Books by Maggie Shayne (319 page)

Naturally, there was no reply.

“You’re as bad as I am, then. I don’t like her either. But I wonder why,” he murmured softly. “I honestly do wonder why.”

The woman who called herself Lisette lingered in the hall, pacing nervously and wringing her hands as she hoped to the Gods that Nathan King would not discover the drug-filled hypodermic needle she had shoved underneath the mattress when he’d burst in on her.

Dammit, she’d barely hidden the weapon in time.

Then she slowed her pace, calmed herself. A slow, knowing smile spread across her face. So what if he
did
find it? It wouldn’t change anything. She would simply have to find another way to do what she had to do— what she should have finished centuries ago!

And she would.

She always found a way to do what must be done. And this time there would be no question, no deception, no mistakes. This time Nidaba would die by Puabi’s own hand. As it should have been on that hotel rooftop. As it should have been over four thousand years ago.

He fell asleep brushing Nidaba’s hair, and he dreamed. Memories he’d locked deep inside long ago resurfaced now, to torment him again, as fresh as if they were new.

Eannatum sat at his father’s bedside, clasping the old king’s withered hand in his own younger, stronger one. “I am here, Father,” he whispered.

The king lay still, swathed in coverings of the finest fabrics. Sacred incense burned, and tendrils of its smoke lingered in the air, like spectral dancers. The powerful smell of the smouldering herbs laced each labored breath his father took, but Eannatum knew the herbs would not save his father. Nor would the incessant chanting of the priest who sat on the chamber floor. Nor the prayers and supplications of the entire kingdom. Death hovered, waiting to take the once mighty king away. Natum could almost hear the Dark Goddess’s raspy voice, whispering from the dim corners, from the hidden realms, from the underworld...

I am the Darkness behind and beneath the shadows . ..

I am the absence of air that awaits at the bottom of every breath ...

“Silence!”

Eannatum’s shout caused the priest to stop his chanting. “No, I... didn’t mean you,” Eannatum said, but it didn’t matter. The young man got to his feet, bowed deeply, and left the room.

But Eannatum sensed he was not alone with his father, even then. The Dark Goddess was there, lurking, waiting. He could feel her cold breath on his nape, and smell her foul stench in the air. Ereshkigal.

I am the decay that fertilizes the living . .. the bottomless pit. . .

“Shut up, Crone. Let him live!”

“My son.” The voice, weak but real, came from his father. And Eannatum bowed over the old man, tightening his grip on his father’s hand. “Do not speak so to the Dark Goddess. For it is into her embrace I go, and she alone will see me to the other side.”

“Father, you mustn’t say such things. You’ll be well. I’ve sent for more herbs, more priests—”

Sadly, the old man shook his head. “It is over, my son. I am dying. My time in this world is done. It is as it should be.”

“But—”

“Be still, Eannatum.” The voice strengthened just a bit. “A dying old man I may be, but I am still your king and your sire.”

“Speaking will only tire you.”

“There are things that must be said.”

Swallowing his objections, Eannatum nodded. He reached for a drinking vessel and held it to his father’s lips, lifting the old man’s head. When the king finished drinking, he lay back and stared at his son.

“Upon my death, you will receive my crown, Eannatum. The kingship of Lagash will be yours. But because of your impending marriage to Puabi, daughter of Ur, you will be called King of Kish, Ruler of all Sumer. You will take your throne on the first New Year’s Day after your marriage, by sacred tradition.”

“I do not wish—”

“I have no care for what you may or may not wish. I am your king. I am your father, and you will do as I command. For the good of your country, Eannatum. For the sake of peace. Already you have seen the power of Ur and Lagash joined as one. From the day word went forth that you intended to make Puabi your queen, the Ummamites began to cower. When our armies, united, began to patrol the borders, those raiders scurried like scarab beetles in full sunlight. If you don’t go through with your promise now, they will fall on Sumer and rip it apart. Tell me you will keep your word. Tell me you will marry Puabi upon my death.”

Inclining his head, Natum sighed. It was as close as he could come to showing his consent.

“Puabi will remain in her father’s palace in Ur until after your coronation. This is wise, and best for her sake as well as your own. But as soon as you are crowned king, she will join you here in Lagash, and you will take her as your wife and your queen.”

“Yes.” The word was wrenched from him against his will.

