A.D. 33 (23 page)

“Either way, I would see this power that I once saw.”

“There is no power greater than—”

“Do not test me,” she bit off, glaring at him.

He bowed.

I placed my hands together. “My queen, please send Saba with your men.”

“Never. He, like you, will be thrown in the dungeon.” Her jaw was set.

“I can't risk you escaping to save your son en route, now can I? It will take three weeks in the least to get him.”

“Then send your men to the oasis south of Dumah first. Find my servant Arim. My son must be with someone he knows, I beg you.”

“So be it.” She looked me over one last time. “Pray that your god isn't dead, Queen. Or should I call you slave now that you have no power?”

TALYA DIDN'T know how much time he'd passed alone in the dungeon. He could no longer remember how many times the dream had come and gone, and that's how he'd been keeping track of time. Always the same dream, every night—at least he thought it came at night.

Each time, he dreamed he was back in the garden with the light and the beautiful trees and the flowers. Each time with the lamb. Each time with the song of Eden that flooded him with warmth and joy and peace until he became part of that song.

When he was in the dream with the lamb, all his memories of the snake were gone. Nothing could disturb that peace. Kahil didn't exist. In fact, nothing bad existed, because he had no knowledge of good and evil, only good. So good that he couldn't help but to sing and dance and jump with joy. The dreams seemed to last forever.

But then, every night while he was still lost in the wonder of that realm, suddenly and for no reason he knew, the black serpent with beautiful colors came out of the brush, slithering through the grass.

Every time, as if experiencing it for the first time, he would jump back. And just when he would think,
I can crush its head
, the serpent would dart toward the lamb. Before Talya could move, it spread its jaws wide, sank its long fangs deep into the lamb's flesh, unlatched itself, then sped away, hissing loudly.

Again, the song, so pure and beautiful, became a scream.

Again he dropped to his knees and grabbed his ears.

Again and again he watched in horror as the lamb bleated, faltered, then stumbled to the ground where its eyes closed and it lay still. Dead.

Then Eden would sputter and wink out, leaving him back in the dark cell, panting.

Even so, all through the day when he was awake, he only wanted to dream again so he could be with the lamb, even though he knew it would end badly.

The cell was cold and the food was only bread and a thin broth. He had no idea what had happened to the other children—he'd called out to them several times when his loneliness was at its worst but heard no reply. He was shivering and alone, but the dream kept him alive, reminding him that what he saw with his eyes in that cell wasn't as real as the first part of his dream, even though that didn't really make much sense.

Each time he awoke from the dream, he focused on the light and the lamb. The serpent would come again, yes, but until then his memory of Eden could be his reality as much as possible.

This is what Saba had taught him of Yeshua's Way: he could decide what to put his mind on—the pure and beautiful, or the darkness. The eye is the lamp of the body, Saba said. If his perception was clear, he could see the sovereign realm that was here, in his cell, even now. If not, then he saw darkness and how deep was that darkness.

Faith in Yeshua, who was the light, allowed him to see in the dark. So all he had to do was to learn to see in the dark. That's what faith meant—learning to see in the dark. To trust that Eden was as real as the cell and it was his choice which to see.

That's what would keep him alive until his mother and Saba came for him, and they would come, because they wouldn't leave him here forever any more than the dark ending to the dream could be forever.

These were the thoughts that circled through his mind, over and over.

Father, please give me eyes to see what you see. Help your son see the light instead of this dark cell. Help me remember the forgotten Way of Yeshua.

And each day, he did remember. Just a little bit more would come back to him, until he could fall asleep and dream again and see the light—even if the darkness came again. He knew that darkness would one day be gone. It had to.

No one came to the cell except the guards, and then only to bring him food and take his pots. They were never mean to him. In fact, they seemed to pity him. But they never offered him any kind words either.

Weeks had passed—maybe three or four. Maybe even more.

Then, one day, soon after they'd brought him food and Talya was still squatting in the corner, wiping the bottom of the broth bowl with his last piece of crusty bread, the gate clanked. He snapped his head up and watched as a guard unlocked the door and stepped back.

