Books by Maggie Shayne (314 page)

Staring at him in wonder, she felt tears brimming in her eyes. “Oh, Natum. If only it could be—”

“It can be. It will. I will be king of Lagash one day, Nidaba. And when I am, you will be my queen. None other.” Then his face clouded slightly, and he searched hers. “That is ... if you wish it.”

“Natum, you know I do!” she cried, flinging herself into his arms, relishing the feel of them tightening around her. “I have loved you for always!”

She felt some of the tension leave him as he held her. He was so precious to her. Reed thin, tall and gangly now. He’d shot up in height so that he stood a hand’s length taller than she. And he’d begun to sprout fine, dark hairs upon his face, which he seemed reluctant to scrape away. As if he were proud of the ever thickening whiskers. How she loved him!

“If you only knew,” she confessed to him, “the tears I have shed lying alone at night and thinking that you would be married to some other girl one day.”

“And yet you said nothing?”

“How could I?” Then she frowned. “How can I now, when wedding Puabi would be better for you, and for the kingdom itself?”

He leaned close, resting his forehead against hers. “It will never be, Nidaba. I vow to you, it will never be. And I will never give you cause to shed a single tear, ever again.”

She sighed, and smiled at him as her doubts fled.

“I will speak with my father tonight,” Eannatum said. “He will understand, I know he will.”

Nidaba’s lovely memory faded, and darkness began to creep in around the edges of her vision. She knew, sensed, that she was leaving now, the safe haven of her most precious memories ... sailing into storm-tossed seas, where things she would rather not think about lurked beneath the surface, like sea monsters, with great snapping jaws and razor-edged teeth. She wished then for that voice from without to come for her, to call to her, so that she could cling to it and escape the darkness.

But the voice had fallen silent, and the dream she’d been relishing became the nightmare she had not wished to recall.

The High Priest came to her chamber that night, with Lia, her beloved Lia, at his side. The priestess who had been like a mother to her. Lia’s gentle hand woke her, and Nidaba instantly saw the turmoil in the priestess’s eyes.

“What is it?” she asked, instantly alarmed.

“You must wake, child. You’ve been summoned by the king himself.”

Blinking in shock, Nidaba tried to quell her fears. But they rose up all the same. The king. What could he want of her? Only one answer came to mind. If Natum had spoken to his father as he had promised he would, then that must be what had instigated this midnight summons.

“Quickly, now,” Lia said, handing Nidaba her finest white
kaunake
dress, and her fringed shawl. The High Priest turned his back while Nidaba donned the garments, but he never left the room, which was so odd that Nidaba wondered at it. Did he fear she would run away? Or was it that he did not wish Lia to have a private moment with her?

Her senses prickled. Something was wrong here.

Lia dragged a silver comb through Nidaba‘ s hair and all too soon took her hand and led her down from the level where all the bedchambers were located, to the first level, and into the grand room that was used only for the visits of foreign dignitaries or religious officials. It was very much like a throne room, she thought. Two giant stone lions stood guard at either side of a dais, and golden animals and goblets rested at intervals atop marble stands. A goddess sculpture stood in the room’s center, cradling a pottery vase, from which water flowed endlessly into a golden chalice.

The king sat in a thronelike chair upon the dais. Two soldiers stood on his left and two on his right.

Nidaba bowed deeply before the king and remained that way until he said, “You may rise.”

She straightened. “Long life and health to you, my king,” she said in greeting, and she fisted her hand in her opposite palm, inclining her head.

“And to you,” he replied. “Sit down, Nidaba. The matter about which I must speak to you is of grave import to this kingdom. And to my son.”

She blinked in surprise, but took the seat the king indicated.

The king looked at her steadily for a long moment. His gaze was powerful, his very visage spoke of authority not to be questioned. “I understand the prince spoke to you today ... of marriage.”

Nidaba lowered her head to hide the heat that rushed into her cheeks. “Y-yes.”

“When my son spoke, Nidaba, he was not fully aware of the situation facing our kingdom. Nor of the threats to his rule.”

“Threats, my king?” Nidaba’s head came up, and her eyes searched the king’s face. He was dark, like his son. Thick, dark hair and bushy brows. But his jaw was not so well defined, soft where Natum’s was hard. His cheekbones were not as sculpted, and they hid beneath fleshy skin.

