Crown in the Stars (56 page)

“I didn’t pick that one,” Tabbakhaw reminded her in a huff.

“You agreed to it, though,” Awkawn’s wife, the lanky Romaw, called to her from another boat. “I said we should move on, but no one ever listens to me. I think this one’s probably worse than the other.”

“Let’s try it,” Awkawn said, always ready to argue with his wife.

In her place behind Ra-Anan, Zeva’ah shifted the nursing Nebat. “I am tired.”

Ra-Anan had intended to push them farther down the coast today, but the women seemed determined to camp early. He subdued his frustration while his tribe carefully maneuvered their boats into the tides that would carry them to shore.

As the women bickered and unloaded the boats, the men took their weapons and climbed up the sandy beach to explore the cave. Putrid, musty, dripping darkness greeted them, with a seething, rustling sound unlike anything Ra-Anan had ever heard.

Erek sounded as if he were gagging on the stench. “Something’s in here.”

“Out,” Ra-Anan muttered, backing away from the sound, a spear ready in his hand. The seething sound
formed into a mass that arose, unfurling like a dark, lifted, shaken cloth. Ra-Anan’s fear expanded with the form.

“Out!”

To his horror, the creature followed them. In the light of day, it was not as tall as a man but a hitherto unimagined nightmare—lightly fuzzed, deep shadowed colors, a narrow sharp-toothed snout on a long, thin, bony head with piercing eyes and leathery claw-fingered wings that opened to an astonishing width before it charged them menacingly on clawed feet.
Like a carrion eater from one of I’ma-Annah’s old stories …

They retreated, facing it, fending it off with their weapons while the women and children screamed from behind them on the beach. Piling everything and everyone back into the boats, Ra-Anan and his tribe fled. The creature glided into the sky, circling above, diving at them until they were well away from its portion of the coast.

In the eighteenth year after the division of the tribes, Adoniyram felt confident enough to leave his beloved Great City in the care of his guardsman Ghid’ohn and his priest, Ebed. He intended to search for his brother, Gibbawr. In addition, he had heard muddled rumors of a celebration to honor the Ancient Ones this year; he was determined to visit them, hoping to somehow communicate with them.

For the first time in their married lives, however, Atarah tried to argue. She was bearing their tenth child and feared he wouldn’t return to see this little one.

“I have to find my family,” he told her firmly, not
mentioning Gibbawr. “Even now, it may be too late—the tribes are all so scattered and confused.”
And I want to find Shoshannah. I want to meet the Ancient Ones in the mountains—to decide for myself if they will outlive me. You in the heavens, whoever You are… let me find them
.

Accompanied by his guardsmen Ye’uwsh and Dibriy, Adoniyram rode north for weeks—using some of the few horses that had not been stolen from his Great City.

Searching for telltale smoke from hearths, he led his companions into the foothills and the mountains to find the Tribe of Bezeq. He repeated the names over and over to various tribal leaders.
Bezeq. Gibbawr
. Most shook their heads at his words, but some nodded. And, thankfully, Adoniyram told himself, a nod was still yes in any language. He was heading in the right direction.

“Is this the place?” Dibriy demanded, tired, glaring around as they rode into a comfortable, well-established village of rustic stone-and-timber lodges.

“Smile, Dibriy,” Adoniyram encouraged him. “If they think you’re angry, we’ll be chased off like scoundrels. Yes, I think this is the place.”

Women and children bounded from various homes, chattering, whistling, hurrying. Adoniyram dismounted, smiling, and led his weary horse to the largest lodge. A big, sinewy, bold-looking man emerged from this lodge, lifting his chin at Adoniyram, Ye’uwsh, and Dibriy in wary welcome.

Carefully Adoniyram repeated the names. “Bezeq? Gibbawr?”

Relaxing, the bold-faced man tapped himself, drawing
out the name sharply. “Bezeq.” Turning, he called out an order, of which Adoniyram understood one distinct, lingering word: Gibbawr. Seeming satisfied with verbal responses from others in his village, the big man motioned Adoniyram inside the lodge.

“Stay with the horses,” Adoniyram muttered to Ye’uwsh and Dibriy. He didn’t want them hearing what he would say.

A dignified, sharp-faced woman served drinks, berries, grain cakes, and honey, which Adoniyram accepted gratefully. The sharp-faced woman then knelt beside a sour, rugged man, who was most likely her husband—and the tribe’s patriarch.

Others were filing into the lodge now, studying Adoniyram eagerly, the girls whispering behind their hands, giggling. A sturdy, friendly seeming matron appeared, followed by a tall, handsome leather-clad man and a younger matron, who was quite pretty and heavily pregnant. She reminded Adoniyram painfully of Atarah; he missed her more acutely than he’d realized. Three gangly adolescent boys and a small girl moved after the young matron in a line, like half-grown brown ducklings.

