He Who Lifts the Skies (34 page)

Twenty

“TWO WIVES FOR one man invites nothing but disaster,” Kuwsh said, unable to prevent himself from lecturing his son as they rode out of the Great City. “And to ignore these two wives in favor of a third woman—who is also the sister of your first wife—is worse than disaster. It’s—”

“I know what I am doing,” Nimr-Rada answered, unperturbed.

“But do your people know what you are doing?” Kuwsh demanded. “Will they still follow you when they become aware of your growing household?”

“They are free to do as I do. I have not forbidden men to take more than one woman. Such restrictive marriage bonds are remnants from the beliefs of those Ancient Ones in the mountains; if I encourage this new freedom, most men won’t argue.” Nimr-Rada glanced over his shoulder
now at Keren.

Kuwsh fumed, watching his son study the obstinate female. “At least you didn’t marry
her
. Listen, my son: You are still angry that she refused you as a husband. You’re doing all this to repay her, but it will do you no good. Be satisfied with the promise of a son from your Revakhaw. Forget that Keren! She won’t give you the devotion you crave.”

“Do you speak from your own experience, my father?”

Nimr-Rada taunted Kuwsh, because Kuwsh’s first love, Bekiyrah, daughter of Yepheth, had shunned Kuwsh in favor of Asshur, son of Shem. Kuwsh seethed, regretting that he had ever spoken of Bekiyrah to his son. He also regretted Nimr-Rada’s physical prowess, he longed to thrash some respect into this “Great King” he had helped to create. But he was no match for Nimr-Rada.

Attempting to be reasonable, he said, “A large portion of your power is due to my own homage to you, my son. By bowing to you, I gave you the loyalty of all the tribes of my sons, and most of my brothers’ tribes. You owe me at least the freedom to speak without enduring your mockery.”

“If any other man said such things to me as I allow from you, my father, that man would be dead within a breath.”

“I believe you,” Kuwsh replied, controlling his temper. “But because I
am
your father, I’ll be blunt: Your prized Keren won’t accept you.”

“You are wrong. I will become everything to her. She longs for me to be like other men.” Nimr-Rada lowered his voice. “She told me so.”

“She was tormenting you.”

“She was not,” Nimr-Rada growled, causing Tselem—
leashed by a keeper nearby—to watch him attentively. “If you could have seen the look on her face, you would have known the truth. Even so, I will never allow her to become a mere wife to me, or to anyone. And I will never allow myself to be a mere man to her.”

“Then why do you pursue her?”

“I have my reasons.”

Kuwsh could imagine his reasons. Aggravated, he muttered, “She has never given up her loyalties to those Ancient Ones.”

“She will forget them,” Nimr-Rada said confidently. “Come now. Let’s go down to the river and wait. No doubt our prey is there.”

Kuwsh turned his horse to follow after Nimr-Rada, wondering if—during the hunt—he might be able to “misguide” an arrow toward Keren.

Keren glanced up at the gray sky, dreading another downpour. She was wet, tired, and hungry, but she dared not complain. For much of the afternoon, they had hidden in the flooded reeds at the river and had netted a raft of ducks and several elegant birds: glossy, reddish-brown and purple-plumed ibis. But this was a yawn-worthy pastime for Nimr-Rada. He wanted larger prey and planned to have Tselem pursue a gazelle. The thought filled Keren with a wearied dread.

She detested Nimr-Rada’s kills. Plain arrows or spears weren’t enough: Nimr-Rada loved to physically attack his prey, grabbing their horns, twisting and breaking their necks. Worse, he expected Keren to follow him in the chase as an enthusiastic witness to his cruelty and strength.
Therefore, her heart sank as a herd of ibex approached to drink at the river. Tawny and sure-footed, with graceful, back-curving V-shaped serrated horns, the ibex were like goats but larger than gazelles, which obviously pleased Nimr-Rada. He signaled everyone to be still.

