He Who Lifts the Skies (12 page)

Aware of Nihyah and Khuldah watching them, Keren said, “Perhaps you should go tell your mother and take leave of her properly.”

“I’m going.” But he leaned toward her again and whispered, “In my thoughts, I am kissing you.” Keren blushed uncomfortably. Grinning, Yithran strode over to his mother and spoke to her. When Nihyah laughed and clapped her hands enthusiastically, Yithran kissed her. Then he hurried away, calling other young, unmarried men from their lodges, demanding volunteers as companions for his journey.

“I can’t believe she’s mine,” Khuldah said as Keren knelt beside the bed to admire the tiny, fuzzy-haired newborn in Khuldah’s arms. “And Merowm is so happy. He actually
thinks she might marry Gibbawr one day.”

“Who can say what will happen?” Keren tucked a finger into the infant’s tiny hand and smiled as the perfect fingers curled, gripping her finger. “What are you going to name her?”

“The mother of my husband said we should consider Meleah.”

Merowm’s mother, Kebuwddah, was a domineering woman, fragile seeming as a dried twig and shrill as a bird when excited.

“Where is Kebuwddah?” Keren asked, suddenly aware of the hush within the lodge.

“She’s gone to the stream to fetch water, then probably to gossip with the other women,” Khuldah murmured, caressing Meleah’s downy head.

A sudden, high, trilling sound cut through the quiet evening air. Some of the women were calling out a welcoming warning cry to alert the tribe that visitors were approaching. The outcry suddenly intensified. As Keren and Khuldah listened, Keren could hear someone calling her in the rising din. Sharah. Wondering, Keren hurried to the doorway of Merowm’s lodge. The women of the village were milling about, chattering and staring at a fleece-draped horse, its reins tethered to a log in the woodpile beside the lodge of Bezeq.
That horse belongs to a follower of Nimr-Rada
, Keren realized, stunned.

“There you are!” Sharah cried. She marched across the trampled pathway separating Merowm’s lodge from the lodge of Bezeq. “Stop staring at the horse. That overbearing father of my husband has just returned from the Great City. Nihyah’s giving out orders right and left, and …”

Sharah’s complaints faded. More horsemen were riding into the village now, all clad in the same pale leather
tunics and short fleece cloaks, all armed with knives of flint, and with their bows and arrows. The young horsemen were all strangers, except for two. She remembered them from Eliyshama’s wedding: Zehker and Lawkham.

“He’s still rude,” Sharah said, frowning at Zehker, who avoided looking at them. “And now, even that know-everything Lawkham doesn’t look at us. Why should my husband endure them?”

As Sharah complained, Keren became aware of another horse stopping so close beside them that Keren could have easily touched the horse’s tawny-and-black side. Wondering, she stared up at its rider.

Adorned with broad, lavish bands of gold, and clad in a striking leopard-skin robe—fashioned with the slain leopard’s head covering his heart—this horseman seemed to be the very embodiment of absolute power. Tall and heavily muscled, his black hair was braided severely away from his broad, high-boned, dark brown face, and his full, wide mouth was drawn up at one corner, arrogant and compelling.

But it was his eyes that drew and held Keren’s attention. Heavy-lidded obsidian eyes, revealing nothing and commanding everything. Keren was too fascinated by this stranger to be frightened. But she felt the blood drain from her face as some of the women whispered loudly among themselves, “The Great King! Nimr-Rada’s here! Where’s our Bezeq? He-Who-Lifts-the-Skies has come.”

Seven

“SINCE WHEN DOES a son marry without consulting his father?” Bezeq’s father, Ramah, demanded amid the crowded Lodge of Bezeq. Keren almost cringed at his hostility, glancing at Bezeq and Sharah to see their reactions.

They sat together on a heap of furs near the glowing hearth, seemingly unmoved. Bezeq merely lifted one dark eyebrow and said, “When a father leaves his son for years on end, then the son must decide certain matters for himself. As I have done—with my mother’s agreement.”