“Kahil calls for you.”

Kahil? No…No, he couldn't go to the serpent now. He stayed where he was, staring through the open door.

The guard motioned him. “Don't just sit there. He waits for you.”

“No, I…” He meant to say
I can't go to Kahil
, but nothing else came out.

The guard looked at him for a long moment, then he came in, stepped around the puddle in the middle of the cell, and reached out his hand.

“They won't hurt you, I promise. One of your own has come for you.”

Talya didn't know what to do, because he wasn't sure he could trust the guard. And a part of him didn't want to leave the cell—he would sleep soon and dream of Eden.

The guard squatted on one heel and rested a hand on Talya's shoulder. “I'm sorry for all your suffering, little one. This isn't the Bedu way.” He shook his head. “I'm only a warrior, you understand? Under command. But I assure you, you'll be set free today.”

Talya's heart was pounding.

“Do you know Arim?” the man asked.

“Arim?”

“He's come with the Nabataeans to take you to Petra. So we can't keep them waiting.”

“Where is my mother?”

“In Petra,” the kind guard said, standing, hand outstretched.

Talya set the bowl down, took the man's hand, and stood, staring up at him.

“I'll keep you safe, I promise you,” the man said. “Come.”

Talya hesitated, then nodded. But when they got to the cell door, he stopped and looked back into the darkness. He was learning to see in the dark, he thought. What if he forgot?

“Come.” The guard tugged on his hand.

Together they walked down the passage, up the stairs—slowly because his legs were weak—and through a door that led into the palace.

Bright daylight blinded him, and he held his hand up to block it. The stone floor was white. His bare feet were muddy. If he tracked dirt on Kahil's floor…

“Don't be afraid,” the guard said when he stopped. “We will go out the back, down to the pool.”

The pool. Where he'd last seen his mother and Saba.

“I'm sorry for this, but I've been ordered to cover your head.” The man had a black bag in his hand.

Talya nodded and the guard put the bag over his head. The darkness was oddly comforting to him now. Maybe because he was so used to it.

Other guards joined them. They helped him onto a horse behind the friendly guard and led him down the hill. The horses snorted. He could hear children laughing and mothers scolding. How he longed to be with his mother. How good would it be to be with Saba again, walking in his shadow over the sand, learning of great mysteries.

The horse finally stopped.

“Bring him! Take that bag off his head! Is this the way you treat a queen's child?”

Talya immediately recognized the rasping voice of the old sheikh Fahak, and his heart soared. And then Arim's voice, higher and even louder.

“Maviah will surely cut your tongue from your mouth and feed it to the dogs. No one may treat the desert's greatest treasure like this and expect to live!”

“Remember your place, boy.” Fahak again, scolding Arim as he always did. Talya had never heard such sweet voices.

The bag was yanked off his head and the kind guard quickly swung him to the ground.

“Be brave,” the man whispered, then nudged him forward.

They stood by the platform—Kahil, the serpent, dressed in black with his hands clasped behind his back. Fahak seated high on his camel. Arim on the ground. Eight Nabataean warriors on camels were with them, clearly marked by the green and yellow banners they flew on the end of their spears.

Talya looked back at Kahil, who watched him with dark, empty eyes.

Arim, seeing him standing still, walked quickly toward him.

“He is skin and bones!” Fahak rasped, glaring at Kahil and extending a crooked finger in Talya's direction. “We could have taken him many days ago if not for your defiance of Aretas! You wasted many days in sending your men to Petra to verify his orders—now look at our prince!”

“You are mistaken to think I take orders from any king or queen,” Kahil said, eyes still on Talya. “I do only what suits me. You take the boy to his death. This suits me.”

Arim dropped to one knee, hands immediately checking Talya's head, his neck, his ears—looking to see that he wasn't harmed. Fahak went on, demanding to see the other children, threatening great trouble if even one hair on their heads was harmed. Kahil said nothing to any of it.

“Do not listen to Kahil,” Arim said to Talya. “He is a vile creature, furious because his hand was forced by Aretas. We have waited outside the city for three weeks while his men journeyed to Petra. He risked a great deal in going to Aretas, only because he knows you are the greatest treasure in all the sands.”

