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The Orphan
Peter Lerangis
The adventure continues… Read more thrilling stories in the the epic series, Seven Wonders.“A high-octane mix of modern adventure and ancient secrets… I can’t wait to see what’s next.” Rick RiordanThis is the story of Daria, a twelve-year-old orphan abandoned among the Babylonians. It chronicles her valiant battle to rescue her best friend from certain death and to escape the only city she’s ever called home.Read the stories. Join the quest. The Seven Wonders await.
Contents
Cover (#u8e5dc54a-9bb6-5b17-b8aa-3f2667a255ca)
Title Page (#u7ab87650-47b4-55e5-b1e9-406de332d0c6)
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Footnotes (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#uebaa1a08-2a60-5150-863f-9a28a69e129c)
GO, DARIA. NOW.
My knees shook. I stood before the gate of the King’s Garden, trying not to look at the magnificent people who strolled in and out. I did not want my eyes, my face, to give me away. I hoped my clean tunic would fool them. I hoped that on this afternoon they would not see me as a street urchin, a slave, a wardum, a creature of the dirt.
My plan was crazy. But my friend Frada lay dying, and I needed to save her. I had to do the unthinkable. And fast. Pressing down the wrinkles of my garment, I held my head high and stepped through the gate.
I was greeted by a blast of bad breath. “Step aside!” bellowed a royal guard, dragging a large sack. “King Nabu-na’id the Great approaches!”
The king? Now?
I leaped back into the street, as the guard repeated the command in several languages—Anatolian, Greek, Akkadian, Judean, Persian. People from so many different lands had come to Babylon years ago, before Sippar came. Before Babylon had been cut off from the rest of the world. Over time, listening carefully, I had come to understand nearly all their tongues. A useful skill for one who must survive in the streets.
Looking up the hill I saw the royal chariot drawing near, attended by four miserable-looking slaves. The crowd stepped back, bowing low.
“Here it is, my lord and master!” the brutish guard yelled. With a grunt, he threw the sack into the street, the Boulevard of the Gardens. “The last one!”
The bundle thumped heavily, raising a cloud of dust tinged with red.
Blood red.
The crowd surged forward to look. They pushed me aside, blocking my view. Gasps erupted all around. An old woman fell to her knees in shock. A small boy began to cry. I wriggled my way through, and soon I saw what the ragged sack really was—a man, dressed in tatters and beaten to a lump.
I turned away. In the reign of Nabu-na’id the Nasty, violence was more plentiful than sunshine. As the chariot stopped, the king did not bother to glance downward. His beard, elaborately oiled and curled, glinted in the sun. “Bel-Shar-Usur,” he barked, his voice like a dragon’s rasp, “what says the rebel now?” Bel-Shar-Usur, the royal vizier, slid from his chariot seat. Although he was ancient and stooped, he was said to be the son of the king. His steely-gray eyes flitted wildly, as if each eyeball were possessed by an enraged, trapped insect—yet somehow, miraculously, he saw everything. Stepping toward the crumpled man, Bel-Shar-Usur used a gnarled olive-branch cane to turn him faceup. If the world were merciful, the man would be dead. But his eyes turned upward, showing unspeakable pain, as he muttered a tiny plea in the language of the Greeks. “Kind king, I am a father of four and have done nothing wrong.”
“Wretched rebel,” Bel-Shar-Usur said, “I’m afraid apologies are too late.”
The king yawned and carefully, lavishly, picked his nose. By the look on his face, I could tell this action gave him great pleasure. “Dear Bel-Shar-Usur, you must properly learn the many languages of Babylon,” he said, holding out his crusty finger for a slave to clean. “The rebel apologizes not. He speaks Persian. He tells me I stink like a dead lizard. Burn him—and let all Babylon know that the rebels have been eliminated!”
My heart sank as I tried to make sense of these lies. Both the king and his son had lied about the man’s plea. He didn’t apologize, he proclaimed his innocence—and he didn’t speak Persian!
