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  OVERPOWERED

  a tale of the Stormbird Cycle

  KATHRYN MCCONAUGHY

  Copyright 2018 by Kathryn McConaughy Medill

  Excerpt from “Guardian of Our Beauty” copyright 2016 appears by permission of Rooglewood Press

  This volume contains a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons (living or dead) from the past 3000 years is entirely coincidental.

  Thank you for downloading this ebook. This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be copied or re-sold.

  Distributed by Kindle Direct

  Cover by Bulbous Squirrel Design.

  This book is also available in print.

  To my many professors of Hebrew and ancient Near Eastern studies—

  both those who have enjoyed my stories

  and those whom I will never, ever tell that I am a fiction writer.

  Thank you all.

  And to RP, who always thinks that the story is fine just the way it is.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  OVERPOWERED

  >MAP<

  >CHARACTER LIST<

  Before.

  Alef.

  Bet.

  Gimel.

  Dalet.

  Heh.

  Vav.

  Zayin.

  Khet.

  Tet.

  Yod.

  Kaf.

  After.

  >Acknowledgements<

  >About the Author<

  >More by this Author<

  BONUS FEATURES

  Author Interview

  The History Behind Overpowered

  Cut Scenes

  Bonus Short: The Man in the Mirror

  Guardian of Our Beauty Sneak Peek

  You May Also Like…

  HA’ANASHIM (CHARACTER LIST)

  The character’s primary name is given first.

  Snow (Taliyah bat Shammai)A fugitive

  CypressA commander

  CedarA giant

  ThornA blood criminal

  FigA vinedresser

  Vine (Zurishaddai bin Pelati’el)A renegade

  Yotam bin Yerubba’la (Olive)A dreamer

  Willow (Elishama)A servant

  The Avenger of Blood (Zeb)A hunter

  Abimalk bin Yerubba’laA king

  AzriA subordinate

  Oyeb bin Sa’akA mercenary

  Before.

  Here it lies, between two mountains: the ancient city of the Dawn, the Thrice-Fortified. Fortified once: held in the heart of the hills. Fortified twice: surrounded close with stone. Fortified thrice: guarded by blessing and curse.

  In ages past, when the Great Kings of the Black Land stretched their hands northward along the sea, a king had arisen at the Dawn and forged the masterless men of the hill country into an army. With his right hand he offered tribute to the Great Kings, while with his left he harassed their vassals, taking a tithe in silver from every caravan that passed through his lands. Even the mighty armies of the south could not pry King Labayu from the hills.

  The Black Land dwindled and the rains came, and peace came to the Dawn. With the coming of peace the kings passed away, for kings arise for war.

  The kings passed away, but the people of the Dawn, the sons of Labayu, they remembered: we had kings once.

  We had kings once.

  Then the Yeshurnim came, a mighty multitude of men and flocks and families. They crossed the Downward River with swords in their hands and a prayer on their lips, and they claimed the hill country as their own. Town by town, generation by generation, they claimed it.

  They claimed the Dawn and gave it to their holy ones, the servants of the Overpowerer, for it was written in their scrolls: When you come to the land that I have sworn to your fathers to give you, you shall set apart for yourselves cities of refuge, that the one who slays a man in error may flee there. You shall give these cities to the priests. The cities shall be for you a refuge from the Avenger of Blood, that the murderer may not die until he has stood before the congregation for judgment.

  Year by year, men came to the city of the Dawn for refuge: the fearful and the angry, the broken and the arrogant. Blood criminals were many, for there was no ruler among the Yeshurnim and every man did what was right in his own eyes. The men of the plains raided the hills, and the men of the hills robbed all who thought to cross through the passes. Yet though there was no ruler and no army, a murderer was not safe: for there was always an Avenger.

  Years passed. And it happened that a day came, and a leader arose in Yeshurun. Yerubba’la bin Yo’ash drove the men of the plains from the hills in a strange victory, and for a little while he brought law to the hill country of the Dawn. But this was not altogether a matter for rejoicing, for the days of Yerubba’la reminded the sons of the Dawn: This is the power of a judge. How much greater is the power of a king!

  Alef.

  Taliyah fled through the dark, stumbling over the rocks at the bottom of the wadi. As she went she wiped her hands on her skirt, but she did not look down to see if they were clean. She was sure that they were not.

  Perhaps she should have stayed. She could have called her father’s wife, then run for help; perhaps her cousin could have been saved.

  No. She thought of the bright blood, blooming against her cousin’s linen tunic, and could not imagine that anything could have helped him. His breath had been rough in his throat even as he fell to the earth. No. He must have been dead before she rushed down the banks of the dry wadi, before she turned her foot toward the hill country.

  She could not go back. They would have discovered his body hours ago. They would suspect that she had done it—would see her flight as a sign of guilt.

  Ayeh. She had done it, and she was guilty.

  I killed him, she told herself, but the thought slid through her mind and would not settle. I killed him.

  She slipped in loose sediment and fell to her knees, ripping her skirt on the rocks. The side of her leg burned where she had scraped it, but she hardly noticed.