Arim quickly checked his arms, pulling on them to see if they were broken. “You are well?”

“My mother is in Petra with Saba?”

“Yes. Yes, Talya, I delivered her there myself after Yeshua was killed. Don't worry, I have protected her. She waits for you there, over a month now. In only ten more days you will see her.”

Yeshua was dead? Talya blinked, not knowing what to think of this. But his mother would know. And Saba.

They were taking him to his mother and to Saba. He was suddenly overwhelmed by this knowledge. Tears sprang to his eyes, and seeing this, Arim quickly lifted him from the ground.

“You are safe now, Talya,” he whispered. “You are with Arim, protector of your mother and her son.”

And then, spinning with Talya on his hip, jabbing his finger at Kahil: “You see how you punish a blameless child? You shame all Thamud. We who love children! I find myself in the lair of a wolf who feeds on innocent lambs.”

“You speak boldly under the protection of your Nabataean escort,” Kahil said. “But even Petra has its price, my friend. You will all be dead before the moon is full, this I can promise you.”

“Do not call me friend!” Arim said, striding for his camel. “There will be no moon to light your darkness.”

“Enough, Arim!” Fahak said. “Maviah's god will deal with him.”

“Oh?” Kahil said. “Is this god not dead?”

“Are not all gods dead?” Fahak croaked. “Yet Maviah, who flows with his power, will strike you down!”

“Enough of this!” one of the warriors from Petra snapped. “The queen awaits.”

Kahil lifted his hand toward the path. “By all means. Go.” He looked at Talya. “I'll see you soon, little boy.”

Arim hoisted Talya up onto the couched camel, then mounted in front of him. Talya clung to his back as he prodded the beast to its feet. They were still talking, exchanging harsh words, but Arim's comment about Kahil being a wolf who fed on lambs had returned his thoughts to the dream.

It was a serpent in Eden, not a wolf, but was there a difference? What did Kahil mean by saying they would be dead before the next full moon? It was just talk, of course—all men talked in such lofty ways. But in Talya's dream the serpent had deceived the woman. The woman who looked like his mother.

“Pay him no mind,” Arim said. “You are safe with Arim, great warrior of the Nafud.”

Fahak raised his fist at Kahil. “May the gods curse you and all those who drink the blood of the Bedu! If not for Maviah's mercy, you would be dead already.”

And then they were leaving, rocking on the backs of their camels.

Arim twisted in his saddle. “Do not worry, Talya. You will never see this creature again.” He lifted a finger. “Never!”

But I will see him, Talya thought. I will see the serpent in my dreams.

And when he fell asleep in their camp that night, he did.

TWENTY DAYS. This is how long it would take them to bring Talya, I thought. Ten days to Dumah, and ten more to return unless they rode like the wind, collecting extra camels along the way to replace those that died from being pushed so hard.

But no…Twenty days. I wouldn't allow myself to hope it would be less. I'd been in captivity here before, and I'd survived to encounter Yeshua's power.

I hardly knew what awaited me this time. But for twenty days following my failure to raise Phasa, I occupied myself with one thing alone: hope.

Hope that Phasa's illness wouldn't worsen. Hope that Talya would come to find me alive. Hope that Saba had known the truth when he said a child would lead them.

They had placed me in a small room with a single window, one small bed, a stone table, and a narrow hall that led to a rudimentary bathing room. It wasn't part of their dungeon, but here too I was utterly alone.

The servant who brought me food gave me no information about Saba other than to say he was in good health. Clearly, Shaquilath intended to punish me by separating me completely from the one soul who could offer me comfort.

I prayed without end, pacing and begging the silent room to speak to my heart. It never did. But what was twenty days? Only time to pass while I nursed my hope for salvation through my son.

And what if Talya couldn't help Phasa? What other than his innocence and Saba's word made me think he would succeed? But no…I couldn't allow myself to think in those terms.

One day passed. Then five. Then ten. Then fifteen.

