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!”
Mara noticed splotches of dark red on the king’s fingers. As he withdrew his hand, the king gazed into her eyes again. “What is your name, precious jewel?”
“Mara.”
“Mara?” He looked up at Mardon, frowning. “What kind of name is that for