“Do you know that Ur and Lagash have long been enemies, vying for rule of all of Sumer?”

“Yes, of course I know this.”

“Of course,” he said, nodding. “But perhaps you do not know that an allegiance between the two would create the most powerful force in our land. Perhaps you did not know that he who rules over Lagash and Ur would be in a position to declare himself King of Kish, Ruler of all Sumer.”

Nidaba said nothing. She knew suddenly why the king had come here. He meant to prevent her from marrying his son. Her throat burned, and her eyes grew hot with tears she refused to shed.

“I have been setting a plan in motion since before my son’s birth, Nidaba. We are being threatened by enemies from all sides—particularly by the Ummamites. United under my son’s rule, we would be at peace, a land too powerful for even the king of Umma to think of challenging, and Lagash would prosper as never before. When he weds Puabi, princess of Ur, Eannatum’s kingship will be sealed. He will be king not just of Lagash, as I am, but of all Sumer.”

The lump that rose in her throat was almost too large to speak around. “But he does not
wish
to wed Puabi,” she said very softly, in a voice unlike her own.

“Perhaps he
did
not. But now that I have informed my son of what is at stake, he knows where his responsibility lies. And he is eager to accept the title King of Kish and to wear the crown of Sumer. Only one thing stands in his way, Nidaba.”

Blinking away tears, she lifted her chin and looked the king squarely in the eye. “And what is that, my king?”

“Oh, I think you know.”

Her voice reduced to little more than a dry rasp, she said, “Me?”

The king nodded. “You. He cannot bring himself to cause you pain. He cannot retract his proposal of marriage, Nidaba. His honor will not allow it. Though it is what he wishes, he will not betray his vow to you.”

She nodded slowly, and the first of many tears finally spilled over and rolled down her cheek. “So you have come to me, to ask me to betray my vow to him instead,” she murmured, understanding at last.

“Not to ask it,” he said, his voice firm. “I am your king. My duty is to my country. As is my son’s. Your duty is to obey. You will refuse my son’s offer of marriage. It is the only way to free him of this promise.”

Licking her dry lips, she battled a soul-deep tremor. “Respectfully, my king, how can I believe this is what Natum truly wants?”

“What he wants is of little consequence. His duty is to Lagash.” He slanted a quick glance toward Lia, who stood behind Nidaba. “And what you believe matters very little. But your teacher knows the truth of this. Lia?” the king said. And he lifted a hand toward the priestess.

Nidaba turned and saw her, very pale, and trembling, one of the king’s guards at her side, with a hand firmly around her forearm. Her heart raced as Lia, eyes cast downward, said, “The king speaks the truth, Nidaba. I heard it from the prince’s own lips. He wishes to wed Puabi... for the sake of Lagash, if not for his own.”

Every part of Nidaba’s body began to quiver. “It’s a lie!” She shot to her feet and ran toward the door. But Lathor, the High Priest, stepped into her path and blocked her flight. “You have not been dismissed, Nidaba. This is not finished.”

She stood there, trembling, battling the sobs that were tearing at her breast. She squared her shoulders and stared defiantly at Lathor. “I believe none of this! Natum wants me, not some spoiled princess. You force my own priestess to lie to me, and you expect me to believe it?”

“As your king told you, woman, it is of no concern to us what you believe. You will do as we command.”

A cry was wrenched from Lia, and when Nidaba spun toward her, it was to see Lia forced to her knees, the king’s soldier gripping her shoulder.

“If you don’t,” Lathor went on, “then it’s painfully obvious that you’ve been taught poorly. A priestess who can’t even manage to teach obedience to one orphan girl is not one we would reward.”

Nidaba understood suddenly, vividly, clearly. If she did not obey, it would be Lia who would suffer the wrath of the king. Of Lathor. Oh, if the punishment were hers alone, Nidaba would gladly bear it. But she knew too well how cruel Lathor could be. And she couldn’t bear the thought of him taking the scourge to Lia. Goddess, if he’d beaten Nidaba bloody so often over the minor offenses she had committed, what would he do to Lia over something this significant?

He might even kill her.

Lia’s eyes met Nidaba’s. And Nidaba saw the plea in them. The priestess was afraid. Bowing her head in despair, Nidaba sighed. “What must I do?”

