Salomé Book 1: The Prophecy

By Jade Valor

Two Messengers from a world of Light come to Earth in human form and unwittingly become entangled in the web of an ancient Prophecy whose fulfillment could free humanity from oppression.

This modern retelling of the mythical/biblical story of Salomé is a fantasy science-fiction novel that takes the reader on an adventure from the Middle East to all corners of a dystopian world. A Messenger of Light incarnate, Salomé becomes entangled in the web of an ancient Prophecy whose fulfillment could bring peace and freedom to an enslaved humanity.

Set in a future world where technology co-exists with magic, Princess Salomé must discover the source of her own power to challenge her tyrannical uncle and the ten Magnates who threaten to subjugate not only Earth, but also the mystical Homeworld from whence she and her Beloved have come.

Salomé has long been perceived as a seductress and a femme fatale, using her “Dance of the Seven Veils” to depraved ends. Our Salomé” is a strong, sympathetic and proactive heroine, determined to bring peace to her people, against the will of her lecherous and power hungry uncle, Archlord Dorath. No longer powerless and objectified, Salomé strives to free the people of Earth, save her Homeworld and unite with her Beloved.

Awakened to her destiny, Salomé must renounce life as a princess to challenge her tyrant uncle and the ten Magnates who threaten to subjugate not only this world, but also the mystical Homeworld from whence she and her Beloved have come.

What price must the Lovers pay for the freedom of both worlds?

Author Jade Valor fell in love with the opera “Salome” as a student at the Manhattan School of Music, though deploring the wanton, blood-lusting image Salomé had been given when her only sin was to become enamored with a gorgeous hunk of prophet who then spurned and cursed her.

This was the beginning of a decade-long journey to give Salomé back her innocence that took Jade from NY to Germany where she eventually met her writing partner. It led her to Wellington, New Zealand in 2003 with a first draft of a “Salomé” screenplay where she met “Lord of the Rings” production people – and was told she should write the novel. The journey continues – in the hope that “Salomé” will become the epic motion picture she was originally intended to be. Jade now lives in the beautiful “Middle of Middle Earth”!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jade Valor
• Release date: Sep 22, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311180544

Book preview

THE DOMAINS

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The units into which the countries of the world have been divided in the course of Globalization, named after their Ruling Families.

DOREH—Middle East up to Turkmen and Afghan border, Turkey, North Africa

DJANUA—the rest of Africa

MAANOR—Europe to the Russian borders

GADES (pronounced gáh-des)—North American continent

DEVOS—South America, Middle America, the Caribbean

HADAKI—Japan, Southeast Asia, the Koreas

ILLIYA—Russia to Siberia

KHAN—China, Mongolia, Himalayas

TUPUR—the Indian subcontinent, up to Kazakhstan

LORAN—Australia, New Zealand, the South Pacific

 (Authors’ note: Hebrew texts are from the biblical Song of Songs.)

The Prophecy:

"The House of Saba arises

What choice will the Peoples then make?

The Ruling Order shall either stand…

Or it shall forever break."

THREE THOUSAND YEARS AGO

Makeda awakened abruptly as though hearing a whisper in the dark, her senses alert to the subtle shifting of airs as the first cold touch of dawn filtered into the King’s bedchamber. She had slept little and uneasily this night before the morning of her departure from Jerusalem. The King’s arms were still wrapped possessively around her nakedness, his head resting on her firm dark breasts, and she lay, her breathing shallow, hoping the insistent throb of her heartbeat would not wake him. Making love in the night, Solomon had taken her with the desperate fierceness of a man who knows he is losing a woman, and she had let her passion flow with his this one final time. Afterwards, his fingertips caressing her smooth brown features, her full mouth and doe-eyes in the glow of myrrh-scented lamps, he had drawn her to him in as close an embrace as their bodies would allow and murmured, "My beautiful Shekinah."

For a while the Queen remained, listening intently for any telltale disturbance within the chamber, her dark eyes restive and searching. But all was silent.

In repose, her long limbs showed her as being taller than the man at her side. Her fingers brushed the rich necklace of gold and sapphires and rubies that gleamed at her throat and she shivered at its touch. It had been Solomon’s parting gift: sapphires for the coldness of her heart in leaving him, rubies for the fire of his undying love, gold to bind them together forever, he had said, always the poet. She had grown to love him, as far as she dared.

