Keren shook her head. Like most women, she was reasonably adept at fishing, and at netting or snaring small game. Some women enjoyed hunting with their families for larger creatures, but that pastime had never appealed to Keren. Now she was being forced to accept it until she complied with Nimr-Rada’s wishes—and that would never happen. She fumed, “So, I’m going to make weapons and follow that Nimr-Rada for the rest of my life!”

  Zehker gave her a warning look as Lawkham coughed.

  “Lady,” Lawkham muttered beneath his breath, “never use such a tone of voice in reference to the Great King. Not with all these strange ears listening.”

  Keren swallowed and glanced around the open courtyard, realizing that some of her new guardsmen and servants were hovering nearby, occupied with irrelevant tasks. They had heard everything. They would tell Nimr-Rada and Ra-Anan; Keren couldn’t stop them. She had no say over anything in her life now, and it infuriated her. For her brothers’ sake, however, she had endured all these new, sly-eyed faces, the strictly controlled routines of her days, the strange food, and the new tunics of pale cloth—such as the one she was wearing—which felt so insubstantial compared to the good, long, sturdy fleece and leather tunics and leggings she had worn since childhood.

  But now, by one thoughtless comment, she risked subjecting her brothers to further punishments—a threat Ra-Anan had been using against her these three weeks since her arrival. Aloud, she apologized to Zehker and Lawkham. “You are right to correct me. I was rude to speak of the Great King in such a way. Now, please explain why I need all this gear.”

  To her dismay, they settled down for the warm, humid afternoon, teaching her how to string her bow stave with cordage. How to smooth the arrow. How to notch the arrow. How to ensure that the arrow flew straight to its target like a bird, with the fletching of resin-and-sinew bound feathers straightening its path. And how to fasten the flint tip of the arrow with resin and sinew, giving it deadly strength.

  Keren gritted her teeth through the whole ordeal. She would have preferred to join Tsinnah and Revakhaw in the shaded area of the courtyard and help them to bind their new grass mats. Comfort came when Lawkham and Zehker disagreed on which tip to use for one of the arrows they were making. In the midst of their debate, Lawkham shoved Zehker, who instantly grabbed Lawkham’s tightly bound hair at the nape of his neck and wrenched it into disarray.

  “Ow! You make me look bad,” Lawkham howled. Surrendering at once, he attempted to bring his dark, tousled curls to order. “Savage.”

  “Pretty boy,” Zehker answered, rapidly joining his choice of flint to the notched arrow with a dab of resin, then winding it neatly into place with a piece of sinew. He seemed stoic as ever, but Keren saw him almost smile.

  The effect was shocking—so unlike Zehker—that she whooped delightedly. At once Lawkham pretended offense, while Tsinnah and the fun-loving Revakhaw emerged from the shade to learn why Keren was laughing. Zehker became remote again.

  “Test your bow, Lady,” he commanded, keeping all the arrows in his firm grasp.

  Unable to be indignant with Zehker’s abruptness now, Keren obeyed.

  Still struggling with the leather cordage binding his unruly hair, Lawkham offered Keren a profusion of happy instructions as she stood with her new bow. “Stand easily, Lady. Now, lift your right elbow. Higher. No, keep your shoulder lowered. Yes, that way. Push your left arm straight and forward as you pull the bowstring back. Good! Let the hand holding the bowstring rest just beneath and against your jaw, then align the bowstring with your chin and nose. Wait, wait … which eye is your sighting eye? Zehker, give her an arrow.”

  “She might kill someone.”

  “Not if she aims at the wall.” Lawkham called out to everyone in the courtyard. “Move all of you, before you catch an arrow! Zehker, don’t be such a coward. Give her an arrow. What’s the worst that could happen?”

  Radiating disapproval, Zehker handed Keren an arrow, then backed away.

  Lawkham resumed his sociable barrage of instructions. “Relax, relax. Stand evenly, Lady, don’t lean like that. Rest the notched end of the arrow atop your long finger and secure it with the finger above. Wait, wait, curl your fingers slightly around the string. Raise your elbow. Curl your thumb into your palm. Relax your hand. Don’t frown at me, Lady, just stare at your prey. Well … imagine your prey standing by that wall.”

  At last, when all the muscles in her hands were cramping and Keren felt she was going to scream, Lawkham said, “Good. Now, gently, flexing all your fingers at once— then pulling your hand away smoothly—allow the string to slip out of your fingers and release the arrow.”

  Keren released the arrow and was instantly rewarded with a vicious, searing bowstring snap across her tunic-covered left breast. The pain was so intense she couldn’t even shriek. Still clutching the bow, she sank to her knees and huddled over, rocking in misery. Tsinnah and Revakhaw hurried to comfort her, making low noises of distress.

  “Can you speak?” Revakhaw asked, rubbing Keren’s back in anxious sympathy.

  “O Lady, that must have hurt beyond anything,” Tsinnah mourned.

