The Orphan (Peter Lerangis) by Peter Lerangis

Author:Peter Lerangis
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2013-03-10T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I HAD NOT expected that my “washing” would consist of a vigorous scraping of my skin, which was now an angry-looking pink. Arwa gave me a gauzy, pure-white tunic to wear, but even that fine material felt irritating.

“Lovely,” Arwa said, tying a scarf the color of the bluest sky around my waist and a maroon veil around my head. “Look at yourself in the fountain, Daria.”

At first I thought someone had cast a spell on the still water, replacing my reflected image with that of a princess. But it moved and grinned and laughed as I did.

“Is it you?” came a familiar voice, full of wonderment.

I turned to see a slender woman with Frada’s eyes and smile, but her hair shone a lustrous golden brown, her skin smooth and pink hued. The signs of her illness—the mottled skin and matted hair, the emaciated frame—were gone as if she had never been sick in her life. “Frada, you are beautiful!”

“I wish we could admire ourselves all day, but we must move now,” Arwa said. Quickly she reviewed our plan. Handing Frada a santur with two soft-malleted hammers, she led us out of the building.

The conservatory was in a cluster of structures on the opposite side of the Euphrates from the main part of the city. To reach Etemenanki, we crossed a bridge that gave us a spectacular view of Mother’s Mountain. Although the magnificent hanging gardens were sealed off to the public by King Nabu-na’id, the aromas washed over us in cool, intoxicating gusts.

Passing through the grand tunnel of the Ishtar Gate, wardum and awilum alike bowed their heads to us. A skinny boy, Ashur, who always taunted me with jeers and disgusting noises, bowed to me without recognizing who I was.

The palace grounds were a maze of lush flowers, winding pathways, verdant bushes. Birds sang sweetly overhead, and pigs and goats scampered in pens along the perimeter. Bowing as they passed us, royal wardum scurried about carrying urns of oil and water, tending the grounds. Despite their hollow faces and bony limbs, they looked stronger than the street people we knew. A slave was worth nothing to the king unless “it” was in good health.

Up close, the tower of Etemenanki took my breath away. It soared to the sky, its tiers tapering to a point in the clouds. Such was the power of the structure I feared it would lift me upward, hurling me toward the heavens. Staircases led up along the outer walls that were covered in bright tiles, which depicted sacred Babylonian bulls and mushushus so realistic that I expected them to jump out. Every level of Etemenanki, right to the tapered top, was festooned with grand archways, statues, and carvings.

On one of those levels, I knew, was Nico.

“It must have taken years to build this,” whispered Frada.

We passed through a guarded gate to a vast, enclosed courtyard, where men and women in fine, embroidered tunics stood laughing and drinking from jewel-encrusted glass goblets. They wore rings,

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