Makeda carefully extricated herself from Solomon’s embrace and rose, her bare feet making no sound on the stone floor. Donning his striped linen robe, she went to the stone sill looking out over Jeru-Salem, City of Peace, its shadows deep in the pre-dawn hour. She sensed in her bones how little peace this city would know in ages to come.

All was quiet in the palace, but the crowing of cocks in distant alleyways heralded the coming day. The occasional bleating of sheep and goats, the metallic clang of their bells, sounded strangely near and clear in the still morning air. A soft breeze wafted through the high opening, stirring the folds of her robe as she stood silhouetted, tall and regal against the broadening light. It was cool and soothing on her fevered skin and she closed her eyes for a moment, breathing deeply, trying to calm her anxious thoughts. A raven swept upward, startling the Queen from her reverie as it sped ebony-winged toward the desert, cawing hoarsely. Come! it seemed to call to her, Come away! There is no time to lose!

Pierced by a stab of anxiety, Makeda caught her breath. She was a stranger here, would always be a stranger, and it was time to depart. Depart before the King realized she was again with child. She could already sense the burgeoning in her belly, the tautness in her breasts, though there was as yet no visible evidence of her pregnancy, and she took great pains to conceal her sense of impending danger from him. Solomon was loath to let her go with their son Menelyk, despite her reassurances that the boy would return to his father at maturation. Menelyk looked so startlingly like him, so unnaturally pale of complexion. She had been surprised to give birth to such a child. Solomon’s attachment to the young prince was apparent to everyone at the palace and it was not regarded favorably. All the greater the risk of having another child here, especially knowing what she knew. If Solomon found out, he would surely force her to stay and that would be fatal. His wives and concubines were now intriguing against her. Makeda knew too well what angry, jealous women were capable of.

Only three nights ago, the Queen’s Seeress had called for her with a strange Prophecy. The old woman’s eyes had rolled in their sockets, her bony fingers clutching the stone chair. Shimmering veils streaming like pale smoke enveloped her wrinkled body as the words thundered from her gaping mouth, her voice powerful and more frightening than Makeda could ever remember:

From Sirius, the Star of Renewal will come Two, embodied of your flesh and Solomon’s: One of your pale son, who will be first, and alone; One of your dark daughter, who will come long after, and whose name shall be the Peaceable One. Through Them shall a gift be given to Saba, to be preserved for the dark daughter’s seed; and with her coming will the House of Saba arise. What Choice will the peoples of this world then make? For by that Choice shall the Ruling Order either stand…or forever break.

Makeda sat, awestruck, as the apparition slowly faded. Nothing like this had ever been known to happen in the living memory of her people. When the Seeress came out of her trance, she told Makeda the message was unconditional: her girl-child must be born in her mother’s homeland, totally outside the knowledge or influence of the father. Events had been set in motion whose echo would be heard a thousand and more generations from now.

The magnitude of this pronouncement was virtually incomprehensible. Was the child she carried truly the hope of a future humanity? Makeda brushed her doubts aside. The Goddess had spoken, the decision had been made. It was useless to speculate. More important was the immediate task of leaving the city in safety and returning to her motherland where there was much to prepare and set in order. The fate of more than just the people of Saba was at stake. All necessary precautions must be taken to ensure the seed would be preserved over millennia through the approaching darkness.

The women knew the power of the Goddess was declining as She gradually became subjugated to the belief in one male god arising around them: the jealous Yahweh who suffered no others beside him, not even his rightful Consort. The dominion of such gods would cast its shadow over the earth in time to come; men would place themselves on pedestals as their spokesmen, and Mother Earth would be under their yoke. Makeda’s attempt to initiate the Hebrews into the worship of her people’s deity had met with vehement resistance from Solomon’s high priests who threatened such idolatry would call down the wrath of Yahweh. To remain here with their anger growing daily was becoming too great a risk.

In addition to these considerations, messages had reached the Queen, making the return to Ethiopia imperative. It seemed the knowledge of her pregnancy and its significance had been transported in some mysterious fashion along the Path of the Serpent. The priestesses alone knew the ways of the Path and how this was done, and it was resorted to only in grave necessity. Yesterday evening the Seeress had come to see her again.

My Queen, you must delay no longer, she spoke urgently, her blind eyes searching where others could not see. The signs of your body will soon give you away. And there are omens of grave danger. Your children, born and unborn, will not be safe here.

But surely Solomon would protect his own children! the Queen insisted.

