Bryan Davis - Eye of the Oracle

They followed a path of rough-edged stones, sharp enough to prick Mara’s toughened bare soles. Wearing leather sandals, Mardon ignored the obstacles and quickened the pace. Easing each foot down, she managed to keep up, and the path eventually smoothed into larger, flat stones that cooled her aching feet.

When they arrived at the base of the tower, a crowd had gathered in a semicircle around a cavernous entryway, a portico that led to the tower’s main doors. A man and a woman dressed in flowing silk strode to the center of the portico and embraced. As gentle drums tapped a slow rhythm, the couple stepped elegantly to the exotic beat, moving gracefully on the polished floor from one edge of the circle to the other. Two lyres joined in, and the man twirled the woman, making her colorful dress spread out into a spinning flower.

When he caught her in his arms, Mara gasped. How beautiful! That man and woman seemed so. . so friendly!

A hand touched her chin and pushed it upward, closing her gaping mouth. Mardon chuckled. “Haven’t you read about dancing before?”

Mara shook her head, unable to speak. She had never been so mesmerized in all her life. Something about that couple sent a warm sensation into her heart unlike anything she had ever felt before, and she wanted it to never go away. Could she ever dance with someone like that, someone who would take her in his arms and make her spin in a rainbow of colors? But who could ever want to make something beautiful out of Mara, an underborn slave girl?

When the couple finished their dance, several children dashed back and forth across the portico’s floor. One scurried to the huge wide-open doors that led to the tower’s anteroom. From where Mara stood, she could see a ring of statues inside the first floor, all facing some kind of monument in the center. “Is that the shrine?” she asked.

Mardon shook his head. “The first floor is a museum. All the knowledge of the world, whether literature, art, or music, is collected there in scrolls. Our goal is to keep the world’s people together under one authority, so they won’t split up into warring factions. Having an education center here demonstrates that King Nimrod’s domain is the focus of all intellectual pursuits.”

The tower mound was high enough to allow Mara to gaze out over the city’s endless expanse of buildings and farms. Beautiful vineyards and orchards painted the distant landscape with lush greenery, but, closer in, scars spoiled the city’s marble-coated streets. Black smoke ascended from two enormous pits on either side of her view. Sweat-drenched men dressed in loincloths hauled bricks up the slopes on their bare backs. Red welts striped their shoulders as they trudged under their loads. Another man walked behind them, cracking a whip at one of the slower workers.

Mara cringed with each stroke, thinking about Nabal’s whip and how he ripped the backs of girls and beat Elam’s friend to death. She shivered hard and moved her gaze closer in, studying the stone columns that lined the outer courtyard. Carved with scowling faces, they seemed to watch over the people who paused to kiss the lowest cheek as they passed by. A girl with a handbasket threw flower petals at the column’s base, and a woman left an object on the petals, something small that glinted in the sun.

Mardon turned Mara back toward the museum. “Look.”

Three heralds carrying curved horns marched through the doors, and the children hurried back into the throng. After the horns blared a triplet of loud notes, a sword-bearing soldier led six bare-chested men onto the portico from the direction of the city gates. The six wore heavy shackles on their wrists, and chains linked their ankles.

Mardon nudged Mara. “Here comes my father.”

A taller, lighter-skinned man stepped up to the portico, fully dressed, yet wearing the same kind of clothes the gatekeeper wore, an undecorated gray jacket and black breeches. Mara pulled on Mardon’s elbow. “You wrote that he wore a purple robe.”

“This is the solstice ceremony, a battle ritual.” He pointed at the first six men. “Watch. Those are rebels the king’s men have captured since the previous solstice.”

After the soldier unlocked their manacles, the prisoners huddled, putting their hands together in what seemed like a child’s finger game, similar to one Naamah had taught the girls. Then, the soldier unlinked one of the prisoners’ ankles, and the other five bowed to the freed man and marched back to the crowd where other soldiers met them and refastened their wrists.

The king handed the chosen man a sword, then withdrew another from his belt and held its shimmering blade aloft. The rebel’s eyes grew wide, and he stepped back, holding his sword in front of him. His biceps quivered, and his legs shook.

The king’s sword reflected a beam from the rising sun, and the blade seemed to catch on fire. His opponent’s knees buckled, and he fell backwards, dropping his weapon. The king swung his blade, but it didn’t slice through the fallen man. The reflected light from the sun seemed to brush his body, radiating around his skin like a coat of fire. His eyes bugged out, and his mouth opened in a silent scream as the light transformed into sparkling dots that sizzled across his body, devouring his flesh from head to toe. Seconds later, nothing remained but his sword and a silver earring.

Mara’s throat clenched. She squeaked out, “Where did he go?” But a cheer from the crowd drowned out her tiny voice.

King Nimrod bowed low, pressing his hand against his trim waist. When he rose back up, his gaze met Mardon, then shifted to Mara. He seemed puzzled at first, but he smiled broadly and shouted, “The prince has returned from his journey!” He slid his sword into a sheath that hung from a belt and extended his arm. “Come, my son. Tell us about this pale foreigner you have brought.”

Mardon grabbed Mara’s hand and hustled her to the center of the portico. As she stepped out of the shadow of a statue, the sun’s rays shone through her veil, making her flinch. Fortunately, the roof of the portico blocked out the light again as they hurried across the cool, smooth floor.

Mardon stopped and bowed to the king, and as he rose, Mara felt his hand squeeze her shoulder. “Lift your veil,” he whispered.

Mara brushed her veil up over her head and watched King Nimrod, tall and handsome, stride right up to her. He stooped and gazed into her eyes. “What kind of goddess is she?” he asked, his smile revealing a brilliant set of white teeth. “Her eyes are bluer than sapphires! I have never seen such jewels in all of Shinar!”

A low murmur arose from the crowd. Many had departed, but a hundred or so milled around the portico, apparently to get a close look at this strange visitor.

Mardon laid his hand on Mara’s covered head and spoke in a low tone. “She is an underborn, Father, the oldest surviving female we have in the lower realms.”

The king pinched the tie of Mara’s coif. “May I take it off?” he asked.

Mara nodded, mesmerized at the king’s gentle face and manner. As the covering pulled away, her hair spilled down to her shoulders. The king nearly fell backwards. “Mardon! Her hair is whiter than pearls, whiter than hailstones!”

The crowd murmured again, louder this time, as they began to press closer.

Mardon waved for the guards to push them back, then, with a gentle touch, combed his fingers through Mara’s hair. “After she was uprooted, we altered the hybridization scheme, but once I learned how intelligent she was, I tried to reproduce her. Every attempt failed in the embryonic stage.”

“You cannot repeat perfection!” The king caressed Mara’s cheek and lifted a hand toward one of the columns in the courtyard that surrounded the tower. “She is a goddess sprouted from the earth, flourished in the pull of magnetic harmony, and blossomed in the light of spectral promise!”