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“Yes.” I held his gaze. “So it seems. Are you sorry, now?”

After a moment, he shook his head. “No,” he said, stooping to brush my lips with his. “I’ll just have to catch more fish, that’s all.”

I was still laughing when I saw them.

Unlike the Shamsun, the Sabaeans had come ready for battle. They wore armor in an archaic style, or so I thought-bronze corselets over cotton tunics, pleated leather skirts and brightly woven cloaks. At second glance, I realized ’twas not the style, but the armor itself that was old, worn thin and bright with the patina of generations of polishing, traces of gilt lingering in the crevices here and there.

Tifari Amu had spoken truly. No one had traded with Saba for a long, long time.

We sat frozen, all of us, about our makeshift campsite, strewn with medicaments and the corpses of slain bandits. One of the Sabaeans stepped forward, frowning. Like the others, his skin was the hue of polished mahogany, and his bearded face was stern. He wore a helm like a pointed bronze cap, and only the leather straps were new.

“You,” he said in Habiru, pointing to Tifari, who had risen, grasping his shield. “What passes here? Who has killed these men?”

Tifari shook his head in a gesture of incomprehension.

They spoke Habiru. After so long, they still spoke it. “Barukh hatah Adonai, father,” I said, getting to my feet. “Yeshua a’Mashiach …” My voice trailed off. Whatever else these men were, they were not Yeshuite. I cleared my throat and continued in his tongue. “We have come seeking peaceful converse with Saba.”

He stared at me unabashed, for which I did not blame him. We made an odd sight altogether, and while he might not know me for the most famous courtesan in Terre d’Ange, I was hardly what one expects to find in a Jebean forest surrounded by corpses. “You,” he said slowly. “What
are
you?”

“I am Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève of Terre d’Ange,” I said. “It is a land very far away, farther even than the homeland of Shalomon. These are my companions,” I added, introducing them. Joscelin gave his Cassiline bow; the Jebeans nodded warily. Imriel kept still, seeking to read the Sabaean’s expression.

“From Meroë.” The Sabaean captain frowned. “We have no friends in Meroë.”

I translated his comment to Tifari Amu, who shrugged. “They have no enemies, either. The quarrel is an ancient one. Our wise Queen would see it laid to rest if Saba willed it. But we are not here to parlay, only to aid you in your quest. It is a favor to the gods, and to the Lugal of Khebbel-im-Akkad, nothing more.”

When I relayed his words to the Sabaean captain, he gave a bitter smile. “Our memories are long, foreigner. The quarrel is not ancient to us, and we have no fondness for the Akkadians. As for the gods of Jebe-Barkal, they are foul and bestial monstrosities.”

“And yet,” I said, “I have heard you use the grief of Isis to hide something from the eyes of Adonai Himself.”

He sucked in his breath as if I’d struck him, his bearded cheeks flushing darker. “It is no business of yours, foreigner!” I said nothing. The men behind him stirred. After a moment, he spoke again. “We have tracked these poachers for many days without success,” he said reluctantly, nodding toward the slain Shamsun. “For this, if no other, you may claim hearth-friendship. Is it your wish?”

“It is.” I inclined my head.

“So be it.” His bitter smile returned. “I am Hanoch ben Hadad. I will lead you to the city of Tisaar. Whatever your quest may be, you may present it to the Elders.”

Thus did we enter Saba.

Seventy-Two

IT WAS an uneasy journey, albeit a short one. The Sabaeans were none too glad of our company, and kept themselves separate. The Jebeans, understandably, were nervous and watchful. Joscelin, Imriel and I were subdued.

If Jebe-Barkal was like a land from a fable, Saba was even more so. How many years had they endured in isolation? Between the many calendars involved, I was hard put to do the calculations, but by my best guess, King Khemosh had ruled some two hundred years before the birth of Elua.

The quarrel was more ancient than my homeland. It was a sobering thought.

Under Hanoch ben Hadad’s guidance, we reached the Lake of Tears, which was so vast as to resemble a calm, inland sea, hiding its mysteries. Here at last there were roads and we were able to ride abreast, making our way to the capital city of Tisaar.

’Twas passing strange, in that green wilderness, to see the ruddy stone walls rising around the city by the lake. A sentry looked out from the tower gate, sounding a long blast on a ram’s horn. Hanoch ben Hadad raised his hand in acknowledgment and we waited until the wondering guard turned out to question the Sabaean captain. What he said, I do not know, but it seemed it sufficed. We were admitted to Tisaar.

