He Who Lifts the Skies (37 page)

Na’ah watched now as the Lady Keren—accompanied by the hateful Lady Sharah—listened to Master Ra-Anan’s tense instructions. The ceremony tonight must be extremely important to Master Ra-Anan; he was snapping
at everyone, particularly the Lady Keren, who was holding a large gold cup and frowning at Master Ra-Anan’s commands.

A rustle sounded behind Na’ah, and she nearly screeched as a man murmured into her ear, “Little dove …” Na’ah felt faint, recognizing the voice as Qaydawr’s, the most handsome of the Lady Sharah’s servants. He was talking to
her
, and she was scared as a stupid child.

“Listen,” he urged in a caressing whisper, “they’re plotting against your lady. Tonight she will drink from that cup, but it’ll contain worse than wine. Somehow you must save her.”

Before Na’ah could recover, Qaydawr had slipped away. Was he telling the truth? No, he had to be teasing her. Yet she knew he was grateful to the Lady Keren for saving him from Nimr-Rada, therefore he would certainly try to protect her. As Na’ah studied the spiteful Lady Sharah and Master Ra-Anan, she realized Qaydawr was right; the Lady Keren’s enemies were plotting against her.
But what can I do?

Terrified, she glanced around. She wanted to ask Alatah or Tsinnah for help, but they’d never believe that the charming Qaydawr had trusted silly, cowardly
her
of all people.
Think
, she told herself fiercely.
For once in your life, be brave
.

“Are you ill?” Keren asked Na’ah as they finished their evening meal.

“No, Lady,” Na’ah squeaked, looking ashen. “I’m well.”

Unconvinced, Keren said gently, “If you’re worried about the ceremony, you don’t have to attend; I’ll think up
some excuse for you.”

“No-no, I’m going,” Na’ah insisted. “Forgive me, Lady!” She fled outside before Keren could ask anything more.

Gebuwrah sniffed, contemptuous. “She’s probably broken a dish and is afraid to confess it. But forget her, Lady; we need to prepare for tonight.”

“From what I’ve heard, most of the tribal leaders will come to the temple to honor He-Who-Lifts-the-Skies,” Alatah told Keren eagerly. “Some of the Lady Sharah’s servants were talking—though they hushed when I approached them.”

“You didn’t want to talk to them anyway,” Tsinnah said, joining them. “They didn’t help our Revakhaw in her misery.”

“Where is Revakhaw?” Keren asked, looking around. Revakhaw had refused her evening meal and wandered away.

“She’s climbed to the roof, Lady,” Gebuwrah said. “I hope she won’t throw herself off.”

Keren rushed outside and clambered up the ladder to the roof. Revakhaw was kneeling at the far corner of the roof, her head lowered, her dark curls veiling her face.

“Revakhaw.” Keren went to her and knelt, frightened by the woman’s stillness. “Give me your word that you won’t harm yourself!”

Revakhaw shook her head, then leaned against Keren and wept. Her throat aching, Keren hugged her friend. “I’ll talk to He-Who-Lifts-the-Skies tonight. I’ll beg him to let you care for your son. Whatever he asks …” She couldn’t finish.

“Silly,” Alatah teased Na’ah. “Why are you carrying that?”

Unnerved, Na’ah clutched her sealed flask, determinedly forcing words from her dry throat. “It’s for the ceremony—I-I’m just holding it … keeping it safe.”

Alatah shook her head, smiling, unconcerned. “You worry too much.”

Do I?
Na’ah wondered.
Am I being a fool? I wish I knew what to do
.

“Be careful, Lady,” Zehker warned softly as he brought Shaw-Kak to a standstill beneath the night-darkened skies near the tower.

Meeting his gaze in the torchlight, Keren saw that he was deeply concerned about something. He didn’t want her to participate in this ceremony any more than she did. Keren nodded. She would be cautious, but she longed to hold him and to cry out all her distress and rage. If she behaved tonight, it would only be for Revakhaw’s sake. Otherwise, she wished Nimr-Rada’s accursed tower would crumble into the river, taking him with it.

Warning Zehker in turn, she breathed, “Whatever happens tonight,
don’t
touch me. He-Who-Lifts-the-Skies has planned something unexpected, I’m sure.” Reverting to her usual imperious Sharah imitation, Keren waved Zehker away. He obeyed reluctantly.

“We are the last to enter the tower, Lady, am I right?” Tsinnah asked uncertainly.

Keren nodded silently. She had been severely admonished to hide herself from Nimr-Rada’s tribal-leader guests until the ceremony.

Now the leaders were gathering at the tower steps. Giddy with wine, and awed by Nimr-Rada and the beginnings of his marvelous tower, they loudly proclaimed that this ceremony would surpass all previous ceremonies beneath these heavens.

Studying their swaying, weaving behavior, Keren realized that the tribal leaders were susceptible to whatever Nimr-Rada had planned for them. And she was a part of that plan.