  I should have stayed. I should have stayed and faced the elders. She could have gone to them with her bloody hands instead of running away from all that she knew. In a day, two days, the matter could have been over and done.

  It would have ended in stones, she thought. Her father’s wife would have insisted on it.

  Stoning was a cruel death. Yet would this running end any less cruelly? She had no food, no water. She didn’t know where she was going.

  And her hands were still bloody. That was the worst thing of all.

  The stars were bright tonight, but not bright enough to light her way. She was thankful for the dark. Don’t look at me. Do not see me, Overpowerer. Let me escape your gaze.

  There were tears on her face, but she did not wipe them away. She did not know they were there.

  Somewhere nearby the curlew cried, mourning for the lost sun. Its call sounded like words to the shivering girl. Too late for you! Too late for you!

  It was too late. With a broken potsherd she had killed her cousin, and she had killed Taliyah bat Shammai in the same moment—a death not as swift, but just as sure.

  **

  There was mourning in Aphirah. Yerubba’la, the great hero, had lain down with his fathers. His sons had gathered to lament at his tomb—all but one.

  Abimalk bin Yerubba’la did not go to weep at his father’s grave. He put no ashes on his head or sackcloth on his body. Instead, he travelled to the city of his mother’s people, the city of the Dawn. He went to those among the leaders who were of the ancient stock of the place, the men whose clans had dwelt there long before the Yeshurnim came. And he s
aid, “Why should the proud sons of the Dawn bow down to the seventy offspring of a Yeshurni warrior? Is it not better to have one ruler rather than many?”

  And his mother’s kin whispered, “We had kings once. Why should we not have kings again?”

  **

  The sun rose above the hills, shooting his rays westward like a warrior’s arrows. The morning light found the girl still travelling. She had been climbing steadily for some time, following the wadi up into the mountains. Fear had fallen away and tears dried up, replaced with the wide-open eyes of exhaustion.

  A small herd of gazelles, browsing on the bushes that lined the dry bed of the wadi, threw up their heads as she neared them. They stared at her, dew glistening on their golden backs. Suddenly, one spun and went up the bank in a single bound. The rest followed, even the smallest managing the steep slope with ease.

  The sudden movement startled the girl, and she froze in place, eyes watching long after the gazelles were gone. She licked dry lips, and realized that she was thirsty.

  She sucked the dew from the leaves of the saltbush, every movement slow and careful. She was too weary to be quick, too wise to risk a fall. Having chosen to run, she must keep going.

  The Avenger would be coming.

  How quickly would her cousin’s family choose their Avenger? Her father’s wife had a brother yet alive. Perhaps he would come, his face set like flint, a bronze axe in his hand. He would be annoyed at the inconvenience of the task, but not troubled by the thought of what he would do when he found her. He might even be pleased if she fled into some deserted place, for then he need not bury her body.

  Or perhaps one of his sons would come. Perhaps all of them would come, hunting her down like prey. She could almost hear Tsavo and Huppim laughing like hyenas. After all, they need not be quiet to hunt her. She could not bound away like a gazelle.

  She shuddered. After her uncle had died, of course her father had to provide for his widow; but why had her uncle ever married into such a family? If he had not done so, her cousin would never have been born. Far better if he had never seen the light of the sun!

  She recognized the thought almost before she had finished it, and cried Overpowerer, forgive— before she knew what she was doing. But then she cut off that thought as well, turning her back to the sun that she need not see it blazing at her like an angry eye.

  “Why should I scorn them? I’ve done a worse thing than any of my cousin’s kin,” she whispered to the ancient hills. She climbed from the narrowing wadi, set her face to the east, and began to walk once more.

  **

  Three days later, the girl sheltered in a grove of date palms, watching smoke rise from a tiny village set on the rockiest part of a rocky slope. Her stomach growled. She might have taken a few dates—what was theft to a murderer?—but they weren’t ripe.

  I will go up and ask for a piece of bread, she told herself. It was not such a strange thing to ask. She had handed out many pieces of bread to travelers when she lived safe in her father’s house.

  I will be brave. I will ask, even if no one offers me a blessing.

  She had passed through a village the day before, but everyone had looked at her so coldly that she hadn’t spoken to anyone. She had walked on with her eyes straight ahead, stopping only for a drink from the well. How her heart had longed for a kind word!

  This village was even smaller than yesterday’s. She hoped that didn’t mean they would be even more suspicious of strangers.

  She stepped softly on the narrow path as she approached the houses, lifting her feet to spare her battered sandals. But before she passed between them she heard a grinding noise: the sound of a millstone turning. She could have wept at the familiar comfort of the sound. She paused, then turned off the path, following her ears.

  Yes—there was a woman, grinding barley. Sweat gleamed on her skin as she pushed the stone around and around. Just beyond her, a little child sat playing in the dust, piling rocks into a tower.

  “Peace to you,” the girl said, her voice cracking.

  The woman paused, looking up. “Peace,” she said, squinting. “Who are you?”

  The girl took a sharp breath, feeling as if she had been struck. How could she answer even this simple question? “T-Taliyah,” she answered, for she did not want to lie. Surely it was safe to give her name? Such a common name, to be named for the Overpowerer’s dew! “I’m travelling eastward.”

