Ark(31)

All through this, Irkalla is made to sit by and watch, prevented from intervening, prevented from leaving. Only after the king leaves is she allowed to go to my side and offer me what little comfort she can.

And that is when I hear a voice so strong, so calm, so loving that I can only imagine it is the voice of Elohim.

It is not a voice like a person’s, human or Nephilim. It is . . . I do not know what it is.

Mortal language is not equipped to express the sound. It is like thunder booming in my bones, like the rumble of mountains shifting in their seats. It is like all the music of the world heard at once, heard in my bones and in my blood—it is the song of angels whispering in my ears, speaking peace unto my soul. The Voice is the sweet smell of orchids in my nostrils, of jasmine in the evening, a candle blown out, coils of smoke smelling acrid and sweet in the new darkness.

The Voice of The One God is familiar and dulcet, as many-faceted as a diamond.

His Voice shines in my soul like a torch in the dank heavy black of a dungeon. His Voice dawns brilliant in the prison-chamber of my wrecked soul.

All the poetry I possess is not enough beauty to encapsulate the heaven of His Voice.



“DAUGHTER, BE STILL.”



How can I be still, when all I am is death and pain and heartbreak? Where were you when that mad man was doing this to me? Where were you when Japheth was ripped away from me? Why did you allow this, if you are God? Does my pain glorify you, my Lord?



“YOUR LOVE GLORIFIES ME. YOUR FORGIVENESS GLORIFIES ME. YOUR LIFE GLORIFIES ME.”



If I was not weeping before, I am now. I am sobbing, hysterical and uncontrollable. His voice tolls in my heart, reverberates in my soul. Love echoes in his words. Peace radiates from his presence. The pain does not lessen, but I know He is with me.

It is enough.



I wake as rough hands lift me up into strong arms. I moan in pain. A harsh male voice shushes me, but not unkindly.

I hear Irkalla’s voice in my ear: “You must be silent, my queen. Please, be quiet, so we may escape.”

“I am . . . no queen,” I mumble.

Sin-Iddim is a demon, not a king; I am not his wife, and I am not a queen. But I have not the strength for so many words. Irkalla understands and does not answer.

Her words filter through my pain . . .

Escape? There is no escape from the mad demon-king. He will find me. He would hunt me down and finish what he started.

I sputter, trying to say this to Irkalla, but her hand is pressed firmly against my split lips, stifling the sound of my words.

I pass in and out of consciousness, but I am aware of being carried down steps, through echoing hallways and out into the night. My eyes are swollen nearly shut, but I can still make out the moon, round and pregnant with silver light, illuminating countless stars in an endless arc across the sky. I smell night air, feel the cool breeze on my feverish forehead.

I am carried on a crude litter through the city, each step sending throbbing pain lancing through me. I moan, unable to stop the sound from escaping. Irkalla begs me to keep quiet, and I bite my tongue to still it.

Eventually, we approach the city gate. The man carrying me stops and curses, and Irkalla echoes his epithet.

“He is not supposed to be here,” Irkalla mutters.

“Well, he is,” says one of the men carrying me. “What do we do now?”

“I don’t know, Uresh. Gods above, I don’t know.” Irkalla sounds near to weeping. “Marika promised me he’d be gone for an hour tonight, at this time.”

The gate captain notices our approach, and he challenges us. I feel his bulk hovering close, staring down at me like a devouring presence. Fear seeps through my pores and into my blood; he is going to take me back to the demon-king.

I sob through cracked lips.

“Where are you taking her, servant girl?” The gate captain’s voice sounds like rocks tumbling down a hill.

“Away. To be healed.” Irkalla’s voice is tense and small.

Silence, then: “This is the queen, is it not?” Irkalla doesn’ answer, and the gate captain answers his own question. “It is she. I am not stupid, girl. Did you think to deceive me?”

“No sir.”

“Then tell me what you plan to do with her, and tell me why I shouldn’t report you.”

Irkalla doesn’t answer, and I feel the danger increase. Then she speaks, finally, whispering. “I told you truly, sir. She is near death. I want to take her away to be healed. The king . . . he . . . he did this. She doesn’t deserve this—no one does.”

“That is not for you to decide. You should take her back before her absence is discovered. I am doing you a favor, just by telling you this much. I should march you back to the palace right now. It’s my head if I’m discovered complicit in the escape of the queen.”

He must have clamped a hand on her arm, for Irkalla whimpers in pain. “Please, please—don’t.”

“Why not? What’s in it for me?” His voice is thick and suggestive.

I want to protest, tell Irkalla no, don’t do that, not for me. But a calloused hand presses against my mouth, and I fall silent.

“Will you let us go?” Irkalla demands, her voice stronger. “Will you keep silent when the questions are asked?”

“Depends on how well you . . . convince me.” I hear the leer in his voice, and know his price as well as Irkalla does.