“Good. It is good.” For a moment, the king rested, caught his breath, before he gathered his waning strength and continued. “On New Year’s Day, Inanna herself will anoint you as her chosen ruler, through the ritual we call the Sacred Marriage Rite. You know what this entails.”

He nodded. He knew.

His father went on as if he did not. “The High Priestess of the temple will be cleansed and purified. She will call the Goddess to come to her, to inhabit her body. And then she will mate with you, so that you will become part God yourself. Her servant always. Her consort in human form, ruling her people of Sumer by divine right. You understand?”

He nodded slowly. “It shall be as you wish it.” The High Priestess ... Lia had been elevated to that station right after Nidaba’s abandonment five years ago. It would seem sinful to copulate with the woman who had been his teacher, and Nidaba’s. Almost a mother to her, in fact. It would seem wrong.

“There is no time to waste, my son. Your power must be established at once. The new year is but a quarter moon from today.”

A frown bent Eannatum’s brow. “I assumed you referred to the next new year, my father.”

Weakly, the old man smiled. “Optimist. I’ve not a year left in me. No, it must be now.”

“But... Father, you yet live. I can’t very well claim the crown while you ...” He frowned, a heaviness forming in his stomach.

Closing his eyes wearily, the king said, “This night is my last.”

“No ...” Eannatum leaned closer, touched his father’s face, and the old eyes opened again. “Father, how can you know this? You might live for many weeks, months, even.”

“My time ends tonight, my son. Your time is come.”

“You cannot know that!”

“I know. Give your solemn vow to me that all shall be as I have told you, that I might go in peace to the underworld.”

“Father—”

“Give it to me!” his father demanded, his eyes flaring wider as he came off his pillows.

“I vow it. I shall do all you ask of me. But Father—”

“Good,” his father said. “Good. Now, give to me the rest of my wine, and I will sleep.”

Eannatum took the chalice, held his father’s head up, and put the rim to the dry, parched lips. His father drank and drank, and when Eannatum tried to take the cup away, the king pressed a hand to it to keep it there, tipping it higher, draining it.

He breathed when he finished, then lay back on the pillows, and muttered, “It is done. For the good of Sumer, it is done.”

Blinking, Eannatum looked from his father’s face to the cup he still held, and realization flashed blindingly through his mind. He sniffed at the contents, then tasted the remaining droplets, only to draw back and grimace at its bitterness. “No!” he cried, hurling the baked clay goblet away from him. The cup hit the wall and shattered to bits. “Father, what have you done?” He bent over his father, whose face had gone lax now. Gripping the front of his robes, Eannatum shook him. “Wake! Wake, curse you! Why have you done this? How
dare
you do such a thing! Father! Father!”

The door was flung open, and then someone was pulling at his shoulders. That young priest, Eannatum saw when he whirled on the offender.

“You
gave it to him! Didn’t you, priest?
Didn’t you?”
he demanded, shaking the pale, frightened man until his teeth rattled.

“
I
gave it to him,” a deep voice said.

Natum released the priest, who fell into a quivering heap on the floor, and looked up to see Lathor, the detestable High Priest who was unworthy of the title, standing in the doorway. “You?”

“Yes. I. It was his final wish, and as his most trusted friend, and spiritual counsel, I had no choice but to obey.”

“You murdered your king! Traitor!”

“If you go shouting that about the palace, my prince, it will be you who will be called traitor. For you will destroy what your father gave his life to protect. This kingdom. And your throne.”

Eannatum stopped halfway to throttling the bastard. He was right. Damn him, he was right. But grief and fury raged in him, and he shuddered with the very effort of restraining himself. The need for vengeance warred with the knowledge of what was best for his kingdom.

His
kingdom.

Turning to the bed, he dropped to his knees and folded himself over his father’s prone form. He lay his head on the silent chest, and allowed the tears to come....

Time passed. Hours perhaps. The two priests had left him, for how long, he did not know. His father was dead. He was to rule. To take the throne and then to marry Puabi. He lifted his head, rubbed at his eyes, and stared at his father’s still, white face with blurred vision.

“Have you had enough of mourning, then?”

He turned slowly, and saw the High Priestess, Lia, standing just behind him. Swallowing hard, he let his chin fall. “I will never have enough of mourning, it seems.”

“I am sorry for your loss, my prince,” she said softly. “But I have come to offer words that may be of some comfort.”

“What words could comfort me now?”

“Only these. I will not serve as your
lukur,
the vessel of the Goddess, for the Sacred Marriage Rite.”

