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the nation, then, for the young Ras Yatani of Meroë had lost his heart to Daliah, the sister of Khemosh. Now, Khemosh was not King at that time, but merely the widowed Queen’s elder son; Arhosh was his brother’s name, and it was Arhosh their mother chose to be anointed, for he was fair-spoken and wise where his brother was hot-blooded and angry. Arhosh looked with favor upon the union of Ras Yatani and Daliah, but Khemosh spoke against it, saying that Meroë looked to make a claim upon the throne of Saba.”
    “Did they?” I asked.
    Shoanete’s dark eyes glinted with mirth. “Perhaps they did, little one. If so, it was a peaceable one-the sword of the loins, and not the sword of steel. However it be, the young men listened to Khemosh and their hearts were stirred to anger. ‘Khemosh should be King,’ they said. ‘Not Arhosh, who will let a stranger reach his hand for the throne.’ And in time the elders listened to the young men, and the priests listened to the elders, and no one listened to the Queen, who spoke of the merits of an alliance by marriage to the most powerful of their vassal-nations.”
    “And love,” I murmured, thinking of Ysandre and Drustan. “An alliance of love.”
    “Yes,” she said. “It would have been that. But it was not to be, for the priests anointed Khemosh and raised him up as the King, Khemosh-Zadok, over his living mother and her chosen heir, thus breaking the Covenant of Wisdom. And he decreed the marriage-contract invalid. Now, Ras Yatani’s heart was sore within him, and he raised up his army and many allies, and marched against Saba.”
    “And Saba was defeated,” I said.
    “Saba was defeated,” Shoanete echoed. “It is another story, a long story, that battle. Enough to say that the spirit of the god which had filled the Melehakim ever before, rendering them fierce and invulnerable, filling their mouths with great cries that struck fear into their enemies-it deserted them, little one. On the battlefield, they stumbled and bled, and the only cries they uttered were cries of pain. And so they fled, for by this time, the widowed Queen was dead of sorrow, Arhosh slain in battle and Daliah the fair was dead by her own hand, and Ras Yatani’s heart was as a burning stone within him, and he knew no mercy. Under Khemosh-Zadok’s leadership, they fled, all the way to the Lake of Tears. And Ras Yatani, who found himself the undisputed ruler of Jebe-Barkal ... Ras Yatani swore a vow on Daliah’s name that he and his descendants would honor the Covenant of Wisdom that Khemosh-Zadok had broken. It is said, for so long as a Queen rules in Meroë, his line will endure, and so it does, to this day.”
    “What of Shalomon’s treasures,” I asked, “and the One God’s secret?”
    Shoanete spread her hands. “These things the Melehakim took with them and hid, and no one has seen them since.”
    Thus the stories of Kaneka’s grandmother, which I pondered at length. Eleazar ben Enokh had hoped to find that the Tribe of Dân had preserved customs lost by the Habiru, but I do not think he ever envisioned this Covenant of Wisdom. What is truth? History and legend are woven together like a Mendacant’s cloak, and when the gods themselves are silent, no mortal may say where truth ends and fabrication begins. I did not think the One God of the Tanakh would bind his people into such a covenant with a foreign Queen-but those stories were written by Habiru scribes. Makeda’s people told another story, passed from mouth to mouth.
    ... great cries that struck fear into their enemies ...
    Blessed Elua, I prayed, let it be true.
    Let it be the Name of God.

Sixty-Nine
    AS PLEASANT as our time in Debeho was, it had to end. There was a great feast on our last day, and no one in the village did any work save to prepare for the festivities, and afterward to eat and drink and make merry for hours on end, with much singing and dancing. Even Tifari Amu and Bizan were made welcome, for they were skilled hunters and contributed much game for the pot during our stay. Kaneka could not entirely maintain her professed dislike of the highland tribesman, and I thought it possible he might return to Debeho to court her.
    Imriel was happy in the village. With a child’s quick ear-and his mother’s wit-he had become proficient at Jeb’ez, much to the chagrined amusement of Joscelin, who was not much past nursery-rhymes. He made friends easily there, adults and children alike, none of whom knew