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In the desert, wealth was not measured in cattle after all. Calves were born, and kids, and lambs, but they didn't live long without pasturage for their mothers, and there was no grass where it did not rain. And rain was rare.

There were storms -- plenty of storms, as many as ever. But there was no moisture in them. Instead, when clouds appeared on the horizon, people shuttered their windows and brought their animals inside so they would not be suffocated by the dust. The lands to the north were so dry that every storm scooped up their soil and carried it out across the land between the rivers, down through Canaan, choking cattle, burying fences and fields, blinding travelers, and turning the feeble drought-stricken rivers into beds of mud. Grasses struggled to rise above the dust, sheep to graze through it. The beards of goats were caked with mud, as if they had been trying to eat the very soil. In a dry season, storms brought no relief, they only forced the drought inside houses, tents, mouths, noses, ears, and eyes.

Abram had not impoverished himself with his extravagant bride-price. Indeed, Sarai soon realized that his gesture had been wise. There wasn't water enough or grass for the vast herds that Abram once had owned. If he had sold them all at once, the price would have been so low that everyone would have known he sold from desperation. The cruel laws of the marketplace would have guaranteed that he would be charged higher prices for everything, and paid less for what he sold. But by using the cattle as a bride-price, Abram rid himself of herds he could not feed while enhancing his reputation for wealth. His credit and reputation everywhere were enhanced.

Early in their marriage, Sarai had moments when she wondered if that was the only reason he had returned for her. But he was such a loving husband that she could not believe such a thing for long. In all his labors, in all his traveling from well to well and herd to herd, in all his sending of servants and taking account of those who returned, he always had time for her. Nor did he keep her from knowing of his business. He would meet with his men or with his visitors at the door of his tent, so that she could sit in the door of hers, just across from them, and spin or sew as she heard all that passed. She kept her silence; they did not notice or soon forgot that she was there. But afterward, Abram would come to her tent and talk with her until she understood what she had heard, and it was not too long before she knew the work of a nomadic chief as well as she had understood the protocols of a king's house, or the mysteries of Asherah.

He included her in his life, and she in turn longed to include him in her own. But of course a bride had no life at first, except the gossip of her aging handmaid Bitute, a Sumerian slave who had passed all her years serving the women of Sarai's mother's family. What could she tell Abram of her day? "Bitute brushed out my hair and then we both carded wool until our hands were raw. Then we spun and spun until I see the distaff before my eyes even when I close them. All the while, Bitute kept reassuring me that I'll have a baby soon, that it's just a matter of time, some women conceive slowly but it means the child will be a boy, and very strong, don't worry about it, your husband will love you at last when you give him his first son, and is that true, Abram, will your love for me only begin when I conceive a child?"

No, she made no report to him of days trapped with a well-meaning old woman who did not know how her words cut Sarai to the heart. "And don't you believe those who say that Asherah dries up the wombs of girls who break their oaths. It wasn't you who took the oath, young mistress, and besides, Asherah has many priestesses, she can spare such a beautiful young princess, she's not spiteful." Sarai did not bother to explain to Bitute that there was no such god as Asherah, and therefore no possibility of her drying up wombs or filling them. Nor did Sarai ask Abram for reassurance -- she already knew what he believed, and it would only trouble him to think that his wife was nagged by the worry that an imaginary god was wreaking vengeance on her.

She did try to find out how he felt about it, especially after the first year of their marriage. "Does it worry you that God has not yet blessed you with a son?" she asked him. He looked up, distracted, as if the question were utter nonsense. "God has never failed me before," he said. "Why would he start now?" And when he saw that this did not reassure her -- after all, it was not God but Sarai who had failed him in this -- he took her in his arms and laughed and said, "I married the woman, not the babies she might have. But there will be babies, lots of them I imagine."

He was sincere, but she knew that his words were false all the same. He might think he married the woman, but a man marries to have sons -- all the more when he needs menchildren to receive his priesthood and carry it on. God was tied up in every part of Abram's life, this not least. Abram must want a child in his arms, a child on little legs, to be hoisted up to the back of a donkey and taken with his father to the hill to see to the sheep, or to the riverbed to watch over the cattle, or to the altar to witness the sacrifice.

Sarai saw the servants' babies and every happy cry, every fitful squall, every greedy slurp at the breast was like a knife in her heart.

Patience, she told herself. Have faith as Abram has faith. Qira has had two children -- girls, it's true, but it was a sign that her family did not have barren daughters.

And thus she passed her days, and her months, season after season, until she could not call herself a girl anymore, could not tell herself that it was just as well, she was too young to bear children, being hardly more than a child herself. Girlchildren born the year of her marriage were ten years old now, eleven. When they began to marry and bear children the reproach would be unbearable. Maybe then she would have to tell Abram they could pretend no longer, that it was time for him to put her aside and marry a woman who could bear him sons.

On nights when she thought such thoughts, she tried to pray, but found the words bitter in her mouth. I gave up all for you, God of Abram. But now my womb tells me that Asherah, not you, has all the power over me.

She covered her mouth with her hands, but knew that God had heard her already. It was too late to call back the words she had spoken to a god, even when they had not come to her lips, for the gods could hear the words that were whispered in the heart. O, forgive me, God of Abram. I have faith only in thee.