But what of the rebels—Zinn’s warriors, the Children of Amytis—had they been eliminated? They were heroes to the common people, dreamers, masters of disguise and disruption. Their ancestors served the second Nabu-Kudurri-Usur, the Good King. Back then, they had been valued and encouraged. Now they were exiled and hunted by the royal guards. I had always dreamed of becoming one of them.
If they were truly dead, there was no hope.
As four slaves carried the victim away, the crowd gossiped. “What was his crime?” asked a woman with a kind, concerned face.
“The man is not a rebel,” muttered a gray-bearded man with a Greek accent. He glanced toward the Royal Garden, its walls cascading with color, its flowers exploding with fresh scents. “Here was his crime: He clipped a small sprig of ivy to put in his little daughter’s hair.”
My knees turned to liquid. I had to grip a tree to keep from falling.
Beaten and condemned to death? For clipping a vine?
Over the walls, I could see a distant canopy of leaves. It was the Tree of Enchantment, whose magic pomegranates held awesome powers. Chewing their seeds could cure ills, give life to the sick. Guarded night and day from intruders, the tree was the king’s most valued possession.
I was there that day on a mission. To save the life of my dying friend, Frada. To do what no one had ever done before.
I was going to steal one of the pomegranates.
CHAPTER TWO (#uebaa1a08-2a60-5150-863f-9a28a69e129c)
THERE IS ONE cure for fear.
Insanity.
That was what I told myself as I stayed put, watching the chariot go away. I was crazy. I was temporarily not myself—no longer honest Daria, trustworthy Daria. Being a bit loose in the head, I could afford to be brave.
Did this make perfect sense? No. But the thought, strange though it was, gave me courage. I stepped boldly toward the gate.
And then I started shaking.
Thief! a voice cried in my head.
No. It was not thievery to save a friend’s life. For weeks I’d tried to find a cure for Frada. I’d gathered remedies from the markets, oily salves and herb tonics from apothecaries in exchange for running errands. Nothing had worked. If anything, she’d been getting worse. In the time of the Good King, all Babylonians partook of the fruit’s magic. It was not thievery then. It was welcomed.
In a just world, it would still be thus. But we were in the time of Nabu-na’id now.
They beat to death a man who stole a tiny clipping! What will they do to someone who steals a magic pomegranate?
They would kill me. Of course. But did I have a choice? How could I live with myself if I allowed my friend to die?
I adjusted the empty pouch that hung from my belt. Carefully I drew a gray shawl around my head and tied it in place, to hide my blue eyes, bright red hair, and fair skin. Those qualities made me stand out in Babylon. On a day when I was about to break one of the king’s most sacred laws, my appearance was like a bull’s-eye on my back. Dressed as I was, I would look like any other girl—or even boy.
Go. Now. Before you lose your nerve.
I stepped through the gate.
The warmth and beauty filled me with hope. Pathways wound through arbors and among flower beds. Waves of fragrance, strong and exotic, wafted over me. And these were merely the formal outlying gardens, acres and acres surrounding the grandest achievement of Babylon—Mother’s Mountain.
This was a structure of extraordinary height, spilling with the rarest and most colorful flowers. It was named for Queen Amytis, the wife of Nabu-Kudurri-Usur, who was called the Mother of All Babylonians. Nabu-na’id insisted we call it the Hanging Gardens, to erase the memory of the Good Queen. Now it loomed proudly in the distance. In a place so peaceful and lovely, how could there not be magic?
I stood close to a wealthy noble family, hoping people would think I was their servant. As soon as we were past the first bend, I peeled away. I wound through stone-paved paths, intoxicated by waves of perfume. When I reached a stone fountain, burbling with water spouted by stone fish, I stopped in my tracks.
There, rising high over my head, was the wall of the Inner Grove.
It was made of clay bricks and mortar, the height of at least three Darias. Guards marched to and fro, clad in gleaming metal chest pieces and headgear ornately crafted in bronze and iron. Each had a spear in hand and a sword on his belt. Any of these weapons could slice me quicker than I could open a pomegranate.
I stilled my pounding heart. But a person did not survive in the streets without wiles. I knew that my eyes were my best allies. I had to trust what I saw. I lingered by the fountain, pretending to daydream but watching fiercely.
