The singers hummed as the sacrifices prowled in a cloud of dust, straining their ears for footsteps, their noses for odor, their skin for warm breath; yet it was cold death that Cain stumbled upon under the sand. He buried his hand, waited for the haze to clear and the youngblood to lunge as he knew he would. And he did, just as the scars predicted. Cain slashed aside the hungry blade and pitched sand into his opponent’s face. Blind, the youngblood covered his left as Cain cut from the right. Then steel split skin, and he died hissing and clutching his neck.
“Tamir!” the dark singer’s howls resounded. Cain gave her a moment to compose herself. She was young after all, and naïve and stupid, and of what concern were her sins when his own woman was waiting on him? Grave, he knew, yet he climbed the walls pretending otherwise.
Jezebel sighed as he cleared the ledge, then she beckoned him closer till they were face to face. He savored every second as her fingertips brushed by his lips to trace the outline of his broken nose. Without a wince, she snapped the ruin into shape. The sacrifice dropped his blade and relished as the hot blood rushed. He could wait no longer. He seized her, forced her to the floor and unwound her dress, Jezebel’s struggling doing nothing to raise an objection from the congregation. No man could refuse him his prize, yet he stopped.
It was the weeping that held him back. Singers were forbidden to mourn, she had to know that, but the woman refused to keep her mouth shut. Reluctantly, Cain relinquished his reward and marched to where the moaning widow lay. She was still sobbing when he took her by the arm and as he dragged her thrashing before the congregation. Again, no challenge came from the crowd, no matter how shamefully she begged for mercy. You could have had a good life, he thought, stomping her knees and exposing her throat. You could have had sons and grandsons, but you chose this—to become a singer. You chose…
His mind trailed off at the sound of Jezebel’s approach. He knew what was coming, even before he looked—felt himself harden to her naked steps, the bounce of her breasts, his sword gripped tight in her tiny, balled fists. His victim stiffened as well, frozen with fear as Jezebel stopped in front of her, leering, cocking her arms, blade in hand. She held it there, and Cain held his breath until his lungs burned, and he began to question whether it was teasing or hesitation; then she swung—right to left—his lungs releasing as she opened the woman’s neck.
The corpse was still warm when Cain pilfered what little remained. Her radiant gown had been ruined with red, but he salvaged a pair of feather earrings and the gold band fixed around her finger. A fortune as of late. The gods were generous enough to leave the spoils to men, yet rare was it in recent days that a sacrifice had anything to take. And so, without shame, Cain offered his fistful of plunder to Jezebel, as he always did, as the witch had taught him, exchanging the feathers for his sword.
“Keep the ring,” said Jezebel, “and help me dress.” She led him to where he had assaulted her, and shoved the sash into his hands. He did as bid, taking his time winding the silk while she slipped the earrings into place. They hung loosely in her lobes—stretched under the weight of jewels during her maiden days. She played these games back then as well, Cain remembered, watching the white-brown feathers sway. He was about to drape the sash over her shoulder when she snatched it from him and hissed, “If you ever try that again, I swear to all your gods, you’ll wake up one morning like her.”
You’re only bitter because I stopped, he ached to say, because now you can’t hold it over me. But he bit his tongue knowing too well the hell he’d pay for speaking openly. Instead, he flashed a devil’s smile and started for the altar’s edge. Jezebel followed, and he helped her descend the twelve-foot drop onto the rocky foundation before making the climb himself. On the outside, the walls were weathered far worse than within, and when the wind blew too weakly, as it did that morning, stores of sand bled from their crevasses. So much poured that Cain had to tilt his head during his descent. Vultures, he saw—flocks of them—some circling the air above the altar, others soaring farther north where they vanished behind a cyclopean tower of lustrous black stones—what the Messah called the Bridge of Babylon—the endless column Walls of Barzakh.
The tower spanned a mile wide and reached high as the heavens with no windows or entrances hewn into its unmortared blocks. The faithful claimed it had been raised by the Old One, that the stones were made from petrified flames. Cain saw no reason to deny it. Whatever sorcery had birthed Eemah from the warring tribes could surely have built such a monument. A few of the eldest, however, believed the Walls served a greater purpose—that they were home to the gods, or perhaps their prison from whence they suckled blood spilled in the altars—blood that kept them appeased. And there were five altars then, Cain thought as he and Jezebel crossed under the column’s shadow. Five, and now there’s only one… Kill the boy. He