That was in the night. By day those fears faded in the heat of the morning. Each pasture was smaller, the grass shorter than it had been the year before, and even with far smaller herds the pasture was too soon exhausted. Years before, Abram and Lot had separated their herds, because their men had begun to quarrel over whose cattle were being allowed to overgraze. But now, though Lot had sold most of his herds and now lived as a man of land and wealth in the city of Sodom, Abram's herds alone were too many for what grass remained. Little was said, but Sarai could see from the grim faces of the men how things were going. From their faces, and from the fact that they feasted on goat or mutton or beef every night. They grew sick of meat, and not just from having too much of it. It was Abram's wealth, his future they were eating, because the rain had not fallen, and the grass was not growing, and the cattle were starving. They were devouring the inheritance of the children Sarai had not yet borne.

"What if," said Abram one hot afternoon, sprawling wearily beside her on the rugs piled in her tent, "what if we went to Sodom with Lot?"

"You love the city life so much," said Sarai.

Abram sighed. "Sodom least of all. A vile place. But I don't have connections anywhere else."

"My father's city," Sarai reminded him, then realized her error at once. "I forgot. He has no city."

"Ur of Sumeria is in the hands of his enemies, and Ur-of-the-north is full of mine," said Abram. "Ah, Sarai, I've already written to him, asking what's possible there. This drought is too much for me. Already we stray so far out of our range that the risk of war is constant. We'll come to a well where they've never heard of me or my family, and those who think of the water as their own will draw swords, and what then? Will I spend my life with my sword against every man, stealing water from them in order to keep my own herds and house?"

"Surely the drought will pass soon," said Sarai.

"I hear that often," said Abram, "but it isn't so. This drought has already lasted longer than I've been alive."

"No, Abram, there was rain often in my childhood."

"No, Sarai. I know what the rainfall has been for the past fifty years."

"How can you remember what happened before you were born?"

He shook his head. "A woman who can read and write, and still she wonders."

"Your family kept records of the rain?"

"So do priests in every city," said Abram. "They learned their duties from my ancestors -- how could they pretend to be priests if they didn't do what we did? This is the same drought that killed my brother Haran, Lot's father, all those years ago, choking his life out in the dust that filled the air day after day, month after month. This is the drought that killed the grasslands and drove the Amorites from the desert to conquer your father's city. This is the drought that emptied the cities of Canaan and left only herdsmen to wander the half-buried streets."

He made the desolation of the land sound like poetry. "But there are good years," said Sarai.

"There are years not quite as bad," said Abram. "My father remembers a day when the land was green as far as the eye could see. You could stand on a mountain and see herds of deer and antelope running free right along with the herds of cattle. There were even elephants then -- giant beasts like hillocks. The most daring goats would take shelter in their shadows in the afternoon. There was land and water enough for all in those days, and no one envied the people of the cities, huddled in their little huts, digging ditches for the river water because their crops couldn't live from the rain, even though it came as regular as daylight. In all our lives, we've never seen such times, because they're gone. The world my father knew is gone. And I don't know if we can hold on to such a way of life for another year. It isn't about the cattle anymore. I have all these people in my house. I can't hold them here, where their children live ever closer to the edge of starvation, of death by thirst when the next dust storm buries the last well."

"They'll stay with you."

"I don't doubt that," said Abram, "for a long time, anyway. But when I say I can't hold them, I speak of my duty, not of their obedience."

"What of the dangers of the city?"

"I know," he sighed. "What good is it to save the lives of their children, only to lose their souls in Sodom?"

Sarai realized now why he had chosen this moment to come to her and say these things. "Eliadab is back from Sodom," she said.

"I saw his red cloak far off," said Abram. "He'll have letters from Lot and Qira."

"From Qira." Sarai could not restrain a dry laugh.

"It's good that your sister can write to you," said Abram.

"Just because she can mark the syllables doesn't mean she has anything to say."

Abram laughed. "What she says, even when she says nothing, is that she cares for you."

"Oh, Abram, must I be virtuous every moment?"

"Virtue is supposed to be alive in the heart, not put on and off like a burden."

"Sometimes, my love, virtues conflict."

Abram raised an eyebrow.

"Do I speak kindly of my sister at all times, or do I speak honestly to my husband?"

"Just see to it that you speak kindly of the husband."

"So loyalty is better than honesty?"

He roared at her, pounced on her, all in play, but it was a delight to see him light-hearted at such a heavy time. Soon enough the distant red cloak became a dust-covered man on a weary donkey, handing a bag to Abram.

They read sitting in the doorway of the shadier tent -- hers, at this time of day. Other men might have tried to conceal that their wives could read, but Abram was proud of Sarai's learning, and so they set aside the letters from Qira and sat together reading Lot's letter.

It was bitter news.

Strangers aren't welcome here. More and more wells are failing, and we're importing grain from Egypt. Every stranger is regarded as a thief, stealing water. I can't bring you here, or to any of the five cities of the plain, not till we see whether the spring rains come. Indeed, I was about to write to you, to ask if we could take refuge with you until this drought ends. I see now that we are better off separated. At least my wife consented to leave the city. Thirst for water is apparently stronger than dread of boredom.

"He doesn't understand Qira," said Sarai. "It isn't boredom she fears, it's loneliness. She needs faces around her, lots of them, and the sound of many voices."

"I've seen a tree full of monkeys that would do very nicely for her," said Abram. "I'm glad I got the sister who doesn't need chattering."

"Oh? And what do I need?" asked Sarai.

"You are the lioness standing alone over the kill, waiting for her mate to come and dine before her, driving off the jackals and the vultures."

Sarai was not at all sure how she felt about this image of her, but she'd think about it later. "We aren't going to Sodom," said Sarai. "And we can't stay here."

