The next morning, Ahab looked up at the shimmering white palace. It sat high above him on the top of a hill, overlooking turquoise waters, guarded by green fir trees and white sea rocks. Shells of every variety lined the walking path that led up to the grand entrance. Omri waited for him at the gate that stood at the mouth of the path. He had ridden ahead with his military advisers yesterday, anxious to meet the Phoenician king and his court. Ahab wondered if Omri was not a little embarrassed by his son and wanted to be sure the Phoenicians had the right impression of Omri first. After all, Ahab knew he was not the strongest son. He was just the only one left alive.
“Leave your mounts here,” Omri commanded. “You walk from here.”
When Ahab and his men stepped foot on the path, their feet made that curious new sound, crunching through the shells that lined the walkway. The palace was made of ivory and white stone, with two enormous bleached bones used as door handles.
“A palace made from the dead,” Obadiah murmured. Ahab suspected the altitude and humidity wore on him, just as much as the adventure itself. Ahab pointed out the serene waters of the Mediterranean on their left, far below the path. A minstrel could be heard playing the strings near a window above. Obadiah opened his mouth as if to say something, then nodded and moved on. Whatever was bothering him would wait.
A servant at the palace door saw their approach and lifted a huge striped shell to his mouth. The call echoed around them as he ran back inside. Two Phoenician servants sprang out from the doors, causing a few of Omri’s men to grasp their swords quickly, and Ahab laughed. The Phoenician servants simply grabbed the tusk handles and held the palace doors open.
King Eth-baal was easy to identify as he walked toward the doorway, wearing a striped robe and a thick gold collar. He had a simple crown, a band of gold that was tucked down around a mass of graying hair. He regarded Ahab with a detached expression. Ahab didn’t know what a father felt when he had decided to trade a daughter. This man didn’t look like he felt anything at all.
Omri tipped his head, already familiar with the king, but Ahab knelt to King Eth-baal, who bade him rise and extended a hand. It was a symbol of friendship, though the king’s eyes were dead. Ahab shook his hand, trying not to wince at the king’s sour breath. Eth-baal released him and staggered, reaching out for a palace guard. Blood filled Eth-baal’s mouth and dripped from his teeth. Ahab gasped and glared at his father.
Both Eth-baal and Omri caught his expression, but only Omri laughed. The guard offered Eth-baal a cup, and he spit a thatched red paste into it. Then he reached into the pocket of his robe and held seeds out to Ahab. Ahab saw his knuckles were thick and his fingers bent, like trees struck in a storm when they were fresh and green.
“Betel seeds,” he explained. “Chewing them eases the constant pain in my hands and knees.” He shrugged. “Come, and let me show you the palace.”
Eth-baal led the men on a tour of the most magnificent palace Ahab had ever seen. Omri shrugged when Ahab caught his eye, stunned at the wealth displayed all around—the delicate floral ivory inlays; the shimmering bronze statues of fantastic animals, lions, and bulls that lined the halls in every direction; the mosaic of blue and white waves under his feet. The trade routes Omri controlled were truly valuable to merit an alliance with this king. There was no talk of Eth-baal’s daughter.
Ahab wanted to ask about Jezebel, when he would meet her, but his father’s presence dissuaded him from asking any questions. Omri had little interest in the questions of a seventeen-year-old prince, one who would inherit a throne. Omri had killed for his.
“Your chambers,” Eth-baal said, and Ahab realized he had become lost in bitter thoughts, ignoring his host and the tour.
“It’s a beautiful palace,” he said. “It’s my honor to be your guest.”
Eth-baal received the compliments with a nod and directed several servants who had been trailing the group to attend the prince.
“Dinner is in six hours. I trust that will give you ample time to bathe and refresh.” He nodded again, without expression, and turned away.
Some kings had dozens of daughters and never knew all their names. Maybe Eth-baal didn’t even remember which one he had promised. That could be true, Ahab thought, but what troubled him was the lack of life in Eth-baal’s eyes. He seemed broken. But how could he be, when Eth-baal ruled so many cities and had so much wealth?
