The Lamp of Darkness by - (book recommendations website .txt) 📕

of his already overflowing pile of meats. “Never seen a fish before?” He held his bread in front of us. “Sure you don’t want to try?”

Yonaton glanced at me.

“No,” I said.

“Just try a bit of mine. I’ve already taken it, and I’m not taking any more, so no one will lose if you taste it.”

I reached out and broke off a small piece of Zim’s fish—just a taste.

“See, it’s no fun being holy all the time. Isn’t it nice to grab what you want just once?”

I put the fish back on Zim’s pile of meat and wiped my hand on my tunic. “I don’t want it.”

Zim laughed. “Please yourself. Just be careful. You don’t want to wind up righteous and alone like Uriel.” Zim led us back out past the guards, who paid us no heed.

In the commoners’ section, Yonaton and I waited in line to get our food. There was no fish, and the meats weren’t spiced, but it still smelled wonderful. Food in hand, we rejoined Zim, who handed us each a clay goblet. “I got us wine.” His own goblet was already half empty.

Again I hesitated, remembering our first morning in Shomron, when I could barely rouse Zim for all the wine he’d drunk the night before. The only reason I distinguished myself at the rehearsal was because I hadn’t stayed up drinking with the musicians. Now Zim was handing me a goblet with far more wine than had ever passed my lips. This was my last opportunity to impress Dov—I couldn’t take any chances now. “I’ll pass.”

“Don’t worry. I got it from this side, you don’t have to feel bad about drinking it.”

“It’s not that. I don’t want it to hurt my playing.”

“A little wine isn’t going to hurt your playing—it might even improve it.” Zim downed a quarter of his goblet in one gulp, then wiped his mouth with the back of a greasy hand. “You’re not with the prophets now. You’re at a feast—probably the biggest you’ll ever enjoy. Everyone is drinking and having a good time. Stop thinking so much.” He held out the goblet again.

Slowly, I reached out and grasped it, then sipped at its pungent sweetness. It was much stronger than I was used to—not watered down at all. All around me people were drinking and laughing. I closed my eyes, took a large swallow, and felt my nervousness melt away.

I was swallowing the dregs of my second goblet when three sharp trumpet blasts sounded from the palace: the signal I was waiting for. The world tilted as I rose to my feet. Not up to running, I did my best to slip quickly through the crowd.

I arrived at the gates before they opened, slung the kinnor off my back, and joined the other musicians in my rotation. We fell into the same upbeat dance tune I’d played when the royal caravan arrived at Shomron. The trumpets sounded a long cry, the palace gates were thrown open, and King Ahav and Queen Izevel came forth to loud cheering. A crowd careened around them as they strode hand in hand down the hill of Shomron, out of the city gates, and over to the mass celebration.

They were led to chairs next to Izevel’s parents, upon a dais at the edge of a large clearing. I joined the rest of the musicians in our position just below the stage. Adjacent to us was the section reserved for the sick and crippled, who, according to the King’s custom, were given seats at the very front of the commoners’ area. Ovadia stood next to the stage and commanded a constant stream of servants, who converged on him and ran off in every direction. He’d been working non-stop since returning to Shomron. Yonaton and I had helped him as much as we could when we weren’t in rehearsals, delivering messages and lending our hands to the endless details to which he attended personally. I hadn’t even seen him at the ceremony—he must have been too busy preparing the celebration to attend.

A clamor arose as a line of torch-bearers snaked through the crowd. They pushed the crowd back as they advanced, forming the perimeter of an open space before the royal families. Into the opening stepped a man so thin his white robes swayed as if empty. He wore a matching white turban in the same style as the High Priest of Tzidon. Approaching the platform, he bowed deeply to King Ahav. “Your Majesty, I am your humble servant Avidah. My performers and I were brought by the dyers’ guild of Tzidon in honor of the royal union. With the King’s permission…” King Ahav nodded in assent, “We will begin.”

Dov struck the first note, and the musicians jumped into the music we’d prepared for the performance. It was a wild piece in parts, with a foreign rhythm, and despite all our practice, I feared I wouldn’t keep up with the driving pace. But the wine loosened my fingertips, my dizziness was gone, and I felt a wonderful sense of freedom in its place.

Avidah withdrew to the side of the circle, just in front of the section set aside for the infirm. One of his performers carried a cedar torch into the clearing; its flame illuminated his blue robes and matching turban, the scent of its burning resin almost overpowering. He raced around the circle, his torch swinging close to the crowd, forcing people to step back to avoid the flame, pushing them farther and farther until he had more than doubled the size of the clearing. With a loud “Hiyah!” he threw his torch high in the air where it broke apart into six, smaller flames. He caught each one in turn, but each barely grazed his hand before it was back in the air again. Once he controlled all six torches, he ran along the edge of the clearing, catching and throwing the torches as he went. The crowd cheered, stomped, and clapped their hands. Back in front of the stage, he caught the torches one by one, catching three in his right hand, two in his left, and the final one in his mouth. He returned all six torches to his right hand and took his place next to Avidah.