Then twenty without word from Shaquilath. Still, it might have taken longer to retrieve Talya. Saman might have objected or stalled. Trouble could have lengthened their journey. Maybe they'd been unable to find Arim. A dozen possibilities could have stretched the time.

I woke with a start on the twenty-third day to the sound of wailing from far beyond my walls. A chill washed down my spine and I hurried to the window that faced only desert, listening for the cause of that mourning.

Had Phasa died?

I could not think of it. This wailing might be for anyone of status. Or for a servant or a priest or even someone from afar. Anyone.

That night, guards came for me and ushered me from the room, offering no explanation. Hope swelled in my breast as we walked down the hall. I imagined Talya was finally here and in the very least I would see him. Once again I would hold my lamb in my arms, and if it was the last time, I would be satisfied to have those few moments with him.

But the guards didn't take me into the inner chambers. Instead, they led me toward the back of the palace. Realizing that something was dreadfully wrong, I screamed out Shaquilath's name and struggled against the strong hands that held my wrists.

A hard slap silenced me. Then they dragged me from the palace to the dungeons, where they dumped me in a small bleak cell with a straw floor.

For three days I paced, demanding to know something each time the guards came with food. They offered no words.

On the fourth day in that cell—twenty-seven days since I'd failed Phasa—the last of my hope drained from my bones and I sank to the floor, numb to the world.

It was the only way for me to cope.

And when that day became another, and another, and another week without a single word from Shaquilath or Saba or any of the guards, I gave up questioning and counting days and all of my imaginations either good or bad.

The brutal slaying of Yeshua haunted me always. Every detail was vividly etched upon my mind. But I could not allow myself to feel any more anger or anguish. Saba's words called to me, but I pushed them away. If I hadn't, my failure to follow the forgotten Way would crush me.

I could only survive. I ate, I washed with a pail of cold water, I slept, I stared at the wall and the ground and the torch flame outside my bars. I was alive and Talya might be as well, and that's all I dared believe.

Every night was the same. I whispered a prayer for sight because I knew that I was blind, then I slowly fell into dreams of walking through the dark desert, calling for my son, who'd vanished into an invisible realm called Eden. Every night I had this same dream, which always ended the same way it started, without resolution or hope.

“Wake up…”

I opened my eyes one morning to a guard speaking to me. The latch on the barred door rattled, and I pushed myself up from the ground, still half-asleep.

Four guards stood outside my cell. One pushed the door wide and flung a clean tunic at me. “The queen calls for you.”

They were the first words I'd heard since being thrown in their dungeon. I stared at them, afraid to think.

The guard shoved his chin at the tunic.

“Dress yourself. They have brought your son.”

I DRESSED in the plain white tunic and tied the black sash hurriedly, uncaring that I was seen by the guards. I flew from the cell, demanding some water to wash my face, because I didn't want Talya to see me in such a wretched condition. We stopped at a small bath on the way to the main chamber and I quickly splashed water on my face and tried to straighten my tangled hair. But I was overwhelmed with my need to see Talya. My appearance would have to do—I was his mother, not his queen.

The moment they opened the door to the king's chamber of audience I rushed in, scanning the room for his small frame.

The queen stood on the platform with arms crossed, pacing. Aretas was also there, seated on his throne, elbow on the chair's arm, stroking his beard, watching me like a vulture.

And Saba, hurrying forward the moment he saw me. He was thinner perhaps, but clean and tall and dark. My heart leaped at the sight of him, watching me with longing eyes.

I turned, searched for my son, but I couldn't see him.

“Where is he?” I croaked. Other than Aretas, Shaquilath, and Saba, only two others were in the room, both guards. The door behind me closed heavily, and I spun to face Shaquilath.

“Where is my son?”

“Stay back from her,” Shaquilath snapped, eyes on Saba.

He ignored her and reached me, dropping to one knee and taking my hand. Tears misted his eyes.

“You are safe.”

“Away from her!”

I knew by the intense bitterness in her voice that something was wrong. But I could not embrace more pain.

I looked into Saba's eyes, grasping for his strength. “My tower.”