"I wondered about building a boat," said Abram. "It worked for my ancestor Noah, when he had too much water. Why not try it again when there's too little? Get out on the sea and float before the wind until we find a land that no one else has known."

"And do what?"

"Create a great nation," said Abram.

"To do that," said Sarai, "you would need children."

There. It was said.

But he didn't notice or didn't care how fearfully she had said it. "We'll have children," Abram answered simply.

She accepted his reassurance without argument. Until he understood what it meant to her, there was no use trying to prolong the discussion. "Do you want to read Qira's letter with me?"

"Will you forgive me if I don't?" asked Abram. "Unless I decide I'm serious about boatbuilding, I must find some more practical solution."

He got up and crossed the way to his own tent. To pray, Sarai knew, and between prayers to read the books that were unreadable, the ones he seemed to spend his life copying over, so that not one word would be lost. Unreadable words, for they were in a different script from the wedges of the Akkadian or the painted figures of the Egyptian language. He tried to explain it to her, that this language was written with only a few marks -- one mark for the sound "buh," no matter whether it was "bee" or "bah" or "boo" or "bay." It made no sense to Sarai -- how could you tell these syllables apart, if all the "buh" syllables used the same mark? "Bee-bah" and "bo-boo" would look exactly alike. Abram just laughed and said, "What does it matter? No one speaks the language they're written in, anyway."

"Then why do you copy it?" she asked. "If no one can read it?"

"Because the words of God can be written in any language, and he will give his servants the power to read it," said Abram.

"So you can read any language?"

"When the words are from God," said Abram. "And when God wants me to read."

"Why don't you write it down in Akkadian? Or Sumerian? Or Egyptian, so many could read it?"

"I will if God commands it," said Abram. "And not, if not."

It made Sarai feel like an illiterate after all, because she could read common messages, the tallies of the shepherds, the laws of the temple, the tales of great deeds that must be remembered. But she could not read the words of God, and Abram only sometimes read to her what was written there. "The hand of Noah wrote this," said Abram once, and then read her something that did not sound like the words of a man who had watched the world destroyed around him. When she said so, Abram answered impatiently, "This was written before the flood. When he was still trying to save the people from destruction."

"When he still had hope," she said.

"When he still had hope for them," said Abram. "He never lost hope for himself and his family."

Sarai laid out the tiles of Qira's letter. As usual, Qira took no thought for the quality of the clay on which she wrote. Or perhaps water was so scarce that they used less of it for clay-making. Three of the six tiles had cracked, and one had crumbled. It was hard to figure out in some places what she had written. Large pieces could still hold syllables, but once the clay became dust, the syllables vanished. It was a good thing that she never said anything that mattered. Sarai murmured her sister's words, uttering them in the same pitch and at the same speed that Qira herself would use.

Beloved sister I write in a rush because the girls are such hungry birds and even though I refuse to give them the breast the moment they have teeth they still will take nothing except from my hand. The burden of motherhood is a heavy one. There's never time to yourself.

Sarai's eyes stung at this. Qira had no thought of how her words might affect the one who read them. And it would only get worse.

Your messenger says you still have no baby in you but I think they have no business calling a woman barren when for all you know your husband is casting dead seed into fertile ground, why should the woman get all the blame?

The disloyalty of this was unspeakable. Did Qira blame Lot, then, for the fact that they had only daughters?

After all, Lot's the one who planted girl seeds in me.

Apparently yes.

And the way people look at you in Sodom, I sometimes think it's better to be barren than to have only girls to show for all that fattening up and screaming and bleeding and stink. It's a lot of trouble to go to, and I don't know how Father put up with the comments people make. You wouldn't believe how insensitive people can be.

Yes I would.

Of course Father is a king and people don't speak to him the way they speak to women. I swear in Sodom you'd think women were made of sticks the way we get ignored. There are festivals for men every night of the year, while the women sit home and spin. And the fine fabrics from the east and the bright colors from the north, those end up on the men's backs, like peacocks they strut. I understand it though because the women really are dull, I miss my dear sister because you were never dull. Well you were often dull but not as dull as they are, I can't even make them angry by saying outrageous things, they just look at each other as if I were a silly child who doesn't understand a thing that's happening, when it seems to me I'm the only one who even notices the world around me, they just stay indoors and take care of their babies. Those that have babies, because you'd fit right in here in Sodom, so many women are barren, only nobody ever mentions it, even though it's as obvious as can be, not a baby in the house, and these women aren't even ashamed of it, can you imagine? Not that there's any shame, but you know what I mean.

How many times can barrenness be mentioned in one letter?

Lot says you shouldn't come to Sodom after all even though I think you would get along just fine here, it's Abram who'd get in trouble, he can't ever seem to keep from pointing out sins even though everybody knows about them anyway so why point them out? Lot is finally getting used to city life though I think. He doesn't make trouble by accusing people he just gets along with everybody they all like him, I think I got the better bargain in husbands, thank you very much. I am the most sought-after woman in Sodom already, can you imagine? I call on a dozen women a day, and they're all at home! How can they bear it? What is a city for, if not to go out and see the faces of a hundred people every day? Visit me visit me visit me, the messenger gets here from your camp in only two days so why has it been years and you never found your way here? Is Abram so poor at navigating by the stars? Lot knows the name of every star. Visit me!

Sarai picked up the tiles, dumped them back into the bag, and crumbled them. There was nothing in that letter that she would want to read again. She loved her sister, but when she imagined spending hours in her company, it made her too tired and sad.