Kneeling just behind Bezeq and Sharah, Nihyah lifted her chin, clearly challenging her husband to argue with her before all their guests. Ramah glared at Nihyah, then turned toward Keren, his bearded face harsh. Keren sat perfectly straight, resolving to not appear fainthearted before Yithran’s father.

“And what of this one?” Ramah demanded, waving one raw-boned hand toward Keren in a gesture of dismissal. “Should I allow my Yithran to marry such an oddity?”

Keren stared into the fire. Everyone was watching her, including the enemy of her father, that Nimr-Rada, who sat in the place of honor before the hearth.
I am an “oddity,” a freak. O Most High, will this Ramah turn Yithran against me?

“It seems I have kept you from your family too long, Ramah,” the great Nimr-Rada interrupted, his voice deep, resonant.

Despite herself, Keren looked up at him, enthralled by his aura of power.

Impatient, Nimr-Rada leaned forward on his seat of furs and tapped the haft of his intricately carved wood-and-leather flail against the woven floor mats. “Because your family’s affairs concern you so much, Ramah, you will stay here for the next five years and tend them. As for your second son marrying this one …” Nimr-Rada stared at Keren now, an unending, unknowable look. “Does it matter what he has decided? They are not yet betrothed. You can tell your son that this marriage will not take place, if you do not approve.”

There was not a sound in the lodge. Everyone stared at Ramah, who looked shaken. “My lord and king, what is my family to me if I am denied your presence for five years? Forgive me.”

“Do you believe I am offended?” Nimr-Rada asked, one corner of his full mouth curling, not quite mocking. “No, this matter is not my concern. It is, however, your concern, Ramah. You made it so by protesting your sons’ decisions. Stay with your family. In five years you will have matters arranged to your satisfaction. Then you may
present yourself in my courts, with your mind at ease.”

It’s more than that
, Keren thought, undeceived.
The mighty Nimr-Rada does not respect Ramah and wants to be rid of him
. Clenching her jaw, she thought,
If my father says I should marry Yithran, then I will. But Yithran and I would have to live with the Ancient Ones in the highlands, because Ramah is now my enemy
.

Already Ramah was scowling at Keren, obviously blaming her for his exile. Sharah and Bezeq watched Ramah, displeased. Nihyah in particular was fuming at her husband.

Keren was grateful that Nihyah was eager to defend her, but she didn’t want to have any part in a quarrel.
I’m leaving this lodge tonight
, Keren decided.
I’ll stay with Khuldah and help her until Yithran returns
.

Keren fingered the slender red-gold bracelet on her wrist, remembering Yithran and trying to console herself. Instead, she felt only despair. And fear. Nimr-Rada was watching her relentlessly, making her want to fidget. Keren didn’t look at him again. Sharah, however, glanced from Keren to Nimr-Rada and back to Keren, silently reproaching Keren for ignoring the “Great King.”

Why should I acknowledge him?
Keren thought, defiant.
He’s rude to stare!

Obviously discomfited by the prolonged silence, the women of the tribe of Bezeq took refuge in a ritual of courtesy. Hurriedly, they offered the evening meal: roasted venison, seasoned greens, tender root vegetables, salt-smoked fish, broad wheat cakes, preserved honeycombs, lentils, curdled goat milk, dried cherries, and toasted nut meats. The women also passed around watered wine in drinking vessels of clay, horn, and wood. Tensions eased, and everyone began to talk, even to laugh, as they ate.

The food tasted dust dry and bitter as metal to Keren, but she ate anyway to prove that she wasn’t humiliated. She was just reaching for a piece of salty smoked fish when she heard rustling behind her.

A man’s voice, hushed but amused, said, “The joyous child has become a woman of silence. I miss your laughter, Karan-Keren, but even so, I’m pleased.”