Truly, the Seeress continued, but he will not be here long enough to see them grown, and after him shall come evil rule. They will be slain, and you along with them, if you do not leave now. Then hope will die, she spread her old hands, their pale, dark-lined palms like maps leading to uncertain destinations, for the Goddess, whose gift will need Saba’s guardianship in years to come. For all mankind. The old woman stepped closer to the Queen and her crow’s voice rasped, "You must be in your city by the time your daughter is born."

Makeda acknowledged the command. And this will guarantee the Prophecy’s fulfillment?

Nothing is guaranteed, my Queen, she replied, shaking her ancient head. But if you heed the Prophecy, if you follow the path of your own destiny rather than Solomon’s, then hope will be preserved—within the daughter you now bear, and within the offspring of your son who shall return to his father’s land when the signs are given.

The Queen lowered her eyes in acquiescence. Then it shall be so.

Solomon’s stirring recalled Makeda’s thoughts to the present, and she slipped quickly back into his embrace, not wanting him to sense her unrest. Hers were, in the end, small sacrifices compared to those that need would force upon her descendants.

SIXTY YEARS LATER

It was dangerous for the Sabans to come to Jeru-salem in the present political climate where idolatrous priests held sway at court. Their company had thus traveled in separate small groups to avoid attracting unwanted attention. They arrived in the dead of night, stealing through the streets of the sleeping holy city until they reached the house where they were to congregate with the Elders.

The murmuring in the chamber ceased when Menelyk entered with the Saban Matriarch and her Seeress. His pale fifteen-year-old grandson, clad in a fine goatskin tunic, stood beside him. Many faces turned to them as they entered, solemn men and women, some dark, others pale. The boy stood aside, listening to the Elders whisper of a Prophecy, of timing and a sacrifice—of things whose significance and consequences he could hardly comprehend. If the Prophecy spoke truth, he could be shouldering a burden of years no one had ever dreamed of. He had not been asked, he had been told. It was his obligation as a son of Makeda’s and Solomon’s line. He trembled at the thought that he might be chosen to bear such a burden.

The Seeress, granddaughter of Makeda’s Seeress, had spoken urgently. The energies have shifted. Something approaches from Sirius—I can feel it! We must take him into the desert at dawn tomorrow! Some Elders had argued that he was too young, not yet a man. But, in the end, the Seeress had prevailed. If we do not use this chance, we will lose it—forever!

Now he knelt, shoulders bowed, on the sand in the grey of morning, moaning softly, fearfully. In the west, the great orb of the full moon set slowly, tainted orange as it slipped further and further toward the horizon. Its light fell upon the boy and the chanters, casting deep shadows over the desert like many-fingered hands reaching out in longing for its mate about to rise in the east. Sirius, burning brightly blue, was still visible in the pre-dawn sky. To his left a small company of robed women stood gazing out toward the eastern horizon, dark silhouettes in the approaching dawn. Their murmured chant droned ominously in the stillness, seeming to emanate from nowhere. Before them, the tall slender figure of the Saban Matriarch stood motionless. To his right, the somber gestalt of his grandfather Menelyk loomed over him, grey but unbowed, his face pale in the cold morning hour, his gaze fixed on the moon as it sank heavily into the west. Focused on opposite horizons, the company seemed almost to have forgotten him, swaying between them as one drugged, his ebony curls tumbled upon alabaster shoulders. His lips parted and moved, but no sound escaped them. His breathing was labored, his eyes glazed.

As the eastern horizon brightened and Sirius began to fade, the company began to chant in unison in a strange, secret tongue, arms outstretched before them and heads tilted back, summoning. Their chanting rose and fell, vibrating the desert air as the sun’s arc seared the horizon, throwing their shadows back into the desert in sharp relief. The sound swelled, sending waves of vibration over trembling sands as the sun’s mound rose further and further. When the great shining disc finally broke free, casting its full light upon the fading moon, the whole company gave a mighty shout that shook the ground beneath their feet. Glowing tendrils of energy streamed across the agitated sky, converging high above the kneeling boy in a vortex of brightness. He flung his arms upward and a sheet of blinding brilliance descended from the vortex. It enveloped him and from its core a pulsing sphere of light fell, entering his body and almost tearing him apart. He went rigid, screaming to shatter the heavens, dark eyes bulging from their sockets, mouth wide in a rictus of agony. Caught in the flux, Menelyk and the Matriarch were thrown back, along with the rest of their company. Sirius exploded in a burst of silver-blue radiance, as his howl rose to a shriek beyond hearing and endurance. Out of the light and the sound and the anguish, two names imprinted themselves on his mind. One of them, he knew, was his own. The other floated for an instant above his consciousness like a fugitive white dove in the morning.