She waited outside the tent door for another half hour, spinning and spinning, while the life of the camp went on around her. Now and then someone would approach Abram's tent, wanting to speak to him, but Sarai, keeping watch just across the way, would hold up a hand and smile. Some would smile, nod, and go away. Most came to her and told her what they wanted.

At first it was only in an emergency that they would tell her their business, so she could decide whether to interrupt her husband. Sometimes, though, she simply decided what to do, knowing that her decision was exactly what Abram would have done. Only rarely had he contradicted her later, and then only because he knew of circumstances she didn't know -- and he made it a point to explain this, so that she would not lose authority. Now Abram was able to spend many hours undisturbed in his tent, while Sarah's tent gradually became the center of the camp. She enjoyed this, partly because it was a kingly role, to govern and judge, so she felt she was living out the role she was born for. But mostly she was glad that she could free Abram to do the work he cared most about -- to study and copy out the holy writing, to pray, to listen to the voice of God in his heart.

She had spun a sheepsworth of wool, it seemed to her, and dealt with a dozen minor questions, by the time Abram emerged. His face had that curious shine to it -- not light, really, but it seemed like light from his eyes, drawing her like a moth to the fire.

"What does the Lord say?" asked Sarai.

"Years ago," said Abram, "the Lord told me to get out of my father's house and go to Canaan. He said he would make a great nation out of me, and make my children a blessing to the world."

After Qira's letter, these words stung doubly. "You're getting a slow start," said Sarai.

He waved off her words, a little annoyed with her for hearing only the implicit reference to her barrenness. She couldn't help it -- he never complained about it and someone had to.

"I'm explaining to you why I've refused to go far from Canaan," he said. "Why I don't go dwell in a city, why even when I have to range far beyond Jordan I always return within a year. This is the land God has given me."

"Does he plan to let anyone else know this?" asked Sarai. "Or will they take your word for it?"

"With the Lord, things don't happen all at once," said Abram. "It might be my children or my children's children who inherit the land -- I'm content having the Lord's promise." He put his fingers to her lips to stop her from mentioning that his grandchildren could not inherit anything unless she first bore him a child or two to get things started. "Sarai, I'm explaining something."

"And I'm listening."

"For just a moment, my love, listen with your ears, and leave your lips out of it."

His grin almost kept his words from stinging.

"Sarai, the Lord today affirmed his promise. He said that he would bless those that bless me, and curse those that curse me."

"Did he mention rain?"

Abram looked heavenward in supplication.

"Sorry," said Sarai.

"The Lord mentioned," said Abram, "a journey."

"Your life is a journey," said Sarai. Then she clamped her hand over her mouth and between her fingers mumbled, "Sorry."

"To Egypt."

She sat in silence.

"Well, don't you have anything to say to that?" he demanded.

She rolled her eyes and made a great show of trying, and failing, to pry her mouth open.

"Egypt!" said Abram. "So much wisdom there, I've heard."

She made a face and rocked her head back and forth derisively.

"Just because you didn't like the Egyptians who came to Ur-of-the-North doesn't mean there's anything wrong with Egypt itself," said Abram. "Only lowborn and ambitious Egyptians, or the highborn without ambition, end up so far from the Nile. The best of them remain in Egypt, because it's not just the oldest kingdom in the world, to them it's the only kingdom."

Sarai mimed falling asleep.

"They have water in Egypt, Sarai," said Abram. "The Nile is low, but it still flows, and the flood comes every spring."

"Why would they give any to us?" she said.

"Ha! I knew you couldn't keep that silence going forever!"

"Why should I bother to speak, when you don't answer my words?" asked Sarai.

"They will give us water and food and fodder because they value knowledge. They will tell me what they know, and I will tell them what I know."

"Or they'll kill you and steal your books and read for themselves."

Abram laughed. "That would be silly. They can't read it!"

"Make sure to tell them that very quickly," said Sarai, "because they might be disappointed to discover it later, but you'll be dead."

"What kinds of stories do they tell about Egypt, there in Ur-of-the-North?" asked Abram. "They don't kill every stranger who comes."

"But strangers who come from the desert with vast herds and a mighty host -- how will they know, from the look of us, whether we're supplicants or invaders?"

"When I explain who I am --"

"The last time you explained to an Egyptian who you were," said Sarai, "he tried to sacrifice you."

Abram shrugged. "If the Lord chooses to let them kill me in Egypt, then that's where I'll die."

"That's well for you," said Sarai. "God knows your name, you're old friends. What happens to the rest of us?"

"He knows your name, too," said Abram.

She smiled. But inwardly she argued: Does he? Does he know that I exist? I'd rather think he didn't, that he simply hasn't noticed me, and when he does he'll say, Oh, Sarai! How could I forget a good woman like that! She needs some babies! Who was supposed to remind me of that? While if he does remember me, then my barrenness is not by chance. He must hate me.

A little voice, deep inside, said, It isn't the God of Abram who hates you. It's Asherah who tends to the wombs of women, who remembers that you belong to her.

To silence that voice, Sarai laughed. "Then let's go to Egypt, Abram. I ask only this -- that you share a few crumbs of your learning with me."

"Learning is the only bread that you can share without lessening your own meal," said Abram.

"If that isn't already in your books, I hope you'll write it down," said Sarai. "It sounded very poetic and wise."

He touched her nose, then kissed her lightly. "You shouldn't mock me, you know."

"Someone has to," said Sarai, "and no one else would dare."

He sighed, but smiled too. "That's you, Sarai. Always willing to bear the heaviest burden."