“Ahh, much better. Perhaps you’ve learned something from us here in the temple after all,” Lathor said. “It is very simple, really. Since you have been so eager to break the law and learn the script, you must compose a message to the prince. Tell him you have decided that your promise to the Goddess is more sacred than your promise to him, and that you intend to take your initiation as her priestess.”

Nidaba lifted her head slowly. “He will never believe it.”

“His belief will be my concern, Nidaba,” the king said, his voice deep and none too steady. “Yours is only to compose the message.”

A guard took Nidaba’s arm, led her to a waiting chair, and drew a small table before her. Upon it was a moist clay tablet and a selection of stylus reeds. Apparently there had never been any doubt that she would comply with the king’s wishes.

“Have I no other choice?” Nidaba asked, looking around the room as tears began to pool in her eyes again.

“None,” the king told her. “But you will have compensation, Nidaba. You will be richly rewarded for your loyalty to my son.”

“Your rewards don’t interest me in the least. Nor does compensation from a king who would threaten a priestess to bring about his own ends.”

“Be very careful with your words, girl.”

Nidaba held his gaze for one long moment, then sat down and took up the stylus with a trembling hand. Then she put it down again. “No,” she said. “I will do what you wish, but I will say my piece first. I may not yet be a priestess, but I have studied and learned, and I know the Goddess would not approve of these events. Conspiracies and threats, deceptions and cruelty. You are king. You rule by her favor. There was a time in this land when no one was more revered than a priestess of the Goddess. Now, we are treated as servants to the kings, rather than as his most valued advisers. Worse yet, we’ve become servants to the priests! Kings and soldiers talk of war and invasions and battles and conquests. Their concerns are of earthly power and might, rather than spiritual enlightenment and wisdom. I have studied our kingdom’s history. I have seen the way these things have changed over the past century. It is wrong. And one day soon, mark my words, Inanna will have her vengeance!”

With every word she spoke, the king grew more pale, until he was on his feet and trembling with rage. He lifted a hand, pointed a finger at her. “Silence!”

“I will never be silenced.”

He was quiet, staring at her, his lips thin. Then he sat down again, with a sigh as if of surrender. “So be it,” he said. Then he glanced at the soldier who stood holding Lia’s shoulder. “Kill the priestess.”

The soldier’s sword flashed in the torchlight as he yanked it free, lifted it high. Lia cried out.

“No!” Nidaba shouted. “No, no, please!”

The king held up a hand, and the soldier paused with his sword in the air. Looking at Nidaba, the sovereign of Lagash lifted his brows. “Well?”

Blinking in shock at the heights of cruelty she had never before perceived in the man, Nidaba sat down at the small table and finally picked up the stylus again. “I’ll do as you wish,” she said. But she told herself that this would not be all there was. She would speak to Natum herself. Privately, away from these authoritarian eyes. She would go to him just the moment she was out of their sight. She would explain to him that she had done this only to save the life of her priestess. She would give him one last chance to tell her that it was all a lie. That it was she he wanted. Not Puabi. No matter what his father said.

She
had
to do that much.

Bending over the clay, Nidaba pressed the symbols into its face, writing exactly what the king had told her to write, rather than risk any further trauma to poor Lia, who was shaking so hard now she could not even get up from her kneeling position on the floor. There was wetness spreading on the stone floor beneath the terrified priestess’s knees and staining her robes, Nidaba realized, her heart wrenching in her chest.

Swallowing hard, she finished the message. Lastly, she removed the pendant from her neck—the small bit of onyx with the name “Nidaba” inscribed on its face. She rolled it gently over the clay, impressing the symbols there.

Then sitting up, she replaced the pendant at her throat. “It is done,” she whispered. But she felt empty inside.

“Lathor,” the king said.

At his word, the High Priest came to the table, turned the tablet around, and perused the symbols Nidaba had made upon it. When he finished, he nodded. “It is good,” he said to the king.

Nidaba got to her feet, though her legs were shaking so hard with tightly leashed rage she could barely walk upright. Her back straight, furious tears leaking through despite the battle she waged against them, she wished only to flee to the haven of her chamber and let loose the torrent while she gave them time to go their way. And then she would slip out and find a way to see Ean-natum—even if it meant scaling the palace wall to his chamber window. Unsteadily, she moved toward the doors.