The guards were bored and tired. They were also walking at a regular pace, back and forth, so that the closest section of the wall remained unguarded for … how long?
I counted slowly. At exactly the count of seven, a guard appeared again. Then he vanished and I counted again. Eight. That gave me a good idea of how much time I had.
Just above the wall I saw the spindly branches of a tree rising from the other side. If I climbed to the top, I could grab on and slide down inside. It would not hold the weight of a full-sized thief, but I am light—and fast.
I waited. The guards’ footsteps receded, leaving the wall to me.
Go!
I leaped toward the wall, digging my work-toughened fingers and sandaled feet into the nooks, crannies, and vines. But they were tiny, and the wall was slickened by sap. I would never make it in time.
As I reached for the top, I heard rustling directly below me and felt my grip slipping.
The guard’s voice shouted, “What do you think you’re doing?” as I pulled myself up, ripping free the last vine I held.
CHAPTER THREE (#uebaa1a08-2a60-5150-863f-9a28a69e129c)
MY EYES BLINKED open. I was on the ground. Facing upward.
I sprang to my feet. Where was he? Where was the guard?
I nearly jumped at the sound of his voice—but it was from the other side of the wall. I had fallen inside the Inner Grove. He could not see me, nor I him! “Hiding behind a bush—sleeping, Marcellus?” grunted the voice. I had to adjust it in my mind. He was speaking Judean. “I should report you!”
“But you won’t,” another voice replied, “because I’ll tell the king you called him a fish-footed lizard!”
The two guards laughed. But in truth, they didn’t care. I suppose they disliked the king, too.
Most important, they hadn’t seen me.
The air was damp and heavy. I glanced around. The king’s Inner Grove was choked with plants, trees, shrubs, flowers, vines. I tried to feel good that I’d made it inside. There were places for me to hide, but my mind held only one thought:
What is hiding from me?
I saw shadows everywhere. I tried not to think about the Babylonian legends that passed in whispers at night. The Unspeakables. The monsters who were said to roam the grove at night, watching over Mother’s Mountain—giant black birds with metal for skin, monkey-like creatures who spat fire—all were guarded by the biggest monster of all, the evil sightless Kranag.
Nonsense. Childish. Even when I was hardly old enough to carry a full water jug I didn’t believe these tales.
I steeled myself, thought of Frada and how frail and near death she seemed, and I pushed forward, toward the Tree of Enchantment.
And then the dense brush ended abruptly, and there was the pomegranate tree. In the afternoon sun, its leaves seemed to dance with the passing breeze. I was no stranger to gardening. I had seen magnificent plants and trees before. I had coaxed dying plants into glorious life. But this was like a living, breathing being, as thick as clouds, as glorious as a song.
I drew closer, eyeing a half-dozen fist-sized fruits, right at my eye level. A tree that size should have carried dozens, maybe hundreds of pomegranates, but its offerings were few. Special and rare.
My fingers shook in the dappled sunlight as I reached out and pulled.
With a soft snap, the reddish-brown fruit came loose. I had it. The pomegranate was mine.
But before I could move away, I heard a strange, strangled sound. A hollow Zoo-kulululu! Cack! Cack! Cack! like a fierce roar forcing itself through a tiny slit. Whatever had caused it was inside the tree—behind a drooping branch in front of my eyes. What on earth could it be?
Run! screamed a voice in my head.
I should have listened to my instinct. I don’t know what made me reach out, pull the leaves aside. Curiosity, I guess. Or maybe insanity. But when I did, I was staring into a knothole.
And two inky black eyes were staring back.
I stumbled back, nearly dropping the pomegranate. With a flutter of wings, a black creature flew out of the tree toward me. It had the mask of a wolf and the body of a hawk. Its feathers were a black so pure that it shone almost blue in the light. As I dropped to the ground, its feathers grazed my cheek. And then, with another screech, it was gone.
My heart pounded. I had startled it. It meant no harm. But as it flew over the tree canopies, surely the guards would see it. Would they suspect an intruder?
I had to move. I placed the pomegranate in the pouch that hung from my waist and ran to the wall, crashing through the underbrush.