For years, Abram had made his camp in the best lands -- the deepest wells, the everflowing springs, where grass grew, where trees gave shade. Sarai thought she had seen the worst of the drought, seeing how many of those trees were scant-leafed now, and how many bare-limbed; hearing the hollow echo of stones thrown down empty wells; tasting the soupy water of a dying spring.

But in truth she had been sheltered from the worst destruction of this endless dry season. For now they moved through lands that had once been farmed, through villages that once had known the voices of children shouting in the streets, women chattering at the well, men grunting as they practiced the skills of war in a field outside the wall. Now the only sound was the echoing footfalls of the flocks and herds, the bleating and mooing of beasts, the murmurs and occasional shouts of herdsmen. These were sounds she had lived with for years, but now they came in the wrong place, which made them desperately sad.

At first she would succumb to the impulse to go into one of the houses, but it was always the same. Old spider webs near the ceiling, rooms half-filled with dust swept in by wind, but no sign of human habitation. It was not a hasty departure, not the ruins of war or plague. These people had lingered until there was no more hope, and then they had moved out, taking all that they could, leaving nothing of value to them. And then their neighbors had scavenged even the valueless things, and burned what could be burned to roast the last scrawny animals or boil the last weedy soup.

The last time she entered a house, Abram came in after her. "Why do you do this?" he asked. "It only makes you morose."

"I can't decide," said Sarai, "if I should feel despair for those who left this place, or hope that someday it will be occupied again."

"Someday this village will be peopled by our grandsons and granddaughters, and the land will be full from the river to the sea."

He looked so happy and hopeful that it was all she could do to keep from screaming. She had been feeling pity for the losses of strangers; he turned it into a prophecy to be fulfilled by her drought-stricken womb. Today the time of women had come upon her, five days late. Those past five days she had allowed herself some hope, but today she had none. It will rain first, Abram, there'll be water rushing down these streets before you hold my baby in your arms.

Still, she said nothing, because his words came from God, and hers from grief. To him, it was as if what the Lord had promised were already fulfilled; he thought of himself as a man with many children, and it didn't occur to him that she did not live in that world. From then on she went into no more houses. She passed through each village without looking to left or right, for now it was her sons' voices that had fallen silent in the streets, her daughters' hands that spun no distaff in the houses. What a miserable life, she thought, to spend it mourning for the unconceived.

At last they left Canaan behind, and proceeded through the desert lands again. This time Abram had to consult old writings to get his bearings, for he had not come this way in many years, and the blowing dust had hidden or transformed many a landmark. Still, where there was a well to be found, he found it. But more and more of them were dry.

After a week of losing a dozen animals a day, they topped a rise and saw, in the distance, the shimmering of water. Not a mirage above burning sand this time. There was marsh grass growing in patches, then reeds, tall and topped with seeds. The beasts could not be held back -- they ran, those that could, or shambled, the neediest arriving last, but there was water enough for all. Not from the marsh itself -- that water was brackish, too salty to drink. Near it, though, the men hurried to dig shallow depressions into which water quickly seeped. There the animals drank greedily, the men watching to make sure all got a chance at the water, and to keep them from fouling it.

Abram did not need to watch them drink. He stood looking westward, across the water, toward Egypt. "They call this marsh the Sea of Reeds," said Abram. "We have to go around it, and the water we get this way isn't very good. But it's fresh enough for the animals, and reliable even when springs and wells fail."

"This is the boundary of Egypt?"

"Oh, I suppose we've been in Egypt for days. But off the main road."

"Why? Are we hiding?"

"Egypt is in the midst of its own troubles," said Abram. "Too many people coming because of the food and water here. They might try to keep us out."

"Compared to the herds we once had, these are only a bedraggled few," said Sarai.

"As you yourself once pointed out, it's hard to know how they'll see us," said Abram. "We might look like an invading host. We might look like a horde of locusts. Or we might look like a weak band of travelers, easy to rob."

"Rob? I thought Pharaoh kept the peace." What she had most hoped for in Egypt was to be in a land where kings ruled and streets flowed with commerce and conversation. The city life that Qira could not live without, Sarai also sometimes missed. But cities were only worth visiting when the king maintained good order.

"Pharaoh keeps whatever Pharaoh wants," said Abram. "Or rather, Pharaoh's servants take what they want in his name. That's the tale, anyway."

"So is Pharaoh stronger in Ur-of-the-North than he is in Egypt?"

"In Ur-of-the-North, Pharaoh has influence because people wish his servants to make a good report of the city. On the borders of Egypt, Pharaoh's servants do as they wish because they are the very ones he relies on to report on their own doings."

Sarai tried to reconcile this with her own understanding of how kings must trust their servants. "They would lie to their king?"

Abram looked at her oddly. "The first skill a good king has to acquire is to learn how to find the truth behind the lies he's told."

"But your men don't lie to you."

"Because there are only a few of them, and the lives of their own families depend on my making wise decisions based on true knowledge. Egypt is vast, and the great system of granaries runs itself, year after year. Pharaoh's ignorance costs them nothing, individually. But a king who has no idea what is happening reels back and forth like a drunken man, and finally he will fall."

"My father fell because of invaders from the desert."

"Your father ruled wisely, and the invaders won only because they were too many for his defenses. If it's true that Pharaoh rules ignorantly, then he might be brought down by a much smaller force."

"If this place teeters on the brink of chaos, then why are we here?" asked Sarai. "Why didn't we go north, to the Hurrian lands? Or east into Elam?"