  The woman hummed under her breath. “Then why cross the mountains here?”

  The girl knew nothing about the routes through the hills. If it had not been for the sun, she could never have kept a straight path through the slopes and ridges and tiny valleys. “Lady, your maidservant knows no better,” she said, taking refuge in politeness. “If it pleases, may I have a piece of bread? The road is long.”

  “I have no bread today.” The woman spoke in such a flat voice that the girl could not tell whether she spoke truth or deceit.

  The girl bowed her head—and her eyes fell on the dirt around the millstone. “Then if it pleases you, may I have the barley that has fallen in the dust?”

  “Thus,” the woman agreed, lifting the little boy into her arms. She stood and watched with narrowed eyes as the girl picked the kernels out of the dirt, gathering them into the front of her skirt.

  The girl did not look at the woman. A week ago she would have left fallen barley kernels to the goat and the pigeons; now she was grateful for every one.

  When the kernels of barley were nearly gone, the woman turned abruptly and went into the house. She came out without the child, but with a worn-out cloth lying across her arm. She thrust it at Taliyah. “Cover your head,” she ordered. “It’s not safe for a woman on the road alone.”

  The girl didn’t know whether the gift came from kindness or the desire to keep trouble from her gates, so she took it with a tentative smile, then walked quickly away.

  The village woman was right. It wasn’t safe for a woman to travel alone; but the girl was alone, and she had to travel, so what could she do? To dress as a man was a crime…

  Foolish. She was already guilty of a far worse crime. How many times was she going to forget that? There were moments when the crying of her cousin’s blood rang in her ears, and moments when she forgot it completely. Would the truth ever settle in her heart?

  She felt the woman’s gaze on her back as she scrambled down the hill to the northeast.

  At last the village was out of sight behind her, and Taliyah slowed her steps. She climbed onto a rock, avoiding a bush covered in delicate white flowers and tiny sharp thorns. She looked around her, eyes searching the hills. To the south, she saw a patch of green; a spring? Some gray shapes that might have been sheep speckled the slopes around it. Directly east, the mountains rose in shattered spires. She had no desire to climb their yellow slopes. To the north were more hills, but there was a gap between the two nearest, and perhaps a gap in the ridge behind them. Beyond that, the hills faded into blue distance.

  North. She could go north; why not? After all, as a murderer, what better place would there be for her than the Refuge? She had heard of the city of the Dawn, though she had never met anyone who had travelled so far. Perhaps she could lose herself among other blood criminals.

  North to the Refuge, the girl decided. She finished the last of her barley and dusted herself off, then turned her feet toward the gap between the hills.

  She walked as swiftly as she might, stretching each stride until her thighs ached. She did not look at the sky, not wanting to meet the sun’s stern gaze, nor yet to see it sinking to its rest. Though she had spent only a few nights under the naked heavens, she had already learned to dread the dark.

  She did not stop until the moon rose, casting strange shadows that set her stumbling. At last she crouched in the shelter of a bush to munch the handful of half-withered wild onions she had gathered on her way. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine that she was already in the Refuge—somewhere safe and walled. She would
sleep in the dirtiest corner, scrub floors, card wool in unending rolls, if only they would let her stay there.

  She heard a jackal’s howl. The girl gritted her teeth and wormed farther under the bush. Ayeh. She wished she could pray, but surely the Overpowerer would scorn her prayers now. Perhaps he would even send the jackals here to slay her. Cowards by day, a pack at night could be dangerous.

  The jackals cried again, sounding nearer. The girl couldn’t keep from opening her eyes a crack. A mist had risen in the valley, and she could not see far. Was that a reddish shape moving through the mist?

  An owl wailed overhead, and the girl pressed her face into her hands, holding back tears. It’s only an owl. Nothing to fear, nothing to fear…

  But all the stories her father told were coming back to her now. Of owls-not-owls, the white-winged kos of the wastelands who hunted the ghosts of the unburied dead. Of hyraxes-not-hyraxes, the brown-furred pazir, who kept the orchards of the righteous and stole the children of the wicked. Of jackals-not-jackals and goats-not-goats. Of winged lions and bulls with the heads of eagles, and the dragon that lived in the well.

  Long ago when her mother had been alive the girl had woken crying from a nightmare. “Immah, it was the tannim—they came to drag me away,” she had sobbed.

  “Peace, Taliyah. The tann cannot touch you. None of the nade qitorim, the mist wanderers, can touch you. The Overpowerer protects us.”

  The girl was not protected any more.

  She fell asleep thinking of her father’s stories, and perhaps that is why she had the dream.

  She dreamed that she lay on the ground with open eyes, staring into the swirling mist. The mist was damp on her skin, gathering into drops like tears on her cheeks and hair, yet it did not smell like water. It smelled like cinnamon, like lightning.

  She dreamed that a pair of silver-eyed jackals came out of the mist. They looked at her and laughed, and their laughter was like the laughter of men. “What do you think, brother? Is the creature forsaken?” one asked the other, tongue lolling.