For near onto twelve years of my life, I had studied the lore and history of the Habiru. Now it seemed as if I had entered one of my own scrolls. Despite the lack of trade, Tisaar was prosperous, the Sabaeans making use to the fullest extent of those resources that abounded in the land. Crops and herds and wild game they had in plenty, and timber and stone. For metal, though, they had only copper and gold.

No iron, and thus no steel; not even tin to render bronze. It explained the great antiquity of their arms, which were handed down from generation to generation, patched and mended, betimes smelted and forged anew, each ounce of metal more precious than gold. What steel there was in Tisaar was a treasured rarity, filtered to Saba through the occasional capture of bandits more successful than the Shamsun we’d encountered. Hanoch’s men eyed our weapons with envious wonder. I think they would have seized them if they dared, but the law of hospitality forbade it.

For my part, I stared about me as we rode through the streets of Tisaar, amazed by the sight of wagons built in a style not seen in centuries, the wheel rims made of copper. And the people of Saba stared in turn, their dark faces according strangely with their Habiru tongue and old-fashioned attire, wondering who-and
what
-we were.

There were no inns in all of Tisaar. Sabaeans who travelled from elsewhere in the land stayed with friends or relatives, or camped outside the city, as Tifari and Bizan and our bearers opted to do, granted six-day passes to come and go within the city, provided they left their arms outside the walls. For Joscelin and Imriel and me, Hanoch ben Hadad secured lodging with his widowed sister, gauging us safe enough. Grudgingly, he allowed Joscelin to keep his arms, although he was forbidden to bear them in the city without a Sabaean military escort.

Hanoch’s sister’s grown daughter had left her for her husband’s household and she lived alone on the ground floor of a spacious house with only a cook and an elderly maidservant. The whole second floor was empty and used only for storage.

“A strange place.” Joscelin opened a trunk in the room we’d been allotted, sniffing at the linens stored within it. “Smells of mildew. The whole city seems forgotten by time.”

“It nearly is. Don’t do that, it’s rude.” I had liked Hanoch’s sister, Yevuneh, who bore her sorrow with gentle grace.

“At three links of gold?” Joscelin raised his brows. “We’re entitled.”

“You could have bought the house for one of your daggers,” I noted.

“True.” He closed the lid of the trunk. “Our welcome doesn’t bode well. I don’t imagine they’re going to tell us the Name of God and send us on our way.”

“No,” I said. “I don’t suppose they are.”

I slept poorly that night and dreamed for the first time in many months-the old dream, the one that had awoken me in our home in the City of Elua, trembling and weeping. Once again I stood at the prow of a ship, clutching the railing in vain as the child Hyacinthe stood on the receding shore, arms outstretched, calling my name over and over, desperate and pleading. Only this time, his cries grew louder as the expanse of water broadened, rising and rising to a shriek of pure, unrelenting terror. In the dream, I clapped my hands over my ears, unable to bear it, and sank to the ship’s floor.

And even that did not lessen it. ’Twas so deafening that it wrenched me to wakefulness, and only then did I realize the sound of my dream was real.

“Imriel,” I murmured, making my way to his pallet in the darkness. Behind me, Joscelin kindled a lamp. “It’s all right, it’s just a nightmare.”

He came out of it with a start, his body curled and rigid, tears making damp tracks on his cheeks. “I dreamed … I dreamed I was in Daršanga, and you were leaving me. Riding away without looking back. And Nariman laughed, and he led me away to the Mahrkagir …”

“Hush.” I stroked him gently, until I felt his shuddering ease, his rigid limbs loosen. “It was a dream, only a dream. I’m not leaving you anywhere.”

After a while, he fell into a dreamless sleep. When I gauged it safe, I went to gaze out the window, which afforded a glimpse of the distant lake. The moon was nearly full in a clear sky, and it glimmered on the dark waters.

“There are over forty islands,” Joscelin said behind me. “If that’s even where it’s hid. One of Hanoch’s men said as much.”

“I know.” Someone was stirring downstairs; Imriel’s screams had awoken the household. I should go tell Yevuneh all was well, I thought, but instead I gazed at the lake and wondered.

“Do you think we could find the right one?” Joscelin asked. “If it came to it?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “But if it comes to it, we’ll have to try.”

In the morning, the three of us broke our fast with Yevuneh, waiting for word from the Sanhedrin of Elders as to when we might present our case. Whether or no we’d paid dear for the lodgings, she was a kind hostess and gladder of our company than ever her brother had been.