"Because the Lord is with us," said Abram, "and this is where he said that we should go." He put his hand on her arm. "Sarai, I told you of the dangers so you'd know why I'm being cautious. But in all likelihood, we look strong enough that we won't be molested, and yet not so strong as to make Pharaoh fear us. It will go as the Lord wills, but I try to be prudent all the same."

They camped well back from the lake, so they would not be tortured by the biting flies that lived on the edges of the water, and so the stupider beasts would not drink from the salt marsh and die. The next day they moved south, skirting the marsh until at last they rejoined the road.

They were spotted almost at once by two men who took off running.

"We must be frightening after all," said Sarai.

"No," said Abram. "They're just doing their job. They watch until there's something to see, then they run back to report on us."

"They're naked," said Sarai.

"Didn't I mention that?" said Abram. "Egyptians aren't much for clothing. They use it more for ornamentation than modesty."

"But all the Egyptians I've known wore clothing."

"And so will the wealthy Egyptians you meet here," said Abram, "though slaves and poor farmers are as likely to be naked as not. And even the wealthy -- well, you'll see. White linen is the rule here, finely woven. Very cool and comfortable, keeping off the sun while letting in the air. Almost as easy to see through as water."

"No."

"Pretend that it doesn't bother you," said Abram. "If you look away, they'll tease you. If you stare, they'll get angry."

"If they're naked, how can they hope that no one will stare?"

"Because no one does," said Abram. "If no one looks at you, then you aren't really naked, are you?"

"A person with no clothes on is naked whether anyone's looking or not."

"That's because you're not an Egyptian." Abram laughed again. "Sarai, it's not as bad as you think. This is a civilized country, as long as you adapt to their customs. They'll even tolerate our strange foreign ways -- all this extra clothing we wear -- as long as we don't seem to be criticizing them."

Egypt was not sounding half so enticing to her now. Why hadn't he mentioned this before? Perhaps he hadn't realized it would bother her. Or perhaps he simply knew that they were going to Egypt no matter how she felt about it, and he simply refrained from warning her until the last possible moment, to spare her weeks of dread along the road.

Well, that just proved that he didn't understand her yet. Because she always preferred to know. She could have been preparing herself for weeks. Instead, this matter of clothing came as a shock.

The sun was still a good three hands above the horizon when a group of soldiers came jogging along the road toward them.

"Good," said Abram. "Enough force to show respect, but not so many as to imply they fear us." He gave commands to his men to move the animals away from the road, into the grassier land nearer the water, while he talked with the soldiers.

The commander was a young nobleman named Kay -- very young, but not all that noble, Sarai could see that at once. He was still unsure of his station, which made him a little belligerent as he spoke to them in a mixture of Egyptian and Amorite words. But he was not a fool. While Abram was busy reassuring and calming him, Sarai could see that Kay was taking inventory of Abram's household, counting the men capable of fighting, and counting the women and children as well. Abram had made sure that they would be in plain sight. Now Sarai realized why. The Egyptians would be suspicious if there were not families enough for all the men of fighting age, for then this might be a party of raiders.

And something else. Sarai wasn't sure, but she thought that Kay had recognized Abram's name. That concerned her. What report had come back to Egypt, after the attempt by Suwertu to have Abram killed? Surely those events in Ur-of-the-North all those years ago could not be remembered now.

When Kay had already formed up his men to escort Abram's household into Egypt, he asked, almost as an afterthought, "And this is the princess, yes? Your wife, yes?"

Abram hesitated for only a moment, and then answered with a laugh. "My wife, come on such a journey? You don't know princesses! This is my sister, Milcah."

Sarai had long since learned how not to let her face or body reveal surprise -- or anything else. A king's daughter must master that skill, at least, even if she was intended for the temple.

Kay turned to her. "The sister of Abram is very beautiful," he said.

"Pharaoh's voice at the border is sweet as honey," she replied.

"Where is the lady's husband? Is he not with this party?"

Abram laughed. "Husband? And where would I have found a husband for my sister? You see how my herds are depleted. I haven't the bride-price for a great man, and I love my sister too much to give her to a peasant."

"Some women are their own bride-price," said Kay.

But he had gone too far, even for an official of a great king. "You speak like a suitor," said Abram coldly, "and not like a soldier."

Kay did not seem at all abashed, or even embarrassed. He simply bade them stay near the road and follow him and his men toward the first town.

Sarai was careful not to confer with Abram for some time, waiting until the soldiers were some distance ahead. By then Abram had already passed the word through one of his servants that Sarai was to be addressed by the name of Abram's sister-in-law Milcah, who lived in Haran, in the house of Abram's father Terah far to the north.

"How did I become your sister?" she asked him softly.

"When he asked me about you," said Abram, "I knew by the power of God that if I told him the truth, I would be killed."

"But you already told him your name," said Sarai. "If they blame Abram the son of Terah for the death of Suwertu, what difference does it make who I am?"

"This isn't about Suwertu," said Abram. "He knew that Abram son of Terah had married Sarai the daughter of the king-in-exile of Ur, and I knew in that moment that if they thought I was bringing you into Egypt as my wife, you would soon be a widow."

"Why?"

"So Pharaoh could marry you himself."

"But ... that's absurd. Pharaohs marry their sisters, everyone knows that."

"Yes. Which means that something is terribly wrong here."

"One thing, certainly. You just presented me as a single woman, and here I am dressed like a married one."

"And he said nothing about it, though if he knows anything about the way we dress, he could see the difference," said Abram. "So he's no doubt wondering if I lied, or if you're married, or perhaps widowed."