Elijah’s warning stirred in Ahab’s mind, as it had done several times over the past few weeks, but those words were no use to Ahab now. He had come too far to turn back.
Ahab refused all offers to assist him in preparing for the dinner. He sat for most of the afternoon on his bed, head in hands, feeling dread wash up on him again and again. He had no idea how to please a woman, much less a princess. He had bought a few women after battles and kept a few as concubines, but their duty was to please him. Omri was probably relishing the thought of his son disappointing a princess, one last test to prove again that Ahab, instead of his brother, should have died all those years ago.
Ahab hadn’t chosen to survive. The sword had gotten to his brother first, that was all. Ahab knew it would come for him again one day. But this present duty, to marry into royalty and father royal children? Would Ahab ever be done proving to his father, and to the world, that he was a real man?
Later tonight, Ahab would be introduced to his royal bride. He would obey his royal father’s wishes and so lose his respect. He would become a very different sort of king. He knew enough about those men to despise them. Kings had hired his father to kill for them. His father said they were not man enough to do it themselves. Kings were no better than eunuchs, he said. They didn’t have what real men had. Omri had set out to make Israel into a military nation, to show kings what a real man did when he wore the crown. A real man didn’t need a son to bring respect to his name. Ahab would, and Omri never had.
Ahab had chosen to be loyal to his father, even if it cost him respect. The irony was that, according to Elijah, his loyalty provoked the god of Israel, the same god who had commanded that a son must honor his father. Did no one care that this god was full of contradictions?
A servant came to escort Ahab to dinner, and Ahab was surprised to find Obadiah standing outside the door, a thin sheen of sweat visible on his forehead. Obadiah looked nervous, as if he had something important to say, so Ahab held up a hand to the servant and nodded for Obadiah to speak.
Obadiah mumbled a few syllables, twisting his lips, as if searching for the right words. That was not unlike him. He lived for words. He lived through them and with them too. Ahab shifted his weight from foot to foot.
“The Phoenicians invented the alphabet,” Obadiah said finally.
Ahab stared at him. This could not be what he really wanted to say.
“I needed you to know that,” Obadiah said, rushing now. “I value their contributions. I would not slander their culture.” At this, he stopped, having either exhausted his thought or his courage.
Ahab moved on, pausing only to pat Obadiah on the shoulder. Whatever his trouble was, it could not compare to what Ahab faced. Obadiah slumped against the wall, defeated, but Ahab knew he would catch up in a moment. After all, this was a royal dinner in a foreign palace. Some things were meant to be experienced, not read about. As palace administrator of Israel, the servant highest in command, Obadiah had overseen all royal events but never attended a royal wedding.
Ahab was led past four bronze columns to the entrance of a temple. Inside, the torchlight reflected across white stone walls inlaid with opals and polished shells. The room glittered, alive with beauty. Three rows of polished cedar tables with ivory borders of vines and flowers were laid end to end. At the head of the rows was a massive table where Omri and Eth-baal sat, facing the guests. Ahab saw his men already seated at their tables and probably already half drunk.
Behind his father and Eth-baal, at the far end of the temple, was an elevated stage. There was an altar for sacrifices, made of gold, with tusks at each of the four corners, the sharp edges curving up over the center of the altar. Ahab did not know what Phoenicians sacrificed to their gods. Some gods liked grains; some preferred coins. Judging from this temple, these gods wanted only the best.
Next to the altar was a bowl that sat upon a stand. The stand had two rings in front in which to place torches. If these gods liked incense, he guessed that was the bowl to burn it in. Ahab was seated next to Omri, and as he took his seat, the musicians began.