Surprised, Keren looked over her shoulder. Lawkham. The irrepressible young horseman smiled at her. She lowered her head, hoping to discourage him by not responding.

Undaunted, Lawkham spoke in a teasing, lulling whisper. “I thought I would never see you again, little sister of Neshar. But here you are. And that foolish Ramah is your would-be father-in-law. Are you sure you want to marry his son? I would hesitate, Keren-Pale-Eyes. Particularly now, when our Great King seems interested in you. He has not yet taken a wife, though many have been offered to him—beautiful, intelligent, truly desirable women. And yet”—Lawkham’s voice became even softer, edged with irony—“the Keren-child I remember had a sense of honor. You’d never accept our Great King as a husband when you’ve almost promised yourself to another, would you?”

“No.” Keren shivered at the very thought of marrying Nimr-Rada.

“Of course not,” Lawkham murmured, seeming pleased to be correct. “But your pale and beautiful sister would answer differently, given the same choice.”

Keren glanced at Sharah and realized Lawkham was right. Sharah would choose the mighty Nimr-Rada instantly. As if sensing that she was the subject of their conversation, Sharah excused herself from her husband and
circled the hearth to visit Keren. Tossing her pale, braid-bound head proudly, Sharah stared at Lawkham.

“You’re that rascal-horseman we met at the marriage of my brother Eliyshama. How did you manage to become a guardsman to the Great King?”

Unaffected by Sharah’s hauteur, Lawkham answered easily. “I am the son of the son of a brother of the Great King. I am also one of the Great King’s best marksmen, as is my adopted brother, Zehker. We’ve earned our places of honor.” Straightening, Lawkham said, “Speaking of Zehker, he apparently has a word or two for me—a rare thing. Forgive me; I must depart.”

They watched Lawkham pick his way through the crowded lodge toward the somber, watchful Zehker, who had positioned himself just inside the door. Zehker spoke briefly to Lawkham, tipping his head stiffly toward Keren and Sharah.

“That Zehker is a stupid piece of wood,” Sharah muttered to Keren. “Even now, he can’t be bothered to be polite. He always did despise you, Keren, remember?”

Remembering that Zehker never displayed emotion beyond his natural grimness, Keren said, “You exaggerate.”

“I think not,” Sharah said, pleased. “Look, I’m sure he’s told that Lawkham not to go near you again. You’re a creature to be shunned.”

“Thank you, my sister.” To her deep humiliation, Keren could not prevent tremors of pain from breaking into her voice. “Now that I’ve been shamed before the entire tribe, I’m going to stay with Khuldah. I leave you to deal with your husband and his family. By the way, it must be time for you to feed Gibbawr. I think I hear him crying.”

Garbed in a leather tunic and leggings, Keren edged along a branch of the willow tree, satisfied with her morning’s harvest. The fresh willow-branch cuttings would make a fine sleeping basket for Khuldah’s little Meleah.
I’ll make it big enough to last through the autumn, and I’ll pad it well
, Keren decided.
Though I’d better hurry, or Meleah will outgrow it before I’m finished, the hungry little bird
.

Moving easily, Keren dropped her bale of cuttings to the ground, then jumped down after them. The instant she straightened, she saw sunlight gleam against a flint arrowhead poised in the bushes less than a stone’s throw away. One of the mighty Nimr-Rada’s huntsmen had apparently turned an arrow toward her.

She froze, uncertain whether she should move or call out a warning. But then the flint arrow was lowered. A laugh echoed from the bushes, and Lawkham emerged from his hiding place, followed by the wary Zehker. “Keren Pale Eyes!” Lawkham called to her happily. “Make a less animal-like noise next time. Though I wouldn’t mind catching one such as you.”

Before Lawkham could say anything further, Zehker gave him a silencing, warning shove. Lawkham grinned, shoved Zehker in response, and turned away from Keren, apparently bent on continuing their hunt. As they departed, Zehker glanced back over his shoulder at her.