"Abram, if the daughter of an exiled king is desirable, why wouldn't the sister of a desert priest-king be just as useful?"

"Do you think I haven't thought of that?" said Abram.

"So there's no danger?"

"No danger?" He looked grim. "There's very grave danger. The first Pharaohs originally came from our country, the grasslands of the east -- that's why the Egyptian language is so close to ours. Perhaps Pharaoh is trying to assert that ancient authority. Or perhaps he fears it. And ... I have the very authority the original Pharaohs claimed to have. Pharaoh might regard me as a threat, or he might regard me as someone worth linking himself to. As my sister, you may be even more useful to him than you would have been as my widow."

"Useful?" said Sarai. "How am I to be useful to Pharaoh without dishonoring myself and betraying you and disobeying God?"

"I tell you what Pharaoh might be thinking. What God is thinking, I don't know."

This was not the comfort Sarai had been hoping for. "What will I do?"

"Trust in God," said Abram.

"That's your whole plan?"

"It was God who told me to come here, and God who told me to tell him you were my sister," said Abram. "Beyond that, what do I know?"

"What are you and God doing to me?" asked Sarai. "I'm not your sister, in case you've forgotten, and I'm not a single woman, eligible to be snagged by kings in order to prop up their dynasties." Finally, though, she got a good look at Abram's face, and saw that he was as upset about this as she was.

"For now, you must pretend to be single," said Abram, "or I'm a dead man. I'll plead with the Lord to keep you safe."

Sarai heard this in silence, and walked in silence for half a mile before she found her voice to answer. All the while she was in turmoil, frightened and angry but not sure whom to be angry at, God or Abram. And when she did speak, she didn't say at all what was in her heart. She didn't plead with him to turn around and leave. She didn't beg him to protect her himself. She didn't demand that he go back to God and get an alternate plan. Instead, she answered with a voice that she had never heard herself use before. Qira's voice, sarcastic and cutting. "And if there had been a battle, would you have handed a sword to me and pushed me ahead of you into the fray?"

Abram felt the accusation like a blow -- she saw him stagger under it. "I did not choose this way," he said.

Try as she might, she could not get that nasty tone out of her voice. "The thought came to you that calling me your sister would keep you safe. What I wonder is, was it really God that gave you the idea? Or fear?"

Before she could say more to wound him, she strode faster, moving ahead of him. Part of her wanted to turn back and cling to him, weeping, assuring him of her love for him. But it would not do to let the soldiers see her act so wifelike. And besides, a part of her was very, very angry and meant every nasty word that she had said. What exactly would Abram do if Pharaoh decided that he wanted a woman from an ancient priestly house as his wife? What would she do? Kings were not inclined to take no for an answer. If she did not bend to Pharaoh's will, even in such a terrible sin, Abram might end up just as dead as if Pharaoh thought that she was his wife.

The thought of Abram murdered was unbearable. At once her anger at God was swept away in fear for her husband. Do whatever you must to me, she prayed silently, but let no harm come to Abram!

And another thought: Maybe God means to take me away from him, so he can marry a woman who will bear him sons.

From the first, the palace officials did their best to separate Sarai from Abram. As they first came to the green and settled lands near the river, Kay suggested that Milcah and the other women and children might want to rest in the shade while Abram went ahead to meet with Sehtepibre, Pharaoh's most trusted steward.

"My sister is as wise as any man," said Abram, "and I will not be without her counsel."

Kay did not press the point. But when they reached the river, where a servant from the palace awaited them with ten ships, again there was an attempt to separate them. Abram made it clear he would leave only the herders' own families with them. "Milcah" would stay with her brother. "Does a man leave a precious jewel among cows and sheep?"

"But floating on the river makes women ill," said Khnumhotpe, the servant from the palace. "At least let your sister's boat travel more slowly, so she and her maidservants do not suffer, while the oarsmen make your boat leap ahead to take you to lord Pharaoh."

"Those who have ridden on dromedaries will not be sickened by a bit of wobbling in a boat," said Abram. "And I wish to see the greatness of the river with my sister, whose eyes are my own, as mine are hers."

Abram's statement might have been true, but Sarai had never actually ridden on a dromedary -- only those who crossed the great stretches of pure sand far to the south of their rangeland ever needed those towering beasts. But to these city people, utterly without experience of the desert life, anything was possible.

On the lead boat, oarsmen poled them up the edges of the river while boats and rafts floated down the middle current. Abram and Sarai sat together, watching the farms of Egypt endlessly pass by them. "It could be the Euphrates," she said. "But here, there isn't a cubit of land that is not farmed or dwelt on. Where will your herds graze?"

"There must be grassland beyond the farms," said Abram.

"No, lord Abram," said Khnumhotpe. "The farms run to the desert edge. That's what the drought has done to us. All the grasslands are buried in sand or burned away by the sun. Where the river's flood puts mud, we farm; where it doesn't, there is no life at all."

"But I've seen many desert people living here," said Abram. "From their clothing, at least, they seemed like those who once lived in Canaan or on the range. Where do their herds live?"

"Those who wish to keep their animals buy fodder. Others rent some scrap of surviving rangeland from great lords or from Pharaoh himself. Most, though, came to Egypt because their herds were gone."

"How do they live, then?" asked Sarai.

"As servants, of course." Khnumhotpe did not seem surprised that Sarai spoke up as if she were their conversational equal.

"They give up their freedom?" asked Sarai.

"Many were captured in war," said Khnumhotpe. "Many others, though, sell their freedom for gruel and beer. We have it, they don't. And they have nothing to buy it with except their labor. They survive, and Egypt has more servants than it knows what to do with." Khnumhotpe chuckled, as if this surplus of slaves were amusing.

