Read Online To Ride the Gods’ Own Stallion by Diane Lee Wilson - Free Book Online Page B

much silver may be happy, and he who possesses much barley may be glad, but he who owns nothing at all may, at least, sleep.”

8
    Destiny’s Drawings
    This is the library. Habasle said to wait here.”
    The child runner who spoke had latched onto Soulai’s wrist as Soulai was carrying a basket of dung from the stable and had tugged him on a winding course through the palace grounds. Now, just as abruptly, the boy released it. Without a backward glance, he trotted across the tiles and disappeared into the comings and goings of the other workers.
    Soulai waited. He’d spent much of last night and all of today wondering if he’d killed Habasle. Well, he thought, obviously Habasle wasn’t dead; so I’m innocent, true? Yet he guiltily fiddled with the clay tag around his neck while watching a beetle crawl atop a wall. He sighed and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Increasingly anxious, he looked around. But the walkways surrounding the library remained empty.
    Still, something, he was certain, was about to happen. He felt eyes watching him. Again he searched the area—left, right, in front, and behind—and saw no one. But blinking up into the bright sunlight, he caught his breath. Two monstrous stone lamassu glowered above him, their shadowed brows suspending heavy, knotted beards that stretched halfway to their cloven limestone feet. Wings the size of oxcarts shielded their powerful bull’s bodies. No matter which way he turned, it seemed, their stern faces followed him.
    Soulai crossed his arms and sidled around the corner, out of their sight. Maybe the runner had gotten Habasle’s message wrong, he thought; maybe I should return to the stable. The shadows were growing shorter; the morning was almost over and Mousidnou would surely be growling about Soulai’s unfinished chores.
    He fingered the clay tag again. With a grimace, he admitted he couldn’t leave. As much as he hated it, Habasle owned him—owned all his actions—and Habasle had commanded him to come here. He had to wait.
    As the empty morning dragged on, Soulai discovered a series of carved stone panels that wrapped the library like a wondrous belt. Each one portrayed an Assyrian victory at war. Such was the talent of the unknown artist that the chiseled figures seemed to act out their stories right before Soulai’s eyes.
    In one scene, odd-looking men astride camels—two to a hump—were fleeing the Assyrian army, and archers on foot and horseback pelted the defeated men with arrows. Soulai could almost hear the thunder of hooves, the incessant whine of arrows, and the thud and scream as iron dug into flesh. He peered into the unblinking eye of a man stretched upon the ground, one hand clawing the dirt. An arrow jutted from his shoulder. As if by its own will, Soulai’s hand stretched toward the stony shaft. His fingers traced its length to where it pierced the man’s skin. He flinched and yanked his hand away. Not realizing he had been holding his breath, he let it out and moved on.
    A few panels down, Assyrian soldiers scaled the walls of an enemy city. So frightened were the inhabitants that they leaped from the towers to drown in the river below. The sculptor had carved the naked bodies of men and women mingling with the fishes below the surface of the roiling waters. Soulai shuddered. Would he have had the bravery to jump to his death rather than be taken captive? He remembered his stumbling journey down the mountain beneath Jahdunlim’s whip. Jumping to his death had seemed an escape then; but he hadn’t, had he? He was a coward in death as well as life.
    Running his fingers along the undulating crevices that described the river, he moved to the next panel, another battle scene, the Assyrian army once more victorious. Hundreds of mounted archers trampled the fallen enemy. But these victims, destined to die with the next hoof fall, thrust long spears into the