Men carried drums made from tanned and stretched hides, beating the instruments with one hand as they began a low chant of two notes, high and low. They lined both walls of the temple. Dancers flowed from between the bronze pillars, weaving their way through the men, sheer veils wrapped around their bodies, trailing behind them in the air. Ahab found the dancers to be beautiful, which gave him hope. Maybe his bride would look like them, instead of the wild boar with brown tusks that he kept imagining. He pushed his bowl of beer away, his stomach knotting up, then decided he needed all the courage he could find to get through the dinner, even if that courage gave him a splitting headache in the morning.
A crescendo roll of thunder from the drummers signaled the arrival of the priest of Baal, the storm god, husband of the goddess Asherah. Obadiah shifted noticeably in his seat, trying to communicate his panic to Ahab with his eyes. Ahab frowned at him to be still, to not offend their host. The priest was a white-haired man draped in purple linen with a sash of gold rings around his thick waist. He wore the crown of the priest on his head, a simple gold band with serpents woven around it.
The priest lit the incense in the bowl on the stage. Thick gray smoke rose, and Ahab caught the strange scent of a pungent balm, like a burning flower.
“My name is Sargon, representative of Baal, servant of Asherah. Pray and beg favor from heaven!” the priest commanded. Servants around the room fell to their knees and chanted the request. Ahab’s men looked at each other and him. A few raised their eyebrows. Obadiah looked like he was about to vomit. Maybe it had been a mistake to bring the administrator on this journey.
“We beg the god and goddess to bless the union between kingdoms! We ask for overflowing abundance and great wealth! And peace from our enemies!” Sargon lifted his hands and chanted in a tongue Ahab did not know.
“Only a priest would ask for those things together,” Omri whispered. “A warrior knows that the rich always get attacked. Doesn’t matter who they worship.”
The temple fell deathly quiet. Ahab heard crickets singing outside and dogs howling in the forests beyond the fragile walls of the temple. Looking around the edges of the room, he noticed chimes made from bones strung together that danced as a gentle wind from the beach blew through. Sargon lifted his hands above his head, and the Phoenicians in the room all bowed their heads in prayer.
Obadiah stood to leave. Ahab pointed to his chair. It was a command. Then Ahab bowed his own head lest he offend Eth-baal, who was plucking grapes from a bowl, looking bored. Ahab wondered if this was the moment Jezebel would be offered to him.
With his eyes closed for a moment of relief, he could not deny the horrid pounding of his heart, as scared to meet his bride as he had ever been on the battlefield. He would rather die, he thought suddenly, than take a wife. He wished he had drunk more beer, a lot more. He should have started drinking much earlier. His body seemed too small, his skin too thin to contain all the noise and agony inside.
Ahab felt the hairs along his arm rise as a heavy hissing noise slithered along the floor and soft fur brushed against his leg.
“Behold the mighty, fallen by Jezebel’s hand,” Sargon yelled. “His strength is ours tonight.”
Ahab opened his eyes, unable to breathe at the mention of her name. He could not see her in the room. He clenched his teeth, suspecting there was a reason for the delay. Maybe they wanted Ahab drunk too, so they could present the ugly woman. Although he had heard that she was two years younger than himself, which would make her fifteen, so he should think of her as an ugly girl and not an ugly woman.
Servants had dragged a dead lion into the temple, past the king and onto the stage, leaving a wake of blood behind them. They lifted the animal onto the altar. Sargon raised his knife as an offering to the statue of Asherah before slitting the throat of the lion, blood raining down, red against gold. Servants used bowls to collect the blood and began circulating the cups to the men at the tables. All were expected to drink it. Ahab refused to look at Obadiah, afraid Obadiah would beg permission to leave. Obadiah would never drink blood. Another odd command from the Hebrew god, who believed in spilling blood but never drinking it, preferring that the strength of his enemies be wasted on the earth.
The drums grew louder as Sargon blew a fine powder into each torch. They exploded into blue and purple sparks across the stage, arcing over the royal table. Sargon waved smoke from the incense bowl down onto Ahab, its thick sharp scent staining the moment into Ahab’s mind forever. He was shrouded in animal musk and the tang of blood in the air as he caught his first glimpse of her.