Yonatí!¹ he called.

I am here…here…

He just managed to grasp its resonance and press it to his heart. Then he was thrown sprawling on his face. As his vision went black, it seemed to him that he was lifted out of his body to hover above, looking down on his prostrate form and the people below him. He tried desperately to cry out, but he had no voice for them to hear.

When the brilliance had faded, the two Elders and the women slowly rose, dazed and disheveled. The boy lay senseless before them on the sand. At his side, a strange object glowed in the morning light, emanating a low, harmonious hum: a disc of some smooth white substance, perhaps four or five hands in diameter and one and a half high, with a silver crescent moon cupping a round golden sun in its embrace set into the center of its lid and two five-pointed stars at opposite edges of its circumference. Next to it lay what seemed to be a square of shimmering cloth with the same moon-sun symbol at its center. The company stood, staring at the objects and the boy for many moments. Finally, Menelyk approached and bent to feel his neck for a pulse.

He is alive.

Yes, I’m alive! Help me! the spirit above cried, and there is Another! Another!

The Matriarch looked around, sensing a presence, but heard only the cry of a raven circling high in the desert morning light. Gesturing in awe to the strange disc, its glow now fading as the sky brightened, she murmured, The prophesied gift to Saba.

Menelyk reached out a hesitant hand to touch it, but drew back as its hum became audibly discordant. The Matriarch came to his side, stooped and moved her hand over its central symbol, her palm tingling as she resisted the impulse to pull her hand back. It was as though thousands of tiny particles of silver and gold pierced her skin and circulated with her blood through every cell of her body. She smiled.

It is the gift for the Daughter of my daughters, as the Prophecy foretold. She lifted the shimmering cloth. It was made of some fluid iridescent stuff unlike anything she knew. It felt like water in her hands and was open at one seam. Enveloping the disc reverently in its folds, the Matriarch aligned the symbol on the cloth with that on the disc. She instantly felt something was wrong. Removing the cloth, she turned it so its symbol was opposite that on the object and there was a click, as though its energies had been sealed. Then she placed her hands under its rim and lifted it from the sand. It was very light.

My grandson is the One who will be alone, Menelyk stated.

Yes. The Matriarch looked down upon the boy with pity. She motioned to the women who came forward and lay two things at his side: a beautifully crafted scimitar and a wide silver platter, rimmed in serpents, holding a small offering of food. Then she turned into the morning light and, followed by Menelyk and the women, departed, oblivious to the boy’s desperate cries,

Please, don’t leave! There is Another!

When he was at last able to reenter his body and awaken, it was dark. He lay on his belly in the sand, alone in the silence, with no sense of how long had he had lain there. Days? Years?  Memories flooded his awareness that were not his own: memories of a timeless Homeworld and a Consortium of Light that had sent two of its own away to prove themselves worthy—of one another and of their place in their own world. He felt how the Light-being within had reached out to its Beloved as it fell away, felt its desperation. Now they were bonded in this world until…when?

Time no longer mattered. He knew he would have more than he could wish at his disposal. In the grey shimmer of approaching dawn Sirius burned and faded. The sight of the star filled him with indescribable longing. Looking inward, he could see the image of the Other, the Beloved, withdrawing into a protective egg of shimmering light, to sleep, to wait…

He sat up and gazed aimlessly at his surroundings. Jagged pillars of stone towered over him, tall and ghostly remnants of some ancient structure of an unknown people whose time had long gone by: a lonely sanctuary, his barren new home.

He turned abruptly, realizing he wasn’t alone. Three large coal-black ravens stood motionless on the sand, considering him from a respectful distance. They might have been figures carved in obsidian, unruffled and still, but for the occasional blink of bead-like eyes. Their glossy plumage reflected the changing light of oncoming morning. He sat stone still, resisting the urge to reach out to them, not wanting to frighten off his only companions in the emptiness. The largest of the three birds cocked its head and cawed. It lifted its sable wings and rose up, flapping toward him, and he threw his arms before his face, fearing it would go for his eyes. But it only turned a bit clumsily to perch itself on his shoulder. He flinched at the pricking of its claws as the bird steadied itself, then hesitantly reached up to stroke its full soft breast. It plucked his earlobe in greeting. Shin, he murmured, naming the bird spontaneously: Fire. The creature reacted to the name, and seemed to enjoy the touch. Strange company, but company nonetheless. He watched in wonder as its fellows stooped their heads and, picking up something at their feet, walked with stately steps over the sand to halt just before him and drop them onto the platter along with the food that had been left: a stalk of aloe plant and a piece of dried meat. He reached to retrieve the gifts, but started back in alarm. Fearfully, he leaned once more over the platter and gazed at his reflection. My eyes! What’s happened to my eyes? Their darkness had become a startling, piercing crystal blue. He gasped as the serpents on the platter’s border began to move, writhing out into the desert, drawing his awareness with them. The whole landscape was alive with energies!