“I despise this,” she whispered to the Most High. She felt ill.

“Lady,” Gebuwrah beckoned. They rode nearer the tower, dismounting apart from the others to avoid being noticed by the guests. Keren allowed Tsinnah and Alatah to adjust her heavy gold headdress and check her garish face paints, while Gebuwrah refastened Keren’s gold sandals and smoothed her linen robes.

One by one, the celebrants climbed the tower steps. Ra-Anan led everyone, bearing a smoking, fragrant brazier. He was followed by Nimr-Rada, resplendent in all his gold and a magnificent leopard-skin cloak, tended by a trusted servant holding a bundled fleece. Kuwsh ascended next, coldly dignified. Then each of the tribal leaders, accompanied by musicians, climbed the balustraded steps, carrying flaring torches and tiny ornate flasks.

Sharah was conspicuously absent, but Keren soon forgot her, for the musicians were exhaling long, eerie, hypnotic notes on flutes and drones, making Keren’s skin crawl. She wanted to run away.
Behave
, she reminded herself.
For Revakhaw
. Slowly she climbed the steps with her attendants and entered the temple above.

As rehearsed, Keren halted before a waist-high raised brick hearth, which Ra-Anan had lit from his fragrant
brazier. Gebuwrah stepped forward now, so haughty that Keren longed to shake her. Instead, she raised an eyebrow at Gebuwrah, then accepted a deep, symbol-engraved gold cup from her attendant’s hands. The musicians reached an echoing crescendo, making Keren shiver, but she lifted the gold cup as she had been instructed. This was the signal for the tribal leaders to come forward.

They approached by turns: Sons of Tarshish, Mitzrayim, Put, Rifat, Kena’an, and Aram all poured liquid tributes into Keren’s gold cup. As instructed, Keren stared each leader in the face, enduring their reactions to her shockingly pale eyes. The leaders trembled and nearly spilled their tributes, making Keren steady her cup uneasily. Some of the liquid tributes, less than a swallow each, didn’t look like wine. Soon, a pungent aroma wafted from the cup.
And I’m to drink this stinking stuff?

Doubtful, Keren turned, glancing at the resplendent Nimr-Rada, who waited on the opposite side of the raised hearth. Silently Nimr-Rada’s dark eyes coerced her to drink the tributes. As Keren hesitated, Na’ah sidled up timidly and began to pour the contents of a decorative flask into her cup. Keren blinked, perplexed. She didn’t remember Na’ah having any part in this ceremony. Na’ah’s flask contained more liquid than any of the others, filling Keren’s huge cup almost to the brim.

Before Na’ah had emptied her flask completely, Ra-Anan tugged her away, his eyes glinting dangerously. Cowed, Na’ah retreated, shaking visibly. Nimr-Rada stared hard at Keren, inducing her to drink. Remembering Revakhaw, Keren obeyed.

The gold cup was heavy and so full that Keren had to drink slowly. At first the liquid tasted sweet, but then her mouth began to tingle; the liquid turned acrid. She drank
as much as she could, then placed the cup on the raised edge of the hearth. Satisfied, Nimr-Rada lifted his hands and invoked a resonant, lengthy course of praises. “All that is above, receive our thanks! From the heavens, She mesh, you give us blessings.…”

His voice was mesmerizing, rich, hypnotic as the music, the darkness, and the wine. Keren felt herself swaying; she concentrated hard on Nimr-Rada, but the whole temple seemed to shift and move around her, making her dizzy. Then her mouth went oddly dry. Her heart fluttered unevenly, and she gripped a corner of the hearth for balance. Shutting her eyes, she opened them again and realized that the hearth flames were unnaturally blurred; she couldn’t trust what she was seeing. Her senses twisted.

“… and for life and our losses, yet we are blessed,” Nimr-Rada intoned.

Losses?
Keren tried to comprehend his meaning. She was aware of a servant stepping forward, opening a fleece. Nimr-Rada removed an oiled-linen bundle from the fleece and placed it in the lowering hearth flames. The bundle blurred as it caught fire.

I can’t see!
Panicked, Keren tried to focus on Nimr-Rada’s face. Useless. Her terror grew as a stench permeated her nostrils. She was going to be sick. Wildly she lunged for the doorway, gasps and shrieks filling her ears. Hands restrained her. She fought them off like a madwoman until she dropped into darkness.

She became conscious of screaming. Sharah. “This is your fault!” Sharah accused, shaking Keren where she lay. “You’ve made my husband hate me!”

Keren opened her eyes, confused, trying to see. A pale blurred face filled her sight, gasped, then vanished.

“Her eyes …” Sharah’s voice faltered. “Her eyes are
black.”

“They’ve been black since we brought her home.” Alatah’s voice sounded thin to Keren.

“She was raving,” someone whimpered. Na’ah. “She’s dying.”

“I’ll die with her,” Revakhaw said.

Keren tried to speak. Darkness stopped her.