As if trained, the three boys sat near Bezeq and the dour man. The little girl, however, climbed into the sharp-faced woman’s lap and relaxed, playing with some cordage and beads. The tall, leather-clad man sat with Bezeq, while nodding to Adoniyram sociably.

Adoniyram returned the man’s nod, wondering if he was imagining a resemblance, hints of his own features reflected in this young man’s face. “Gibbawr?”

Exchanging glances with Bezeq, the leather-clad man nodded in polite agreement. “Gibbawr.”

“I am Adoniyram.” He had to say this twice before Gibbawr attempted it. “Adyon-ee-raaawm.”

Good enough
. Adoniyram nodded, wary now. “Sharah’s son.” Receiving blank stares, he repeated her name again. “Sharah.”

The sturdy, friendly looking matron gasped in apparent realization. “Shaw-raw!” Turning, she chattered at the entire tribe, then swept a questioning look from Adoniyram to Gibbawr. Instantly, Bezeq smoldered, the dour, rugged man sneered, and everyone in the tribe seemed to stiffen and stare, indignant.

No doubt they are remembering my mother
, Adoniyram thought, grimly amused. To put their minds at ease, he repeated her name, then briefly, mournfully hung his head. If necessary, he would tell of her death with dust, ashes, and a grief he didn’t feel.

Bezeq leaned forward now, still smoldering. His powerful face hard, he grabbed a chunk of clay from beside the cold hearth, crumbled it, and let it fall to the floor near his mat. “Shaw-raw?”

When Adoniyram nodded, Bezeq spat vigorously, insultingly, onto the crumbled clay beside him. Unoffended, Adoniyram removed a dark leather bag from his belt and offered it to the perplexed Gibbawr.
To you, my own brother, mere gold from the brother you should never have had
.

He longed to tell them everything. He desperately wished he could gain their acceptance and trust. Their steadfast kinship. But their mangled words stopped them. And Gibbawr’s expression was suddenly too polite. While Bezeq was and would always be—Adoniyram thought—too full of hatred for Sharah to welcome her ill-gotten son.

Bezeq’s mother, Nihyah, sighed regretfully, snuggling her cherished great-granddaughter in her lap. “I wish we could actually speak to our guest.”

“So my own mother is dead?” Gibbawr asked, staring down at the gold rings and red-stoned gold cuffs in his hands.

“It would seem so,” his adoptive mother, Khuldah, sighed. “Though this Adyoneerawm doesn’t seem much grieved; she must have died years ago.”

“Someone must have killed her,” Bezeq said, openly pleased.

His father, Ramah, snorted, “Good riddance. Her and her sister, that Keren.”

Nihyah stiffened, dignified and cool. “Keren was never the terrible woman you thought her to be. It was that Nimr-Rada king who was the evil one…”

“Do not start that argument again!” Ramah warned his wife, his dark eyes ferocious in his bearded, raw-boned face. “Let’s feed this young man and his companions and encourage them to leave in the morning.”

Gibbawr’s wife, Meleah, straightened now, pressing her hands to her heavily pregnant sides—for the unborn child was kicking visibly. “Gibbawr, beloved,” she said, her brown, rounded face warm and worried, “I do think you should at least share one meal with your brother. He
has
brought you gifts. You may never see him again. Let there be no regrets.”

“We should part in peace,” Gibbawr agreed, clearly unwilling to offend his father.

Bezeq remained silent. Ramah nudged him. “Now that
she’s
dead, you should marry again. A true wife this time. Perhaps a girl from your brother Yithran’s tribe.”

“Perhaps.” Grudgingly, Bezeq turned to his son, Gibbawr. “Your Meleah is right. Go share some food with your brother before he leaves. If he had Sharah as his mother, he deserves some compassion.”

Clubs in hand, Mithqah, Demamah, and Shoshannah knelt in the sunshine before the lodge of the Ancient Ones, pummeling a long, leather-wrapped mat of damp wool, felting it to be used for winter boots and caps.

As they pounded in rhythm, they laughed at the antics of their younger children. Demamah’s toddler daughter, Ghiylath—a busy, prattling mite with Demamah’s brown eyes and Tiyrac’s thick, dark, red-tinged hair—was trying to escape to play in the stream, which she loved. The other children encircled her to keep her penned. Ghiylath howled. Shoshannah’s only daughter, Meherah—twelve, stick thin and earnest, with her mother’s tousled brown curls—finally grabbed the unhappy toddler and swung her in circles until Ghiylath was too dizzy to stand.