“Behold the Princess Jezebel!” Sargon called.
She rose from behind the altar. Ahab was always aware of his surroundings, yet he had not seen her come in, and this unnerved him as much as the recognition that followed. She was the girl from the forest, the one who had stolen his bag and from whom he had stolen a kiss.
He saw his jewels draped on her arms and dangling from her ears, but she was covered in many other jewels; ropes and strands wound around her body from neck to thigh. Heavy gold chains wound down her arms, with dangling ropes of rubies extending from her wrists to the ground. When she lifted her arms to bless the crowd, the rubies formed red wings that swept across the floor. She wore no clothes; against the torches she appeared as a wild, glittering red bird. The thick black curls of her hair climbed down her back. Her eyes were lined in black, each painted line extending from the corner of the eye all the way across into the hair framing her face. Her lips were painted red, brown lion’s blood drying slowly in the creases where her lips met.
Then Eth-baal rose and gestured to her. “I offer my daughter, Jezebel, in marriage to the house of Omri, to his son, Prince Ahab of Israel.”
Ahab rose, arms extended to accept her. She froze, her eyes on her father, who turned away and stumbled from the temple. When she looked back at Ahab, the violent flash of hate in her eyes was unmistakable. He barely heard the murmurings of the other guests, the Phoenician men especially. She surveyed the room with a cold fury, her back noticeably stiffening.
Some inner decision made, the red angel descended the stage, walking to Ahab, her mouth set in a hard cruel line. She walked to him and kissed him on the mouth, symbolizing her acceptance of the union. She took some of his lip in her mouth and bit. Ahab pulled back in shock as the room erupted in cheers. Only Ahab sensed what that kiss really was: a hard promise of pain. Jezebel didn’t want this union any more than he did.
Ahab glanced to see if Omri had noticed the princess’s immediate disdain. Omri sat back down, unconcerned. Omri had repeatedly said that he’d long forgotten the touch of any woman and had never chosen to remember. He acted as if he hated women, but Ahab knew the truth. Omri had loved just once, and it had destroyed all that was human and whole about him.
“Teach the gods how to love!” Sargon commanded the guests.
From the corner of his eye, Ahab saw Obadiah flee the room. Ahab kept his full attention on his bride, though he saw dancers disrobing and his men doing things with women they had only bragged about. Sargon urged them to make love and celebrate the freedom and pleasure of Baal and Asherah.
Ahab reached for Jezebel, unsure of what he was to do, if he should remove her robe of jewels in front of everyone, to lead this strange ceremony. She moved with the blinding speed of a sword, catching his hand and biting it hard. This time, blood sprang up, smearing across her face as he jerked his hand back. She stood, defiant, her eyes blazing.
Did she think he meant to hurt her? He held up a finger, as if to call for peace, and then slowly moved it toward her face. She did not flinch or pull back. He used his finger to wipe her cheek. His touch was deliberate and soft, the way he would treat a frightened, wounded child on the battlefield, one that spoke a language he did not know.
She stared at him, unmoving, but a flicker of hunger passed through her eyes. He knew hunger, but he was surprised that she did too. What did she hunger for? It was not for him; he could see that in her eyes too. He displeased her somehow. She had no choice but to accept him; she was a girl, and a royal. Could that be the reason for her hatred of him?
There was no doubt, from her expression—she had been forced to become his bride, and she did not want him. She didn’t care what he could give her as prince of Israel. She needed something entirely different, but what she wanted was a mystery. She showed her hunger when he touched her kindly. Perhaps no one had ever dared touch her before. But she was a vicious girl. What man would want to touch her? A man could save a woman from any enemy, except herself.
A dark memory shook his heart. Ahab had failed to save his brother. But this was not a battlefield, and there were no real enemies here, just a frightened, angry bride and a reluctant husband.