“How can you ... ?”

“I have charge of the temple. And of the spiritual guidance of Lagash now that Lathor has fled.”

“Fled?” Eannatum shook his head. “But he was here...”

“Two days ago, my prince. You have been closeted with your father’s body for two full days.”

Eannatum could only blink, looking around the room in confusion. He ran a hand over his chin, felt the growth of whiskers that proved the priestess’s words to be true.

“Therefore, I am the highest-ranking official of Inanna’s temple in all of Lagash. And I have decreed that I am unable to fulfill this role and have also set forth the solution.”

Frowning, Eannatum looked at the priestess, searching her face, unable to make much sense of her words.

“The High Priestess of every temple in all of Sumer will journey here in time for the New Year’s celebration. And they will dance for you, their king. They will dance the sacred Dance of the Seven Veils, in remembrance of Inanna’s descent to the underworld. And when they finish dancing, my prince, you will choose the one you wish to serve as your
lukur.”

If her words were meant to offer comfort, they fell far short. “Fine,” he said. “So be it.”

She nodded, some secret hiding behind her eyes. But her hands on his shoulders were soft. “Come, my prince. You need to be attended. You are tired, hungry, and grieving. Let me care for you.”

He turned back toward the bed. “But my father...”

“I have twenty priestesses waiting to attend your father, Eannatum. With tenderness, love, and deep respect. They will take care of him, I vow it to you on my honor.”

He nodded slowly, knowing it needed doing, and he let the gentle High Priestess lead him from the room.

The burial passed in a blur of grief. All Eannatum wished for was Nidaba, to feel the comfort of her arms around him. And yet if she had remained here, as a priestess serving in the temple, she might have been compelled to join in the most grim portion of the burial rites. And then he would have lost not only his father, but Nidaba as well.

Bitter irony that he
had
already lost her, and yet still couldn’t quite wrap his mind around the concept, much less accept it as final. Nidaba lived. So long as she did, he would never accept it as final.

He drank too much of the barley brew and paid little heed to the events of the next several days. And yet, as the only son of the king, it was required that he be there, overseeing it all. A great pit was dug, some thirty feet deep, outside the city. A two-room stone crypt was erected in the bottom, but only one of the rooms was given a ceiling. That was the room where his father’s body was interred. Eannatum had to choose his father’s finest robes, his favorite sword and shield. Only a few of the king’s belongings could be placed with him in the small burial chamber. It was a dire task, and one Natum could perform only when he’d nearly numbed himself with brew.

A priest took his father’s most precious possessions and placed them into the burial chamber beside the king. The wall dividing that room from the other was then sealed off with baked bricks as Natum stood nearby, battling his grief and a newfound sense of his own mortality.

And not only his own, but the mortality of those around him. His father had told him that death was an accepted part of life, more a change in form than an ending. But his father was a stiff corpse now, and many of the warm bodies surrounding him soon would be. He wanted to rage against the foolishness of it all. The uselessness of it. And yet it was the way of things. It had been for many generations and would be for many more.

The second room, the one beside the burial vault, was larger, and a stone ramp had been built from the sandy surface of the ground down into it. Its only ceiling was the sky, and its only contents a large pottery urn filled with poison-laced wine and fifty unadorned golden chalices that stood in a gleaming sunlit circle on the dirt floor. As soon as the burial vault’s wall was sealed, the closest advisers of the king, his friends and courtiers, and several of his most devoted young priests and priestesses marched down that tiny ramp. They strummed stringed instruments, lyres and harps, they beat drums and shook rattles in rhythm with their singing. They wore their finest garments, and one by one, smiling, they walked into the pit, picked up a chalice, and dipped wine from the urn. When they all stood with glasses filled, the singing and music grew louder, faster, the drums and rattles beat an urgent tattoo, and then all at once it stopped. Silence. And every last one of them drained the golden goblets.

Then, still smiling, they lay themselves down in perfect symmetry, all save one or two who picked up their harp and lyre and began again to play music of unearthly beauty.

A shadow crossed the wall. Eannatum swore he saw her—the Dark Goddess, dancing her dance of death, sweeping her cloak of night around Her willing children. Their chalices beside them, the poison still wet on their lips, they lay there with their eyes closed, and one by one they died. The harpist fell sideways, her fingers plucking one last lingering note. The lyre fell from limp hands to the ground. And it was done.