But Sarai had seen the Canaanites and Amorites, too, and very few of them seemed to be servants. Khnumhotpe was either lying, or he was himself ignorant of the life of the desert people. Which was quite possible. Hsy, the term he used for Canaanites and Amorites, Hittites and Sumerians and Libyans interchangeably, was not uttered with any special contempt -- but the word meant "vile" or "shameful." It was clear that Egyptians regarded even the great cities of the east as nothing compared to the majesty of Egypt.

Well, what city did not think itself the best of all possible places? The difference in Egypt was that it was not a series of cities vying with each other for supremacy. That issue had been settled long ago. Egypt was a single kingdom, and all who held office in any city did so at the pleasure of Pharaoh. People did not belong to a mere city, they belonged to a great nation whose king was a god who ruled from the far reaches of the high river to the coasts of the sea. So when an Egyptian spoke of foreigners as contemptible people, it was not just empty brag. Egypt was whole, and all other nations were in pieces.

"Egypt seems to find something for every man and woman to do," said Sarai. "I've seen no idle hands ... except our own."

Khnumhotpe laughed at that, laughed without derision. He seemed genuinely to enjoy her company. But when Sarai glanced at Abram, she saw him roll his eyes. Apparently he did not take Khnumhotpe's jovial disposition at face value. Sarai wondered if Abram was right. After all, they were no longer in the desert. They were with royal servants now, and that was something Sarai understood, having grown up in a house that, despite its poverty and lack of power, was nonetheless royal. Was it not possible that Abram was distrustful because he was on less familiar ground.

He had held his own in encounters with her father, Sarai remembered that, and Abram often did business in cities. Still, she had been raised in a king's house, and it was to a king's house they were going. She liked Khnumhotpe, and Khnumhotpe seemed to like her. Why was that a matter for suspicion? If Abram wanted to act the jealous husband, he might have declared her publicly to be his wife.

She smiled at Khnumhotpe. "Then again, we are the sort of people who work by thinking and speaking. So while our hands may do little labor at this moment, yet we are not at rest."

Again she glanced at Abram, but now he was not looking at her at all. He was gazing out over the water, toward a large bright-painted building that opened onto a great sweep of steps leading down into the river. The boats were steering toward a jetty that flanked the stairs.

"So this is the king's house," she said to Khnumhotpe.

"One of them."

"Will he see us, do you think?"

"Without question," said Khnumhotpe. "He has a keen interest in your brother. His name is not unknown here."

That set off a silent cry of alarm in Sarai's heart. Khnumhotpe was a man who chose his words carefully. And he had carefully avoided saying whether Pharaoh's "interest" in Abram was kindly or threatening. Yet Khnumhotpe gave no sign of any but the cheerfulest of attitudes. Perhaps Abram's suspicions had been wiser than Sarai's trust.

Khnumhotpe leapt to the jetty as soon as the boat drew near enough, He held out a hand as if to help Sarai, but while she was still gathering her skirts about her for the leap from bouncing boat to solid land, Abram bounded to the jetty with such force that, had she been in mid-step, she would have plunged into the water. "Abram," she said in consternation.

"I wanted to help my sister to shore myself," Abram explained to Khnumhotpe.

In reply, Khnumhotpe clapped Abram on the shoulder. "Oh, no need of that! Milcah will be taken to the house of Pharaoh's wives to be given a chance to rest and refresh herself in the company of women."

Sure enough, the boat was drawing back from the jetty; it was already impossible for her to make the leap, and Sarai could not swim. Neither could Abram, though as he stood there on the dock, she could guess that he was furiously trying to decide just how hard swimming could be, since so many children of servants here by the Nile could do it. Khnumhotpe had outmaneuvered them. Abram had understood the Egyptian well enough to know not to trust him. But Khnumhotpe had understood Abram even better, well enough to manipulate him into allowing the separation he had so adamantly refused. And Sarai -- clearly she had understood nothing at all.

"No, Abram, you go with Khnumhotpe," Sarai called to him. "Pharaoh does not want to meet your sister covered with the dirt of travel." She was warning him not to try to fight this right now. This was the moment of greatest danger. If they were going to kill him, they would do it now, the moment Sarai was out of sight. "Think nothing of me," she insisted, her voice now echoing from the stone steps as she shouted over the growing expanse of water. "Let your thoughts be on your own imminent meeting with Suwertu's master." The name of the priest who had sought to kill him was the only warning she could give him. And she was now too far away to be able to see, from his face, whether he had understood.

O God of Abram, she prayed. Forgive my selfishness in resenting the deception thou didst urge upon us, and my vanity in thinking I was wise in the ways of a royal house. I will bear whatever burden thou placest upon me, but keep my husband safe. Let him live, O God, to have the children of thy promise to him. It matters not to me that I be the mother of those children, as long as Abram is their father.

But even as she prayed the words -- and surely she meant them -- another voice, one that could not find words, was crying out in anguish in the deep recesses of her mind. To think of another woman as the mother of Abram's children was unbearable. Was this the vengeance of Asherah?

Yet with the part of her mind that she could control, she outshouted that wordless wish. Better that it be Asherah avenging a broken oath and reclaiming a lost servant than to have it be Pharaoh, avenging the death of Suwertu and claiming the life of an escaped sacrifice. God, hear the words I pray, not the unworthy, selfish cry of my inmost heart.

Copyright © 2000 Orson Scott Card

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