The Dovekeepers

Revka wept at the sight of her. “It’s my doing. I called a demon upon us.”

“No.” Yael’s face was masked, but she sounded sure of herself. “It’s my punishment.”

“You’ve done nothing,”

Revka insisted.

“One thief knows another,” Yael murmured, resolved.

She packed up all of Arieh’s belongings, then went to the wall, the baby in her arms.

“A bargain is a bargain,” Channa said. “I’m not being too demanding, I merely want what I’m owed.”

They were near the garden where Yael had released the scorpion. It failed to show itself on this night, but it was still there. The children had seen it, and they knew that which you cannot see can be more dangerous than that which is before you. We were fighting a battle just to keep ourselves fed; perhaps the scorpion went hungry as we did. As for Channa, she was a rich man’s wife; despite her husband’s insistence that we were all worthy of God’s gifts, she took more than her share.

“You’ve done well in your care for him,” she said approvingly to Yael when she noticed the flame-colored spot on the baby’s cheek had all but disappeared. Yael had bathed the child in oils and rubbed a balm into his skin. “I’m sure we can agree as reasonable women.” When Channa stroked his face lovingly, Arieh smiled up at her. “He’s better off with me.”

YAEL DID NOT lock herself away, as some women might have. She had no time for such indulgences. The slave had been allowed to live. The bargain had been kept; still, anyone who trusts a serpent deserves its bite. The wise see a creature for what it is, not what it says it may be.

After her chores in the dovecote were completed, Yael went out to collect firewood. She did so often enough that the sentries came to know her. The assassin’s daughter with red hair. She went late in the day, when the sun was dropping down. In the dim light she found twigs that would serve as kindling, deadwood that would keep our fires hot. She didn’t return until twilight washed across the pale sky. Sometimes she sat on the wall in the amber light, a basket of twigs beside her, the woven scarf on her hair slipping down, so that strands of her hair gleamed scarlet. She knew the guards watched, their glances lingering over her flesh. Because of this they allowed her to do as she pleased.

Each day she went farther down the mountain, finding paths few dared to take, except for the ibex, who had no fear of tumbling down the sheer cliffs. The head scarf she wore was woven in the pattern of the country in the north none among us would ever see, a land where the ice was as deep as a river, where a man could freeze in moments, where every warrior’s arrows were marked with the sign of the stag.

When Yael asked for my help, I went with her willingly, though by then we had more wood piled at our doors than anyone else on the mountain.

“I’m surprised you didn’t ask my mother,” I said.

“Your mother would make them suspicious. The guards will trust you.”

As we approached the sentries, Yael told me to pull my shawl away from my head so that I might allow the guards to see my long black hair. We were two young women gathering wood, cheerful, pretty. We waved a greeting. Every day, we made this journey. The guards never bothered to question us but only glanced at us, appraising our bare arms, which we allowed them to view and enjoy.

Yael said a prayer each time we passed a small cave. She whispered that a lion lived inside, but she swore he would watch over us. Sometimes she left him an offering of a dove, sometimes a few strands of her hair. She seemed convinced he was her guardian. All the same, I was relieved I had brought a blade with me, in case the creature she spoke of decided to turn on us.

The cool air of evening made it perfectly understandable when we began to bundle up beneath our cloaks. I wore an extra shawl, which made my appearance bulkier. My head scarf was tied tightly, nearly covering my face. One day Yael brought me a gray cloak. It belonged to her father, she said. I thought of her father’s talent and how he had instructed Amram in the secrets of invisibility. I knew it was possible for a man to become a cloud or a mist in the eyes of his enemy; I had seen Amram himself do so when we wished to defy my mother and meet in secret.

As soon as I slipped on the assassin’s cloak, the guards no longer noticed me. I disappeared before them, nothing worth looking at. They called out a greeting to Yael, whose shining red hair they so admired, but ignored me as I trudged behind, carrying a bundle of dry wood.

On the day it was to happen, I went to the tower at the hour Yael had chosen. After his meal, the guard posted there often fell asleep on his bench, his stomach swollen from his allotment of lentils and beans. In my pocket I had the key of twisted metal that my mother had fashioned to show how easy it would have been for the slave to escape the dovecote so the officials would not guess Yael had unlocked his chains. I kept the assassin’s cloak over my head. No one questioned me as I went along the corridor, then took the stairs. At the end of the hall, the guard was dozing, as Yael had assured me he would be. I let myself into the slave’s cell, stunned by the filth and stench that greeted me. The air was murky, yet I could see poor Wynn on his pallet of rags. He was so unclean no one would ever guess that the stubble of his shorn hair was pale as ice or that his skin had been the color of milk when he first came to us.