He swung to his feet with Shin still perched somewhat awkwardly on his shoulder and stretched. A charge of energy coursed through his body, startling him. It felt good. He stretched again, breathing deeply, his breath and the growing light seeming to charge him even more. Spreading his arms, he laughed out loud. The ravens joined their rasping voices with his, fluttering up into the now blazing sky. They took off toward the rising sun, and he began to run, following their flight, following the star-borne dove’s shining aura in his mind, faster and faster until he no longer sensed his feet on the rapidly heating sand. Exultant in his newfound speed he surged forward, a corona of sound and light welling forth from his body in rippling waves out over the desert and beyond. Elijah… He heard his name, carried on the wind, and shielded his eyes from a flash of bright wings.

Yonatí!¹...

PART ONE

ELIJAH: BIRTH AND DEATH

An uncertain future

CHAPTER ONE

It was floating. Waiting.

It had no sense of how long It had been in this state. Its awareness had retreated into a tiny core at the center of Its being, away from the searing torment of separation, Its very essence ripped apart. Never had It known such sensation. So It had retreated, further and deeper, wrapping Itself in a cocoon of light; waiting only for a call, for an opening, that It might be reunited with Its Beloved. Waiting until…

Something stirred within. Suddenly, there is a reaching, a pulling. Its awareness opens and It is caught in a field of gravity. It plunges down, irresistibly down toward the blue planet, unable to control or navigate. From afar It hears voices intermingled; and amid their strange cacophony, one voice, adored and adoring:

Yonatí!¹

Beloved! And It laughs as it falls toward the planet below, joyous, dancing…

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CYRUS!!! the young consort’s face contorted in agony as her body arched and her fingers clawed into the arms of the birthing chair. Cyrus! Cyrus! her screams tore at the air in the chamber.

Ayanna! a man’s voice bellowed from without and there was a fierce pounding at the outer doors. Dammit, let me in! he shouted.

The circle of robed and chanting women gathered around the carved birthing chair turned apprehensively and one of them started for the door.

No! The tall, regal woman at the consort’s side ordered her back. The Archlord mustn’t be allowed in! The Protectress, Matriarch of Saba in her gold-trimmed robe of fine linen stood, her gaze fixed on the struggling young woman.

The fear in the royal bedchamber was palpable.

She’s losing too much blood! And I can’t even see the head yet! The midwife’s hands were covered in gore. She crouched between the consort’s spread thighs, threw a blood-soaked towel into a basin and beckoned a panicked lady-in-waiting to bring more. She turned desperately to the Protectress. "Mother of Saba, we have to do a C-section!" Her frantic glance went to the woman in white who stood already gloved beside a tray full of surgical instruments and materials.

Not yet! If this child is the Daughter of Saba we have been waiting for, we must wait until the last possible moment! the Protectress commanded. But the Saban Matriarch’s long dark hands were clenched tellingly and her mouth was drawn into a tight line. For generations each Saban daughter of Queen Makeda’s line had been thus ceremoniously received, in the hope she might be the One of whom the Prophecy had spoken—the One for whom they were waiting. Now Ayanna was the only remaining daughter of that line. If she died then millennia of waiting, of hope and preparation would have been in vain.

"We cannot wait much longer! We could lose the mother and the child! the midwife pleaded. Even under the warm lighting the consort’s mahogany skin was chalk-pale and streaming with sweat. Her thick dark hair was plastered to her forehead and her shoulders bare where the sheet had fallen away. We’re running out of time!" The drone of the women’s chanting in their foreign tongue seemed to echo ominously in the high bedchamber.

Open the fucking door! The Archlord’s pounding and shouting unnerved them all.

I can see the head now! the midwife exclaimed.

Push, my daughter, push! At the consort’s side, Lady Haliled gripped her only child’s hand tightly.

Ayanna writhed, her breath coming in great gasps. She arched her body again and screamed in a last, anguished effort to free the child within her.