  “By all the heavens, I should have thought of that,” Lawkham said, sounding contrite. “You need a protective covering of some sort. You also need leather bands, to protect your forearms.”

  Both Revakhaw and Tsinnah cried at him to be silent, their usual adoration of his charms obviously dashed.

  “Lawkham,” Keren said through her teeth, when she could finally s
peak, “please, go stand against that wall so I can hurt you.”

  He laughed, obviously relieved that she could joke at all. Recovering, Keren sat up, fanning herself with her hands.

  As they were talking, Zehker used a flint blade to slice four strips off a large, squared swatch of leather. He then slit a small hole in each corner of the squared leather and threaded a long leather strip through each hole, knotting them firmly. He also cut two small pieces of leather with matching ties. Finished, he dropped his work in front of Keren. “Use the small ones for your arms, Lady. Then try again.”

  “I’m finished with the bow and arrows,” she told him. “I won’t use them.”

  Half kneeling, he leaned toward her, his dark brown eyes hard, the thoroughly formidable commander-horseman. “You will.”

  He meant it. Keren knew she would never persuade him to give up these weaponry lessons. She could just imagine him sitting in her courtyard all night long, prepared to greet her by the first light of dawn, her bow in his hands. Exasperated, she donned the armbands, snatched the bow, and stood as Revakhaw and Tsinnah adjusted the protective leather chest covering, tying it in an X behind her back. Before taking aim at the wall, Keren eyed Zehker severely. “If your invention doesn’t work, O Zehker, then you can just sit here all night, all month, all year. I’ll never touch a bow again.”

  Trying to follow all of Lawkham’s intricate instructions, Keren shot a second arrow. Only her fingers hurt this time, and the arrow cracked near the base of the wall, a far better result than from the first arrow, which had landed on the nearby bricks.

  “Two more,” Zehker insisted, allowing no argument.

  To Keren’s relief, her lesson was interrupted by a clatter at the gate. One of the new guardsmen, Erek—the sly-faced young man who had spied Zehker on the day of her capture—went to answer the impatient summons. Seeing her unexpected guests, Keren nearly dropped her bow. “Neshar! Bachan! My own brothers!”

  Stick thin, their hair still badly shorn, but clean now, and wearing their proud horsemen attire, Neshar and Bachan grinned at her. They were followed by the solemn Mattan and by the two brothers she had not met: Miyka and Kana, who were wide-eyed and obviously reluctant to enter her courtyard. At Lawkham’s cheerful urging, the five men filed in to stand before her, bowing their heads respectfully, their hands folded before themselves as if greeting one of higher rank.

  Keren detested their formality. She would have preferred to hug them all—an impulse she hastily controlled. She was so happy that she stammered as she spoke. “Pl-please, can you stay for the evening meal? It will be ready soon, and I’m sure we have enough for everyone. Na’ah always cooks too much.”

  “If you wish, Lady,” Neshar answered, still formal, eyeing her new guards.

  Lawkham apparently noticed Neshar’s open mistrust; he swept an imperious brown hand at Erek and the other new household guards. “Back away. In fact, go do something useful before our Lady touches you.”

  Erek looked irritated, and some of the other guardsmen protested until Keren frowned at them menacingly—an act, but it was effective. They retreated, fearful that she might actually do as Lawkham had threatened. Miyka and Kana also seemed alarmed. To reassure them, Keren smiled, deliberately clasping her hands tightly before herself.

  She led them to a row of grass mats—hastily produced by Alatah and the suspicious Gebruwrah, who had emerged from the house and were scrambling to bring cool drinks to welcome their lady’s horsemen-brothers. Revakhaw and Tsinnah swiftly arranged a separate mat for Keren, padding it with a heap of gleaming furs, allowing her to kneel comfortably, facing her guests.

  Neshar and Bachan removed their rough, short fleece cloaks, spread them over their chosen mats, and sat down. Mattan, Miyka, and Kana followed their example, watching Keren covertly. Unasked, Zehker brought a longspear and placed it between Keren and her brothers to serve as a visible reminder that her brothers were not exempt from the death order. She stared at the spear, understanding Zehker’s gesture, but disheartened by its necessity.

  “Why should you be grieved by this?” the observant Neshar asked, suddenly every bit the older brother. “Be thankful, Lady. This death order is like a gift to you. It maintains your status and cultivates respect and obedience from those who would otherwise take advantage of you. Even Ra-Anan is not above this threat.”

  “I hate it!” Keren told him fiercely. “I’m all the more an oddity—a freak—because of this command.” Tears started to her eyes. She had to pause, pressing her hands to her face to maintain her composure. At last, she wiped her eyes and smiled at the still-nervous Miyka and Kana; they seemed so shy. “You two look so much like our father, I’m amazed. I am so glad to see you, believe me.”