“Tell me again where this land of yours lies,” she said, having difficulty compassing the thought. With Joscelin’s aid, I turned the dining-table into a map. Saba, she knew, and Jebe-Barkal, as well as Menekhet and the Umaiyyat and Khebbel-im-Akkad; Hellas, she knew by repute. As for the rest, I might have been speaking Skaldic.

“If this is Iskandria, my lady,” I said, indicating a pot of honey, “and here lies the ocean …” I swept my hand over an expanse of table, “here, this is Hellas, and here the nation-states of Caerdicca Unitas begin, and beyond, here, is Terre d’Ange.” I placed a dried fig to mark the spot.

“So far!” she marveled. “Why would you come so far, child?”

“To find the Tribe of Dân,” I ventured. “It is said they hold the key to great wisdom.”

Yevuneh looked away. “We did, once,” she said softly, then shook her head. “You have come a long way in error, if it is wisdom you seek. Do they not tell in Jebe-Barkal how we broke the Covenant of Wisdom?”

“I have heard a story,” I said. “I have not heard the Melehakim tell their own story.”

“The Melehakim.” She smiled at that, gentle creases forming at the sides of her mouth. “Do they call us that, still?”

“Some do,” I said, thinking of Shoanete.

“Ah, we’ve not named ourselves thusly for many generations. We lost the right of it, I fear.” Her gaze fell upon Imriel, who was devouring the dried fig that had marked Terre d’Ange. “What do you want to know, child? For a kiss from that dear boy, I will tell you a story.”

I translated her words to Imriel, who understood Habiru a little, owing to its similarity to Akkadian, but not enough, yet, to follow a conversation. He met my eyes and nodded gravely, and went to kiss her lined cheek. It was a pretty picture, if one didn’t know what it cost him to offer affection to a near-stranger.

“Such a lovely child, like an ivory carving! And charming with it in the bargain.” Yevuneh smiled again, caressing his hair. “You are blessed, to have such a son.”

Joscelin, who did understand Habiru, made no comment.

“Indeed,” I said. “My lady, how was the Covenant of Wisdom broken?”

“Pride,” she said. “Pride, and wrath. How else? When Shalomon’s kingdom fell, Adonai made us a dwelling-place in Jebe-Barkal, where we might preserve His gifts and keep them safe. Never were they to be used for personal gain, but only for the good of His people-the descendants of the anointed, the Wise Ones, the Melehakim. And the keeping of His gifts lay in the hands of the men, but the passage of wisdom … ah! That lay in the hands of the women.” Yevuneh turned over her empty hands. “We did not hold it tight enough. You have heard of Khemosh, the falsely anointed?”

I nodded.

She sighed. “We did not act. When Khemosh spoke, the men listened, and began to echo his words. When the Queen spoke, we remained silent in fear. We allowed the chain to be broken, the Covenant sundered. Khemosh was anointed in his wrath and proclaimed King, without a woman’s wisdom to balance him; and Khemosh made war upon Meroë. Nemuel, who was the priest of Aaron’s line upon that time, brought the Ark of the Broken Tablets onto the battlefield. Always before, in our time of need, the Voice of Adonai rang forth between the cherubim, proclaiming His fearful Name. This time, the Voice was silent.”

“And the army of Khemosh was defeated,” I said. “This I was told.”

“Not that,” Yevuneh said. “Not only that. When the Voice was silent…” She gazed at Imriel. “Such eyes the boy has! Like sapphires at nightfall. There were sapphires too on the breastplate of Aaron, you know; sapphire and jacinthe and agate, sardius, topaz, diamond … I cannot name them all. Twelve stones for the Twelve Tribes.”

“The breastplate of Aaron,” I mused. “This was taken from Shalomon’s Temple?”

“Yes.” Yevuneh nodded. “It was one of the treasures. And when the Voice was silent, Nemuel donned it, and the crown, too, wrought with a signet, and ‘Holy to Adonai’ engraved upon it. In his pride, for he had anointed Khemosh with his own hands, he donned these things to force the will of Adonai. And on the battlefield, Nemuel ordered the cover of the Ark of Broken Tablets to be lifted …”

Her voice fell silent. I waited, and Joscelin and Imriel waited with me. After a thousand years and more, these stories were like yesterday to the Sabaean widow.

“It was folly,” she whispered, “for Nemuel approached the Ark of Broken Tablets in anger. To think he could contain the sacred Name!” Yevuneh shook her head. “Where there is pride and wrath, there is no room for Adonai. It is death to attempt it. Only in a state of perfect love and trust may such grace be attained.”