Ahab had never fought for himself; he had always fought for others, and in another’s name, but when he looked at her, he knew this fight was his. He would prove Elijah’s warnings wrong and his father’s disdain an error, and he would please this girl.
Jezebel
Six Years Prior
888 B.C.
Most nine-year-olds were not allowed at the temple during sacrifices. But Jezebel was not like most nine-year-olds, especially not those who had loving parents and a familiar place to sleep. Jezebel’s father, the highest priest in the land, was embarrassed by Jezebel, it seemed to her. Her identical twin, Temereh, got to sleep with their father and mother in the temple’s living quarters, but Jezebel had to beg for a bed among the servants. Some cared about her tale of woe; some didn’t. But they determined where she slept, and sometimes she didn’t get to sleep at all. She wandered through the city streets at night, peering in windows, rummaging in trash. One time she found a broken statue of the goddess, the feet snapped off, but she wrapped her in her sash and carried her about for comfort. She told herself the goddess meant comfort, and she wanted to believe that. Baal and Asherah were worshipped, god and goddess, like husband and wife, but girls were supposed to worship Asherah most of all, because Asherah symbolized the sacred feminine. Asherah symbolized all women, and all that women could aspire to be.
Asherah was the promise that someone would love her, maybe even pat her head or stroke her cheek and see something remarkable in her. All women were honored in Asherah’s name, and so Jezebel knew her time would come too.
Her sister, Temereh, didn’t have to wait. At her birth, a sacrifice had been burning on the altar to Baal when the priest spied the dark-haired child emerging. Temereh was born face down, her arms crossed. News spread throughout the empire, for this birth was a mighty sign from the heavens. Temereh would be able to speak to the gods and goddesses, and they would listen and respond. She would have visions of the future, of their enemies and what they planned. The Phoenicians would grow even more powerful. For nearly ten years now, Jezebel had suffered for her sister’s gift. There was nothing Jezebel could do to change that.
Jezebel had been born second, and as she emerged she was assumed to be nothing but the afterbirth. Temereh loved to tell that story. Jezebel had almost been tossed into the fire. Her mother was exhausted, and Temereh was already in their father Eth-baal’s arms. Jezebel had been passed off to a startled servant with her first cry. Besides, the sacrifice was for one child, not two. Jezebel was born unloved by men and gods alike.
Jezebel did not cry anymore. And tonight, the sounds of pleasure and joy from the worshippers inside the temple stabbed her heart. Jezebel pleaded to Asherah, begging the goddess not to be indifferent, not this time. How many times had Asherah ignored her? What could Jezebel do to be special, to be noticed? She wanted to be wanted more than anything in the world, but the harder she tried to earn affection, the more distasteful people found her. She was nine years old, and the thought of decades of life stretching ahead strangled her with frustration.
The sounds of dancing and wine had stopped. The rue seeds had probably been ingested and the visions begun. She heard the worshippers move on to the high place, the tallest point on the hill, outside the temple. They were bringing infants to die at the hand of the priest. Maybe it was her father who held the blade tonight; maybe not. She had not seen him in days.
Jezebel wandered through the quiet temple to the lamp of the eternal flame, a low room off to the side of the temple that was littered with clay statues of dead or broken children. The room had a closed, musty smell of clay and old incense. The floor was cold tile, and Jezebel wrapped her tunic closer in. This was the saddest room in the temple to some, but to her, it felt like the only home she had ever truly been able to claim.
When a child in Phoenicia was born with a great infirmity, or was ill beyond cure, the parents made a clay replica of the child and placed it here before the god and goddess, so that the heavens would be mindful. If Baal or Asherah should become bored or listless, they might choose to step down from their throne and heal, and a certain clay replica might catch their eye and receive the blessing. Sometimes, when no one was watching in the temple, Jezebel slipped in here and sat among the clay children. Just in case a god came down. She had so many questions, so many wounds. Couldn’t there be a cure for those, too?
