Ark(5)

Irkalla sighed. “Still, Highness, it is not wise.”

“A cup of wine, and then we go.”

Irkalla nodded and waved the innkeeper over.

We took a bench in a dark corner of the inn, my hood pulled down despite the heat of the night and the oppressive humidity. I had a cup of wine in my hand, a rough carven vessel, faded and splintered, and the wine was bitter and heavily watered. Men filled the tavern, mostly dumu-nita—the unmarried freemen. They were young and rough looking, and they eyed me, obviously a woman alone with a single maidservant. They tried to get a glimpse under my hood, and a few even sauntered over and tried to talk to me. A glimpse of my glittering, golden Nephilim eyes sent them scurrying away easily enough; these human men had easier targets to woo than a Nephilim woman.

There was a table directly opposite mine, no more than four or five cubits away, and at it was a human male, sitting facing me. He too sat alone, swilling beer and digging idly at the scarred wood of the table with a fingernail. He was handsome, especially for a human. Even among Nephilim he would have been worth a second look, with striking blue eyes set in his thin, dark face, his sharp features framed by curly raven-black hair. Those ringlets drifted in front of his face from time to time, and he brushed them aside with a large hand calloused from work.

Oh, Inanna, he was handsome. Until I saw him, human men were all the same to me: small, weak, insignificant . . . but Japheth was different. No taller than most humans, he would be at least a foot shorter than me, and smaller all around, but his presence, his searing beauty, the intensity of his mere existence, made him seem every bit as huge and dominant as my many elder brothers. He wore a sleeveless tunic with a wide black leather belt and thick-soled sandals that strapped his calves up to his knees. His thick, muscular arms were bare in the flickering rush-light, and I found myself trying not to stare at him and failing . . . and wondering if perhaps a distraction was what I needed.

I rose unsteadily to my feet, ignoring Irkalla’s hissed warnings and entreaties to come back, and skirted around my table. I accentuated the sway of my hips, pushing my hood back so that he might see me better as I approached his table. He looked at my face and at my hair in its intricate braids. His eyes took in my ears adorned with the finest jewels, my luminous golden eyes lined with kohl. He saw me, the handsome stranger, and he sat a bit straighter on the bench.

“May I join you?” I spoke in a low and sultry tone.

“Of course.” His voice was smooth and deep, as he lifted his hand for the innkeeper.

He did not smile at me, but his gaze was fierce and unwavering.

The innkeeper brought a flagon of wine, and the beautiful human let his fingers brush mine as he poured the dark red liquid into my cup. A drop splashed onto my hand; I lifted my hand to my mouth and licked it away, slowly—this was no weak, watery wine poured for a wayward Nephilim woman intruding in a particularly-human place, no, this was fine, expensive wine, undiluted and potent.

He wore a strip of braided leather around his neck, hung with a copper pendant on which was inscribed a rune depicting the name of a human god, Elohim. Oh, that was brave, that was. My father’s hatred for the many names of Elohim was widely known throughout Bad-Tibira and the surrounding lands. To openly show one’s allegiance to The One God was tantamount to jumping into the Tiber at full flood. I grew up listening to the screams of prisoners who worshipped The One God, grew up watching my father cut off noses, strip away skin, and burn the soles of feet with red-hot sword tips.

Normally, I would have advised him to jump from the walls if he wished so much to die. As it was, I found his brash arrogance attractive, because anyone who would risk the wrath of my father for his God was a brave man indeed. My people were not brave, only foolish and arrogant and ignorant—their faith was no faith at all, only futile propitiation to empty gods, pointless offerings to blood-thirsty deities in hopes for a successful battle and more wealth.

I have observed those who worshipped the One God, and I have found their faith to be superior. They were willing, many of them, to die for their God, while my people would have denied their own fathers if it benefited them. These human Elohim-worshippers did not merely burn offerings, did not mutter a prayer to a statue and go about their way . . . no, they truly believed. The only question I had was whether the god they believed in so fiercely was any kinder than my gods . . . or any more real.

So here was this handsome human flaunting a name of the One God in an inn only a short walk from the palace . . . and I wanted him. I tried to blame it on the wine, but I cannot honestly say that drunkenness was the only reason for my desire. I might be unmarried, but I am no quivering virgin. I knew what I wanted: to feel his arms around me, to feel his hard chest beneath my hands. I wished to hear his voice, to know his name. Surely he was a lord, a great man, or a king from some foreign land. To be honest, however, I didn’t care if he was an arad, a slave. I would have him. I vowed to Inanna that I would have him. After all, was I not the daughter of King Emmen-Utu, the greatest king of all the Nephilim?

He shifted in his seat and breathed deeply, peering at me, trying to discern my features in the gloom of the tavern.

“What is so lovely lady as you doing in so ugly a place as this?” He tried to sound casual, as if it were of minor interest to him.

The way he ran his tongue over his lips and dug his square-cut thumbnail into the tabletop belied his relaxed tone, and I unclasped the front of my cloak, let him see a bit of skin above the bodice of my dress.