Suddenly, the chamber was suffused with unearthly light as a deep harmonious sound swelled, enveloping the panicked women. Sound and light and the music of a young girl’s laughter emanated from every corner, from the very walls. In a blaze of brightness, a glowing sphere of energy pierced the ceiling of the chamber and, hurtling downward, penetrated the consort’s swollen belly.

At last! the Matriarch spread her arms in welcome, awe and reverence lighting her countenance.

Ayanna gave one final agonized shriek and fell back, silent.

I have her! I have the child! the midwife shouted as the squall of a newborn baby filled the chamber. A woman was immediately at her side with a wrapping blanket.

At that moment, the outer doors burst open and Archlord Cyrus stormed in, his uniform crumpled and his hair disheveled, looking half mad with fear. He halted, stunned at the spectacle that met his eyes: his wife, bloodied and unconscious in the birthing chair, the tall and queenly woman at her side, the petrified women around her, and the midwife holding a small, squirming, squalling bundle.

Ayanna! The Archlord thrust past the women and rushed to his wife’s side, clasping her limp hand in his, pressing it to his lips. Ayanna, my love! Stay with me!

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Out in the moonlit desert, Elijah lies motionless amid ancient stone monoliths and cracked, crumbling archways, a wizened figure in ragged goatskins with matted, dust-grey hair. But his awareness suddenly sings as the radiance of his Beloved descends toward the distant city, and the glory of Her light shining down on the ruins casts their shadows across his body, like a longed-for caress.

Yonatí!¹My Dove! Elijah feels Her presence in the pre-dawn air, fresh as dew, gentle, benevolent. She is dancing, all brightness and joy, welcoming arms outstretched. He reaches out an age-withered hand. Faintly, on the edge of hearing, a soft hum vibrates the desert air and Her voice whispers,

"Mosh-chení ‘achareycha narútsa!"²

At last…Ra-ayatí!³ In the catch of a breath, the vision shifts and Her light becomes a World, a heart of radiance in the vastness of space from which two brilliant points of light converge in a blaze of brightness. His heart leaps with gladness at the sight. Home! Then it is gone.

A sudden flurry of wings and three great ravens, phantoms against the moonlight, swoop down to settle atop the standing stones: night sentinels glaring down upon the gaunt figure below. Spreading wide its pinions, the largest of the three gives a hoarse cry. Elijah’s eyes snap open and he is on his feet in one smooth movement. Piercingly blue and clear, his eyes are startling in the weatherworn countenance. They glint with the starlight that sparkles on the relics at his side: the arc of an ancient and beautifully crafted scimitar with a sharp-curved blade and jeweled hilt, now darkly stained; and a wide ornate silver platter, rimmed with a relief of serpents.

Face upturned, Elijah spreads welcoming arms. Sirius, the sign of newly awakening life, glitters blue-white in the heavens. Fine glowing lines flow around him as he reaches toward the pulsating star. Energy surges through his body. He throws his head back in a long-drawn ecstatic gasp. A burning sensation sears his brow and a symbol shines out, blindingly bright: a golden sun held within the embrace of a cupped silver crescent moon. Achotí, kala! ⁴

Abruptly, he is drawn out of his body. His spirit is cast across the miles of desert and he finds himself standing in a corner of the royal bedchamber by an antique secretary, watching as the unconscious Ayanna is moved to her canopied bed with its hangings of pale silk and attended to by the midwife and her women; watching as the dazed and shaken Archlord is briefly permitted to hold his child and then, gently but firmly, escorted from the chamber.

Soft light from the setting full moon shines through the chamber’s draped windows, its mild glow illuminating his corner. The Protectress turns and sees the shadow of Elijah’s presence, though no one else does. She takes the tiny bundle from the midwife and carries it into the moonlight where he can see that the baby emanates a soft glow of its own. The silver and golden symbol shines from the forehead of the newborn girl-child as the Protrectress raises the tiny body in benediction. The women chant as she solemnly intones,

Let it be recorded that the Chosen—Daughter descended of the Daughter of our Lady, Queen Makeda of Saba, and Solomon, Son of David—has been born to the Lady Ayanna Abaas-Doreh, consort of the Archlord Cyrus of the Domain of Doreh, on the morning of this, the twenty-second of June, in the year of our Great Mother. And Her name shall be Salomé—Bringer of Peace.

The darkness comes to him suddenly, harsh and menacing. They are there; he can feel them searching for Her, a threatening presence in the moonlit chamber.

No! His mind cries out and he wrenches his consciousness away…

In a bleak steel-sheen chamber, ten grey figures sit motionless around the circumference of a