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 Meroe." The Sabaean captain frowned. "We have no friends in Meroe." 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, theSabaeans 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 Daranga, 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 Dan," 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 Meroe. 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."

"To make of the self a vessel where there is no self," I murmured.

"Even so." Yevuneh nodded. "But Adonai was merciful, and withheld the blow of death, for the love he had borne his people. The cover was lifted, and Nemuel alone looked inside and beheld the Name of God." Her expression was sombre. "And when he sought to speak it, Nemuel was struck dumb, his tongue withering within his mouth like a drought-stricken root. Such was the penalty for breaking the Covenant of Wisdom. And it is as you have said, the army of Khemosh was defeated, and we gathered for flight; fleeing the forces of Meroe, and fleeing moreover the wrath of Adonai, who was at such pains to preserve His people."

"A harsh penalty for one man's transgression," I said quietly.

"No." Yevuneh gave a sad smile. "The sin was shared among us all, for all of us failed in honoring the Covenant. Even now, to this day, the priests of the line of Aaron are born tongueless and dumb, keepers of a useless treasure, which we must hide from the eyes of Adonai, the Lord our God, lest he remember and smite us for our folly. Khemosh himself got neither son nor daughter, and we dare not even raise up a King, but hew only to the ancient laws kept by the Elders, and the women . . . we bear the price still of the power we relinquished. So you see, you seek wisdom in vain."

Joscelin let out his breath in a long whistle, and began the work of translating the story to Imriel. I sat thinking, watching flies circle the honey-pot.

"It may be, my lady Yevuneh," I said at length. "Though I am sorry to hear that the women of the Melehakim do not take up the sundered ends of the chain they let fall. But all knowledge is worth having, and these stories are new to me. Of Moishe's Tablets and the Ark that held them, I have heard. What is this of which you speak, this Ark of Broken Tablets?"

"It is written . . . you know such things were recorded?" she asked me.

I nodded, thinking of the volumes of text I had read, the hours spent at the Rebbe's feet, learning Habiru lore. How could she know? Most of it had been written long after Melek al'Hakim fled his father's land.

"It is written that there were two sets of tablets. The first, that were broken, were written by Adonai's own hand," Yevuneh said softly. "The second, that Moishe chiseled himself-those preserved the law.

But the first. . . ah! Those held the Name of God in every syllable."

The hair rose at the back of my neck. "And those are here."

"So it is said." She spread her hands. "I have not seen them, myself. But that is the story for which you asked. And that is the sum of our useless wisdom. One day, perhaps, Adonai will send us a sign to make atonement. In a thousand years, it has not come."

There came a knock at the door; I daresay all of us startled. Yevuneh's maidservant went to see who it was, and came to fetch her mistress. Presently Yevuneh returned, looking grave. "The Elders will see you."

SEVENTY-THREE.

OUR MEETING with the Sanhedrin of Elders was long and fruitless.

I told the story well, or so I thought; Hyacinthe's story, the story of the Master of the Straits, the misbegotten son of Rahab, the One God's unrelenting curse, and why I came seeking the Sacred Name.

Some of it needed no explanation. Rahab, they knew, and the Book of Raziel, from whence came his powers. But as for the rest. . .

"You mean to say," one of the Elders frowned, "this man, this Yeshua ben Yosef, was acknowledged the Mashiach and the Son of Adonai?"

"Yes, my lord." I gave him my best curtsy. "So it is said, by the Yeshuites; that is, by the descendants of the other Eleven Tribes. Even now, they undertake to follow Yeshua's will in carving out a new homeland, far to the north even of my home. So many say, although not all believe."

"Adonai!" He breathed the word like a sacrament. "Is it truly so?"

"We hid, Bilgah," another of the Elders reminded him. "Until Adonai Himself despaired of the gifts He had given His people. How not? He presumed us lost. Might He not send the Mashiach to lead those who remained?"

"Say it is not so!" Bilgah the Elder clutched his temples. "I would rather believe Adonai turned His face from us in anger than forgot us!"

So it went, on and on. For Hyacinthe and his plight, they cared little. The news we had brought, a thousand years old, overshadowed aught else. For my own part, I will own, I was shaken. Could it be so, that the birth of Yeshua himself was owed to the folly of the Melehakim, who failed in upholding their Covenant? I do not know. I did not know then, nor ever did I. The politics of gods are beyond mortal ken. In the end, I could only cling to that which I did know; that I was D'Angeline, and a scion of Blessed Elua. And no matter how the story is told or who tells it, his begetting was a thing unforeseen, for mortal love-the love of Yeshua ben Yosef and the Magdalene-played a role in it. And that is a thing, I believe, no god may control.

Love as thou wilt.

So I waited, until the Elders of Saba paused in their quarrels, and made another deep curtsy, Joscelin bowing low beside me. "My lords," I said softly. "You have heard my tale, and my plea. Know this. My friend who has taken this sacrifice upon himself grows older with each day that passes-aging, and undying. Now, he is young, still, if one may bear such power and retain youth. One day, he will not be; and one day, madness will come for him. You hold in your hands the key to his freedom. Will you not lend it to me?"

There was a long silence. "It is not so simple, lady," one of the Elders said into the quiet. "If you speak true . . . and if, I say, I grant you nothing . . . Adonai Himself has forgotten us, turning His attention to His Son. What shall become of us, then, if He remembers?" He shook his head. "No, better we remain forgotten."

"For how long?" I asked. "Another thousand years? What I ask, my lords ... if it be not wisdom, then name it compassion, and forge the Covenant anew."

"It is not," another Elder said, "so simple." He smiled at me with kindness and sorrow. "You see, lady, when Adonai-the One God, you call him-turned His face from us, we lost what we had held sacred.

This thing you seek-this key, this Name-there is no one among us with the grace to contain it, with a tongue that may speak it. How long, you ask, does Adonai's wrath endure? That is a thing we may answer. It endures forever, and a thousand years is only the merest beginning."

I thought of the moonlit waters of the Lake of Tears, of Shoanete's story, of Yevuneh's story. And I thought of my dream, and Hyacinthe's pleas mingling with Imriel's screams. "Nonetheless," I said. "I would behold this thing, this Ark of Broken Tablets, and know it for myself."

They voted, the Elders of Saba. And for all that I had told the story well, for all that I had endured-that we had all endured-they voted no. Not happily, not all of them, for there were looks of sympathy, but it is how they decided.

"Whether or not your story is true," said Abiram, eldest of Elders, "we cannot know. It may be so, and this is a thing we may undertake to learn. Perhaps in this news you bring there is a sign, but it will take long study and prayer to determine it. And alas, there is one certainty in all of this. This god you claim to serve-this earth-begotten Elua- was never anointed by Adonai. No," he shook his head, "I am sorry.

But to allow you to approach the Holiest of Holies . . . no. Even to one of our own, we would deny such a request. It is permitted only to the priests of Aaron's line. What you ask risks greater blasphemy than the Breaking of the Covenant itself, and would end only in your death."