A second performer, a sword suspended from the belt of his pink robes, stepped toward the stage holding a woven reed basket. He bowed before Ahav and Izevel, removed several gourds from his basket, and placed them on the ground before him. He drew his sword from its scabbard and held it above his head for everyone to see. The jeweled handle and polished blade glittered in the torchlight. In a flash, he slashed the sword down upon the gourds, splitting each one cleanly in two, and leaving no question: this sword was sharp.

Falling to his knees, the pink-robed performer held the sword straight above him, tipped his head back so far that the tendons on his neck stood out like ropes, and opened his mouth wide. A gasp issued from the crowd as the point of the sword descended toward his wide-stretched mouth. Only hours of steady practice kept my fingers from freezing on the strings of my kinnor. How could a man kill himself just to entertain the King and Queen on their wedding day? Watching the torchlight dance off the polished blade, I swallowed hard—why would he draw out the pain by doing it so slowly?

As the point of the sword entered his mouth, I turned away, not wanting to watch. Women screamed. I plucked furiously at my kinnor, grateful that the complex rhythm demanded so much concentration. Silence fell over the crowd, and I glanced up, expecting to see the man writhing on the ground. My fingers faltered on the strings. The performer was still on his knees, gazing up, with half the length of the sword sticking out of his mouth. How could it be anything but torture? Yet the blade kept descending.

The sword sank until nothing except the jeweled handle remained visible. Head tipped back, he rose to his feet with outstretched arms, spinning in a circle so that all could see. He turned back to the stage, fell to his knees, and grasped the hilt with both hands. In one smooth motion, he drew the sword from his mouth and held it high in the torchlight, showing that it was clean, without a trace of blood.

The swordsman returned his weapon to his belt and called out something in his guttural tongue. The juggler approached and handed him a flaming torch. Again, he threw back his head and lowered it into his mouth. He removed the extinguished torch and handed it back, receiving another one in return. When the final torch was extinguished, both men bowed toward the stage.

King Ahav nodded stiffly, his lips curled in the slightest of smiles. Queen Izevel clenched her hands in her lap, swaying to the music. She beamed at the performers, following them with her eager eyes as they moved to the edge of the clearing and stood next to Avidah. Her eyes fell on those seated behind the performers, on the special section allotted to the sick and crippled, and she stopped rocking. Her eyes narrowed upon the neediest of the land. Her serpentine look was hideous, but it lasted only half a moment. A contortionist walked on his hands into the clearing; his back and neck arched impossibly so that his feet dangled before his face. The crowd bellowed with laughter. The Queen’s attention returned to the performance, her expression regaining its graceful composure.

The musicians didn’t pause for a moment. Zim was right; despite my initial dizziness, the wine hadn’t hurt my playing at all. I felt an unfamiliar looseness, playing faster and with more passion than usual. Dov perceived the change as well—he kept turning to watch me. Every time his eyes fell on me, I felt a jolt of energy and pictured myself dressed in a dyed linen tunic, playing in the King’s court during the day, and coming home to Dahlia at night.

But the transformation in me was nothing compared to what came over Zim, who drummed with an abandon I’d never witnessed before. His closed eyes were turned toward the sky, and his hands were a blur. Sweat poured down his head and neck, and he seemed unaware of his surroundings. I wasn’t the only one who noticed. Yambalya worked his way over to the musicians, drawn by Zim’s ferocious rhythm, and danced to the beat of his drums.

More and more performers came forward to carry out their feats, one after the next. The contortionist was followed by a man who wrestled a bear. He received a terrible blow to the face, but walked away erect and bleeding to the roar of the crowd. The wrestler was followed by a lean man who charmed two poisonous snakes, and a massive green serpent wound itself around his body. When the performers finished, they all came forward and stood in a row opposite the stage. Avidah fell to his knees and pressed his forehead to the ground, followed immediately by his troupe.

The performers stood as one, then exited the clearing in a line. Dov signaled for the musicians to pause. I stretched my fingers and rubbed my palms, never having pushed my hands so hard before.

From beyond the edge of the crowd, a chanting rose in the guttural tongue of Tzidon. It grew louder, and the crowd parted to allow Yambalya to enter the clearing. Ten men dressed in identical violet robes, all wearing swords at their sides, followed behind. Four of them carried a large wooden chest suspended from poles on their shoulders. Yambalya directed them to lower the chest to the ground before the stage.

We hadn’t rehearsed any music for this and watched Dov for a signal, but for the first time that evening, he had no plan. With a quick strike of his nevel, he started us back into the piece we’d performed for the juggler, but we didn’t get far. Yambalya waved his arms, and the song died on our strings. He patted Zim’s shoulder. “Just you. You come play.” He drew Zim into the clearing, positioning him next to the wooden chest.

Yambalya faced