Statues were placed here month after month. No one ever came back to remove one, and hundreds were piled against each other, some of the heaviest ones crushing the ones beneath. Jezebel considered the clay children tonight, with their empty eyes and hollow mouths. Why was there no answer, not for them and not for her? She sat, her back against the wall, and reached for one, cradling it in her arms.
A noise startled her.
A mother was bringing her offering to this place, but Jezebel saw at once that this child was real, not clay. It squirmed and mewled from inside its blankets. The mother did not notice Jezebel.
“What are you doing, mother?” Jezebel asked, setting the clay statue aside and standing. The woman jumped, and her eyes quickly found Jezebel sitting among the ruined children, but she could not answer. She just choked back a sob and laid the child near all the clay ones. Jezebel came closer. She moved the blanket to see the little face. The child was perhaps a year old, though it was hard to tell from its emaciated face. Its eyes were sunk deep into the face, and its skin had a yellow cast, even in the dim light of this room.
“She can’t eat,” the mother said. “I try. But she can’t hold it down. No one has been able to cure her, and I’ve taken her to every healer in the land. I’ve sold everything I have. She can’t eat.” The woman sounded utterly defeated.
“The father?” Jezebel asked. The mother shook her head. She had most likely conceived during a worship rite, Jezebel guessed. Most women went into those events knowing beforehand what they would do if they conceived, but this poor woman had held on to her child too long. She had grown attached. Jezebel saw how awful the pain of becoming attached could be. Women needed to be free, above all else.
Every woman gave herself, as the goddess would have her do. Any attempt to inhibit or restrain female desire was nothing more than an attack on the goddess herself. That’s what her father had taught. The sacred feminine was honored when women lived such free lives, and unwanted babies could be easily sacrificed.
“Don’t leave her here,” Jezebel whispered. “Give this child to Asherah. But don’t leave her.”
The mother shook her head and began to weep. Tears ran down her face, staining her faded robes.
“Please don’t let her suffer,” Jezebel said, her chin trembling and a strange pain piercing her heart. She felt as if she were speaking to her father.
Jezebel led the woman by the hand as she cradled the child. The feast for Asherah continued on the high place, naked bodies spent, food passed around on fat platters, but all grew quiet when they saw the two approaching. Tears streamed down the mother’s face as she approached the stone altar. Jezebel gripped her tightly, whispering words of comfort only the mother could hear. Her father was not there.
Sargon, the second highest priest, stepped forward and took the child, his eyes meeting Jezebel’s. He was older than her father by a few years, but his hair had always been white, for as long as Jezebel had known him. She had always thought of him as old, and she had always wondered what secrets he kept. He was a quiet man, but she saw kindness in his eyes, and sometimes, she thought she saw sorrow, too.
With the baby in his arms, he turned, bowing before the statute of Asherah, the mother of the earth, of the gods and all creation. She stood twenty feet tall over them, made of white stone, with great naked breasts and a round protruding belly. Her arms stretched straight out, coming together at the hands, and there was an empty place where her womb would have been. Her face had hollows for eyes, too, and a hollow mouth, but no other features, nothing to hint at her disposition toward mortals.
“Great mother, look upon this child given to you. Turn your face to us at last, Asherah! Receive this child, offered in the name of the goddess.”
Jezebel’s heart beat faster. She had seen sacrifices, but always from a distance. She could reach out and touch the baby if she wanted to. Surely Asherah would turn her face to them now and reveal herself. Jezebel would ask why some children were born to be unloved.
Sargon made a soft swift movement of his arm. The mother wailed and collapsed to her knees, beating her fists against the earth tamped down around the altar. Jezebel fell beside her, wrapping her frail arms around the woman. “Your child was so blessed!” she whispered in her ear. “She will never suffer again. You saved her. You are so strong!”
