"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 with held 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 Meroë, 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 home land, 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 Ad onai 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."

"So be it," I murmured, defeated. "I thank you for hearing my plea."

I was angry, returning to Yevuneh's house. I could not help it.

"It is what you expected," Joscelin said. "No more, and no less. You were warned often enough, Phèdre. Well and so; it has come to pass. The Melehakim have laid wisdom aside, and compassion with it. Although for all we know, they're right and your tongue would shrivel, if you weren't struck ..." His voice trailed off as he stared at Yevuneh's house. "Name of Elua! Is she holding a fête?"

Dark figures moved to and fro in the windows; women's figures, clad in muted shawls. We were admitted to the house to find a dozen of them, solid Sabaean matrons all past their child-bearing years, engaged in the work of bringing various dishes into the modest courtyard at the rear of the house.

"You've returned!" Yevuneh clapped her hands together, spotting us. The quiet sorrow that had marked her earlier had been replaced by a sense of contained excitement. "Ah, good, we're nearly ready."

"Forgive us, my lady," I said politely. "We did not mean to intrude upon your gathering. We will retire and be out of your way."

"No, no, child; not at all. They are here to see you." Taking my arm, she led me through the house, making introductions: Ranit, Dinah, Semira, Yaffit, a half-dozen others—bewildered, I committed them to memory using the old skills Delaunay had taught me, and all the while they crowded around, murmuring polite greetings, touching my hair and skin in wonderment and exclaiming over Joscelin. We were not only the first D'Angelines they had seen, but the first northerners al together, and a great novelty as such.