  “We know you’ve been concerned for us, sister—Lady,” Bachan said, hurriedly amending his lapse in manners. “That’s why we’ve come today. We wanted to thank you for interceding on our behalf with Nimr-Rada. He sent for us yesterday and told us that it was only for your sake that we were released from laboring in the clay.”

  “He decided to grant my pleas.”

  “No thanks to Ra-Anan,” Mattan grumbled.

  Keren frowned. “Tell me, please, what did you do to deserve such a terrible punishment?”

  “We hid your existence from him, Lady,” Bachan told her. “For years.”

  “Your existence and Sharah’s,” Mattan added. Fixing his gaze on Keren, he said, “Please forgive me, Lady. I’m the one who actually told Ra-Anan that you and our no-color sister, Sharah, were alive. We were beginning to hear stories of your existence from other people. I knew that Ra-Anan would be even more furious with us—his own brothers—if some traveler told him first. I told him that you and Sharah were alive, and he told the Great King. It’s my fault that you were brought here.”

  “My situation—and Sharah’s—is not your fault,” said Keren, forgiving him at once. “If others were talking about us, then everything that’s happened was inescapable. Sharah always has been eager to come to the Great City, and as covetous as she is, she wanted to become Nimr-Rada’s wife. We would have been brought here eventually.”

  “We have been told to deny any stories that Sharah was married,” Mattan informed Keren beneath his breath, watching Keren’s attendants, who were retrieving more mats. “If we—or you—affirm that she was married, we’ll all be punished.”

  “Undoubtedly,” Neshar agreed. “And I must add, Lady, that I had hoped that Ra-Anan would be loyal to us for the sake of our parents, but I was wrong. Therefore, I no longer consider him to be my brother.”

  “Nor do I,” Bachan muttered, as the others nodded in silent accord. Changing the subject in deference to Keren’s new guardsmen, who were now moving to watch them from a more advantageous corner of the courtyard, Bachan smiled at Keren. His face was a masculine reflection of Chaciydah’s, slim and expressive. “I’m curious, Lady. Your leather armbands and front piece … very strange attire for a woman. Are you learning to use weapons?”

  Glancing at Lawkham and Zehker, who had retreated to stand together at a discreet distance, Keren grimaced. “Yes. Orders,” she said, imitating Zehker’s abrupt explanation. “I’m told that I’ll be hunting with Nimr-Rada. I’ve also been told that if I obey my ‘orders,’ you will be treated well.”

  “Behave then,” Mattan begged, his face also a vivid reflection of their mother’s. They all laughed together, even Miyka and Kana, who were beginning to relax.

  Keren grew somber, looking at her brothers in loving concern. “I will do everything—everything—within my power to be sure you aren’t punished again. But there is one thing I won’t do: I cannot bow to Nimr-Rada.”

  “That’s because you’ve listened to the Ancient Ones all your life,” Neshar observed. “They believe that no man on earth should have such authority.”

  “Only the Most High should have such authority in the hearts and minds of mankind,” Keren told them. To her dismay, they reacted like everyone else in this Gre
at City at the mere mention of the Most High—they all made faces or looked away, as if in polite distaste. “Why do you despise Him?” Keren asked.

  “Perhaps despise is too strong a word,” Mattan said. “Rather, we believe there are other ways beneath these heavens.”

  “Your own ways? Or the ways of Ra-Anan and He-Who-Lifts-the-Skies?” Keren persisted quietly, unwilling to be deceived with light answers.

  Neshar lifted a hand to silence Bachan, who was opening his mouth to respond.

  “We shouldn’t argue tonight, Lady,” Neshar said, gentle again. “Why spoil what could be our last visit together? Listen: We are to be separated and sent in different directions at the command of He-Who-Lifts-the-Skies.”

  “But … why?” Keren felt tears starting to her eyes again. “Is it because of me? Are you still being punished?”

  “Not punished so much as prevented from creating the potential for a rebellion, Lady,” Miyka explained, daring to speak at last. He was indeed a younger image of their father, from the straightness of his black hair and long limbs down to the very turn of his mouth and the tone of his voice. Keren was homesick just listening to him.

  Seated beside Miyka, Kana nodded. He could have been Miyka’s twin. “There are too many of our own family here, Lady,” he told Keren. “We are all sons of the same parents, brothers to the two highest ladies in these lands—and one sister is wife to the Great King himself. Perhaps it’s best for us to be separated. Otherwise we would be suspected of plotting against Ra-Anan or the Great King.”

  But would you truly plot against them? Keren wondered. She dared not ask. They all seemed loyal to Nimr-Rada, though not to Ra-Anan.

  Their furtive conversation was cut short by Na’ah, Gebuwrah, and Alatah, who presented beaten copper trays and large wooden dishes of food. Cold spiced-honey roasted quails, lamb stewed with olives and aromatic herbs, salt-toasted nuts, fresh fruit, pungent vegetables preserved in vinegar, chilled fruit juice, and the ever-present heaps of flat bread, baked and softened with oil.