Sargon’s servants stepped behind the statue and lit a fire in Asherah’s belly. It shot up through the statue so that the dead eyes came alive with yellow and moved. The priest took the lifeless dripping body and laid it into the arms of Asherah. The body rolled slowly down the arms and into the belly, a womb that consumed what another had nurtured. Jezebel stood transfixed. The heat grew with a snapping and hissing noise from the womb. The statue glowed white, the hidden wax plugs melting, milk pouring from the breasts. Jezebel opened her mouth and risked the heat to be blessed. She wanted to be first, but men in the crowd shoved her to the side, trampling her as Sargon called to them all.
“Receive what the Great Mother will bless you with!”
Jezebel crawled away, with bleeding scrapes on her knees and arms. She almost cried. The grieving mother stumbled away, wailing a prayer to the goddess, and the name of the man who had not wanted the child. Jezebel felt a blinding rush of tears sting her cheeks.
The tears had sneaked out without her permission. She beat her head against the earth until they stopped. She would split her head like an egg before she accused the goddess of wrongdoing.
Jezebel
Jezebel had led the prince to a room called The Chamber of Dreams, telling him she would return within moments. She commanded two servant girls to attend to him, not caring what they attended to first. She heard his protestations as she ran down the hall. She knew where her father would be hiding. Was this what he called power, hiding from the past in his bedchamber? From her? From those hungry ghosts, her murdered mother, and the bones of her sister, who cried out in dreams from a deep and crowded pit? Jezebel wondered all that, making the accusations in her mind dark so she wouldn’t allow herself to consider the worst one of all. She had participated twice now in the fertility rites, twice now giving herself to men who wore masks and didn’t care that her head pounded against a marble altar, breaking and bleeding as they panted into her neck. She gave the goddess everything. She held nothing back, nothing for herself.
And nothing had changed. Her father interrupted her when she spoke, often leaving the room in the middle of her stories, communicating to her through servants or scribes. He did not invite her to take meals with him, and he did not attend the ceremonies she presided over as the royal princess of Phoenicia. If she couldn’t earn his love, she had reasoned, nor the love of Asherah, she would just try harder. She had tried very, very hard. But this last betrayal was too much.
Jezebel pushed past the guards and threw open his door. Eth-baal grunted as he saw the light from the hall cast across the bed.
“What have you done?” she shouted.
He sighed, rolling over and sitting up with some effort.
“You wanted to prove you were worthy,” he replied. “The elders thought this was the best way.”
“So they banished me?” she yelled. “You let them send me away to be nothing more than a wife?” The word stuck like a rock in her throat. “Don’t do this! I will make a better ruler than any son in the empire, and you know it. They all know it!”
Then it hit her, a sudden drop in her stomach. “They all know it,” she whispered. Of course. The elders had planned this all along. She had been nothing more than a rabbit for their hunt, to flush out the best among them. It was probably Hetham’s son. It had probably been decided long ago. Though a woman could be elected to the throne, none ever had. None ever would. Not as long as men like the elders were in control. They worshipped the sacred feminine but did not want a woman in command. Jezebel’s flash of insight was so cruel, it had to be wrong.
She sat on the bed next to her father, the life sucked from her body. She had fought so hard, for so long, to prove her worth. To wear the crown. And all along, it had never really been within reach.
She shook her head. “I made a promise to myself, that if a son from the elders won your approval and the crown instead of me, I would kill myself.” She was surprised how ridiculous it sounded now. She wanted to live. The desire was strong. It was a strange discovery—that wanting to die didn’t mean she was ready for death.
“How would you do it?” he asked, a desperate hinged note in his voice, as if he was not really entirely in the room with her.
She glared at him, at those horrid betel seed stains across his mouth and chin. He was in agony, and she knew it had nothing to do with his sour stomach or arthritic hands. She was all he had left of Temereh and her mother. Nothing could save him from the torment of letting this last little part of them go. He thought surely he could hide it from her even now. His emotions had ruined him, and her, too. If he had only kept control of himself, her life would have been different. He had always been weak, though, and she had paid that price for him. Always.