Obediently Keren aligned herself to Shaw-Kak’s neck, gripping her bow and praying the wretched horse would not stir suddenly and frighten the ibex too soon. As some of the herd lowered their heads to drink, Nimr-Rada rode at them, his spear ready. They scattered, bounding in different directions. Nimr-Rada followed the largest ibex away from the river. Keren didn’t have to urge Shaw-Kak to the chase; the brute bolted behind Nimr-Rada, eager to escape his forced stillness in the reeds.

“Go-go-go!” someone cried from behind Keren.

Nimr-Rada’s guardsmen and Keren’s guardsmen were surrounding her, their horses galloping with their long necks lowered and outstretched as they had been trained, to avoid being shot in the head by their riders.

Keren disliked having others ride so close to her. She always feared that one of the young men would be tossed from his horse and accidentally strike her, causing his own death. She was about to wave them off when the ibex and Nimr-Rada changed direction, suddenly veering to the right. As they turned, so did Shaw-Kak, but not the horse directly to Shaw-Kak’s right. The horses collided, tossing Keren to the left. Astonished, Keren watched the earth rush toward her. Falling never seemed real. But landing was too painful to be doubted.

She struck the damp earth, rolling helplessly, crying out as another horse trampled over her, inflicting torturous snapping blows on her legs. Facedown, still clutching her bow, she sucked in a breath and fought back tears.
She hurt everywhere. Others were calling to her. Frightened, Keren lifted a hand to fend them off. “Stop!”

“Lady!” Tsinnah’s breathless voice eased Keren’s terror that some young guardsman might forget himself and try to help her. “Alatah is with me. And Gebuwrah. No one else will touch you, truly. Can you turn yourself? Can you walk?”

“Wait.” Slowly, Keren turned and gasped. Both her legs hurt, the right worse than the left, and they felt oddly cold. She tried to press her left foot onto the ground, but the effort brought vicious stabs of pain. And even the thought of moving her right leg provoked a chill of sweat. Worse, there was a rapidly swelling lump on her right shin.

“You’ve really injured yourself this time, Lady,” Tsinnah told her, studying Keren’s legs. “These are broken bones—no little sprains or bruises and scrapes. And I think you knocked your bow into your face when you fell—your right eye is swelling.”

“You look terrible, Lady,” Revakhaw said tremulously, kneeling beside Keren. “I was sure you’d be killed when that horse ran over you.”

“Well, it didn’t kick her in the head,” Gebuwrah muttered. She sounded almost disappointed.

Keren frowned.
You’re becoming suspicious of everyone
, she chided herself. She was in such pain that she probably wasn’t thinking clearly. But the unnerving thought remained: if she had a fatal accident, a number of people would be pleased. Among them Kuwsh, who approached her now, his handsome face inscrutable.

Just as Kuwsh started to speak, Gebuwrah prodded Keren’s injured left leg with excruciating accuracy. Keren yelped, and the world dimmed; an ominous humming
noise filled her head. To avoid fainting, she lay back on the wet ground and shut her eyes. Yes, that was better. If misery could be called better than agony. As she lay there, eyes closed, a stealthy, heavy-scented creature padded up to her, hesitated, and glided on carelessly, uninterested in her prostrate form.
Tselem
, Keren thought. Nimr-Rada was approaching.

“Who did this?” Nimr-Rada’s deep, authoritative voice demanded, furious.

Keren opened her eyes and answered before anyone else could speak. “I did this to myself, O King. Please … don’t blame or punish the innocent.”

Relief swept across several faces; Qaydawr’s, Erek’s, and one of Nimr-Rada’s own guardsmen. Nimr-Rada did not see them; he was glaring at his father and at Zehker, who now stood just behind Kuwsh. “Tell me the truth!”

Kuwsh waved toward Qaydawr and the guardsman, distinctly irritated. “Those two. One horse collided with hers, and another horse trampled her. They were riding too close. As was that one.” He pointed to Erek, who quaked visibly but recovered when Kuwsh said, “However, his horse did not collide with hers—therefore he is not to blame.”