“My queen,” he said softly.

I nodded. “It will be all right.”

Only then did he stand, step to one side, and bow to Shaquilath.

I was accustomed to seeing the queen dressed in striking colors with sparkling jewelry, but today she wore only a gray tunic, and her feet were bare. The king was dressed in a plain white shirt and black trousers, though with boots.

It all came to me at once—the mourning I'd heard the day they'd moved me to the dungeon.

“Phasa…” I said.

“We burned her body on the mountain two weeks ago.”

I'd suspected, but my own torment had washed the thought from my mind. Hearing it now, my heart broke. Not only for Phasa and her mother, but for Talya, because I knew already that they would blame me for her death.

“I am so sorry for your loss. Any mother—”

“Silence!” Aretas thundered, rising. He glared at me. “Nasha, who was like a daughter to me, died in your father's care two years ago. And now his daughter, whom I blessed, has killed Phasa, my only daughter…”

I was stunned by the harshness of his accusation.

“I did not make her ill, my king.”

“She was ill and now she is dead after your curse. What else am I to conclude? She was only ill! Now I am punished by Al-Uzza!”

I could have told him that his own priest might be the one to blame. I could have explained that all of his beliefs in gods who punished was false. I could have begged for understanding in the face of his absurd allegations. But his mind was too darkened by rage and mine too ravaged by sorrow.

“Talya…” I said.

Shaquilath bore down on me. “He was brought yesterday. The only reason both he and you are alive is because I gave my word to Kahil. I sent for your son over a month ago, as agreed, and Kahil came in person, offering to release him on the condition that he be the one to kill him should your son fail.”

Each word was a dagger.

My knees went weak. My mind was screaming with objection. But I could not falter now. The die was cast. Fate had struck its own course, even as it had with Yeshua.

“When?” I asked, voice thin and ragged.

“Kahil arrives in three days. Then, before all, you and I will watch your son die a horrible death.”

Saba stepped out, enraged. “She is a queen, he is the prince! The desert will not tolerate this!”

“The desert will embrace this, you fool!” Shaquilath shoved her finger at me. “She was the one to offer her son's life if Phasa died! I only follow her own wish.”

Saba turned his head to me. “This is true?”

Not in so many words, but this was the result. It was me. I had sentenced my son to death!

Tears flooded my eyes.

Shaquilath lowered her arm, jaw firm, satisfied.

But now more came to me, like a fire from heaven itself. Yeshua had been betrayed to die in innocence, and now my lamb was to die by my betrayal of him. So then Yeshua's words would come true. He had essentially said that my son's fate would follow his own.

And Yeshua had been crucified. If he lived, it was not here, on this earth…So it would be with my son. My fingers trembled.

“Where is he?”

She turned her back to me and strode for the raised stage as her husband sank into his chair.

“He is bound and secured alone in a hole,” she said. “As are the slave and the old sheikh who came with him.”

Arim and Fahak? I stepped forward, tentative. “Let me see him. I beg you.”

“You will,” she snapped, turning back. “In three days' time you may look into his eyes as Kahil takes his life.”

Shaquilath took a sharp breath, face twisted with hatred.

“You, on the other hand, are released to find your own misery. You will leave Petra and see the world that your son will never again see. Walk the desert he will never walk. Breathe the clean air knowing with each breath that he will never again breathe. And on the morning of the third day you will return of your own will, because no mother will abandon her son in his darkest hour.”

The thought of leaving Petra—this tomb that held my son—terrified me. She wanted me to come to his death of my own will, knowing it would torment me more than being forced to watch.

“And if you try to stop Kahil before he arrives,” she said, “I will authorize the immediate death of all the orphans still in Dumah. Then I will send an army to crush the rest of your people. Do you understand this?”

For a long time, I stared at her, unable to think straight.

“Answer me!”

“Yes,” I said.

She frowned. “Three days.”

Aretas spoke to the guards. “Take them both to the desert with a camel and bread. Spread word throughout the city—the one who killed Phasa, Petra's beloved child, will see her own die before all in the arena in three days' time.”