The Secret Chord by Geraldine Brooks Read Free Book Online

in the dark—could have broken his neck—and on Prince Amnon’s own mule, no less, so that he could make good time. My mother’s been locked up in her chamber weeping, ever since Yonadav told her she’s required to speak to you.”
    Nizevet, the name I had not known. The one I must speak to first of all. So she was their mother. All the time I had known David, I had never heard her name. There might be two reasons for a man to hold his mother in such obscurity. He could wish to shield a woman’s honor by seeing that she was not spoken of, or he might be in some way ashamed of his begetting. Shammah gave no clue as to which might be the case, but he continued to vent his displeasure. “I don’t like it, and she likes it even less.” He turned aside and spat into the dust. “I warn you, if you cause her any further distress . . .” He did not finish his threat, for she had appeared in the doorway of the smallest dwelling, leaning heavily on the arm of a young girl.
    â€œIt’s all right, Shammah.” A voice with a quaver that betrayed age, yet a lilting, melodious voice. David’s voice, in female form. “If the king wants this, so be it. He must have reasons that seem good to him.”
    â€œReasons? What reasons? Picking at old scars till they bleed—what good can possibly come of it? But you always favored him. Do what you will.”
    Shammah shrugged his immense shoulders and turned away. He lifted the heavy door bar as if it were a straw stalk, flung back the door and strode through, walking at an agitated pace down the hill toward the town. Nizevet raised her head and looked after him, until the boy who had taken my mule ran across the courtyard and drew the door closed. She turned her eyes on me then. They were the king’s eyes: the same luminous amber that seemed to entrap light and shadow. Though hers were swathed in folds of tired flesh, they were set wide and deep, like his, with strong brows defining them.
    â€œForgive Shammah. He, too, has his reasons for his actions. Andthey seem good to him. You will know why, presently, I dare say.” She moved with some effort toward the table, and we sat, the blown blossoms falling upon us like snowflakes. There were bowls of hyacinths about our feet.
    The girl set a pillow behind Nizevet’s frail shoulders and poured watered wine, and then withdrew into the shadow of the portico. You couldn’t see her, but I could hear the scrape of her hand mill, the coarse basalt rider passing over the slab of the saddle, crushing the last season’s wheat. Perhaps Shammah had instructed her to stay close and lend an ear to what was said.
    I set out the reed pens and the phial of ink I had blended, and waited. When the old woman began to speak, her voice had a slight rattle, like a breeze through dry grass. She spoke in low tones, so that I had to strain to hear her.
    â€œâ€˜Tell Natan everything.’ That was the king’s message. His order.” Her mouth thinned as she said this. There was an awkward silence between us.
    â€œThe message did not please Shammah. It does not please you.”
    â€œPlease me? How should it please me? I have lived very quiet all these years. The story of the king has never included me, and for good reason. I never thought he would want anyone to hear what I have buried so long in silence. You will have to be patient with me, therefore. These things that he suddenly bids told are not easy things. After all the good that has come to him, I cannot think why he wants to probe these old wounds. ‘Tell Natan,’ my son says. As if it were nothing. Well. Maybe it is, to him, now . . .”
    Her voice trailed off, and she looked away from me, her eyes welling. The girl was at her side in a moment, offering a bowl of rosewater and a cool cloth. Nizevet took it, and pressed it to her brow for a moment. Her face was scored all over with lines,