Instantly, Nimr-Rada cuffed his guilty guardsman, knocking him to the ground. Qaydawr dropped to his knees and bowed, seeming ready for punishment.

Keren hastily lifted a hand, begging, “Don’t kill them, Great King! Banish them if it pleases you, but let others praise you openly for the mercy you show them!”

“You’d save your own murderer,” Nimr-Rada told Keren, grimly amused. “Very well. If you survive this fall with no lasting injuries, they will live. If your injuries are permanent, I will kill them.”

Feeling faint again, Keren relaxed in the grass and shut her eyes. “I will recover. Thank you.”

“Don’t return to the city until after sunset,” Nimr-Rada commanded her. “Look at me. Did you hear what I said, Lady?”

Opening her eyes—the right one now painful—Keren said, “I won’t return to the city until after sunset, as you have said, O King.” Chuckling mirthlessly, aware of her muddied clothes and her missing headpiece, she added, “I must look truly horrible if you want to keep me hidden.”

“You do,” he agreed. He turned to leave them, frowning at Revakhaw, who bowed humbly at his feet. Coldly, Nimr-Rada said, “Stay here and be useful. But return to me tonight, or I will come after you myself.”

“As you say, my Lord,” Revakhaw answered, so frightened that Keren hated Nimr-Rada all the more.

Satisfied, he left, accompanied by his father and his household.

Gently, Alatah covered Keren with damp, musky fleeces, tucking them beneath her as much as possible, saying, “I’m sorry you’re in such pain, Lady. And we’ll have to wait here for such a long time.…”

“Then we should try to build a fire so Na’ah can finish her cooking,” Keren murmured, exhausted, the stabbing in her legs worsening.

Pleased by the thought of food, everyone scattered to create a hearth and to unload food from the packhorses. Everyone but Zehker. He knelt as close to her as he dared. Keren longed to reach for his hand and to cling to him; her pain was so great. She curled her hands into fists.

“I’ll be sure that your attendants brace your injuries properly,” he said quietly. “We’ll carry you into the city after dark.” Then he muttered through his teeth, “Never
ride ahead of Kuwsh again, Lady. I thought I would have to strike him down. He was aiming for you.”

Keren stared, unable to respond. By the time she could think clearly again, Zehker had departed to assemble a makeshift litter like the one he had made for Lawkham. Keren pushed away all thoughts of Lawkham, too weakened to endure her memories of his death.
O Most High
, she thought,
by this “accident,” You saved my life from Kuwsh. I thank You—though I wish it didn’t have to be so painful. What are You planning?
Shivering, she closed her eyes and prayed.

Revakhaw knelt beside Keren, holding a cup of steaming liquid. “Zehker won’t allow us to give you solid food until after your legs are braced,” she said. “I think he fears you’ll heave everything up again.”

“He’s right as usual,” Keren agreed. Her pain was nauseating. To distract herself, she concentrated on Revakhaw. Softly she asked, “Is anyone else nearby?”

“No, Lady.” Leaning down on her elbow, Revakhaw faced Keren. “What do you want to say?”

Keren whispered, “You can’t tell anyone what I’ve told you today. But do you feel better, knowing that
you
are Nimr-Rada’s true wife and that my sister is not?”

Hanging her head remorsefully, Revakhaw nodded. “I wish it weren’t so but yes. Until I knew this, I wanted to die; I was so ashamed.”

“Why?” Keren challenged her, whispering. “If Nimr-Rada saw no evil in taking you for his own—being the perfect He-Who-Lifts-the-Skies—then you should have been proud. Instead you were ashamed. Why?”

Revakhaw shrugged, bewildered. “I don’t know, Lady,
truly. I thought that if I wasn’t his wife … then it wasn’t right that he should take me. And it would be a shame indeed that I carry his child.”