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| The King's Court |
Jerusalem —Reign of King Manasseh
Servants moved in silence through the lower courts, carrying baskets of grain, jars of oil, and bundles of linen toward the storehouses. Scribes sat beneath narrow awnings, scratching figures onto clay tablets while guards watched the movement without interest.
No one noticed Asher.
That was the way he preferred it.
He walked beside the delivery wagon, one hand resting lightly on the wooden rail as the cart rolled across the stone courtyard. The driver beside him muttered something about the weight of the grain, but Asher barely heard him.
His attention was on the palace.
It had changed.
The first time he had delivered supplies here, the walls had seemed stern but familiar. Priests passed through the outer courts. Lamps burned for the Lord. Even the guards spoke the name of God without hesitation.
Now the courts felt heavier.
More statues stood along the colonnades than he remembered—carved figures of foreign gods placed where olive lamps once burned. The smell of incense drifted through the air, but it was not the scent of temple offerings.
It was sweeter. Stranger.
Asher kept walking.
A guard at the lower gate held up his hand.
“Delivery seal.”
Asher produced the small clay token Eliab had given him. The guard examined it briefly before handing it back.
“You’re late.”
“Grain shipments from the south arrived after sunset,” Asher replied calmly. “The roads were slow.”
The guard shrugged and waved him through.
The wagon rolled deeper into the palace courts.
Asher stepped away from it once the storehouse doors came into view. Two servants immediately took his place, hauling sacks of grain from the cart and carrying them inside.
Good.
That gave him reason to move.
He crossed the courtyard toward the scribes’ tables where ledgers were being updated. A thin man with tired eyes looked up as Asher approached.
“Name?”
“Asher. Deliveries from Mishkanor.”
The scribe dipped his stylus into ink. “Weight of the shipment?”
“Three carts. Barley and wheat.”
The man scribbled the figures into the ledger without looking up again.
Asher waited.
Then he spoke casually.
“Who keeps the lower treasury now?”
The stylus paused.
Only for a moment.
“No one keeps it,” the scribe muttered.
“Someone must.”
The man glanced up then, irritation flickering across his face.
“Why do you care?”
Asher shrugged lightly. “Storehouse access changes every season. I was told the treasury chambers were being reorganized.”
The scribe leaned back, studying him.
“Not since the old keeper disappeared.”
Asher’s expression didn’t change.
“Disappeared?”
The man lowered his voice slightly.
“You’re new, aren’t you?”
“No.”
“Then you should know better than to ask questions about the king’s chambers.”
The stylus resumed scratching across the ledger.
Asher waited another moment, then turned as if to leave.
That was when the scribe spoke again.
Quietly.
“If you’re asking who kept the chamber… it was Azariah.”
The name landed like a stone in still water.
Asher inclined his head. “Thank you.”
He walked away before the man could reconsider the answer.
Across the courtyard, servants hurried past carrying bronze trays toward the inner halls where Manasseh held court. The doors stood open just enough for voices to drift outward—laughter, argument, the clatter of goblets against stone.
Asher slowed near the colonnade.
From here he could see inside.
The throne room had changed even more than the outer courts.
Tall statues lined the walls—figures of Baal and Asherah carved from dark wood and polished stone. Incense curled upward from bronze burners placed before them.
The king sat beneath a canopy at the far end of the chamber, listening as advisers spoke around him.
Manasseh did not look like a man afraid of God.
He looked comfortable.
Satisfied.
Asher turned away.
The name echoed in his thoughts.
Azariah.
If Azariah had guarded the chamber… then he had been the last man trusted with the relic.
Which meant he was the last man who could have lost it.
Or given it away.
A shadow shifted beside one of the pillars.
Asher noticed it immediately.
One of the palace guards had been watching him.
Not casually.
Carefully.
The guard pushed away from the column and began walking toward him.
Slowly.
Asher lowered his gaze and continued across the courtyard as if nothing had happened.
But inside, his pulse had already begun to quicken.
He had the name.
Now he just needed to leave the palace alive.
The guard pushed away from the column and began walking toward him.
Slowly.
Asher lowered his gaze and continued across the courtyard as if nothing had happened. Around him the palace moved with its usual rhythm—servants carrying trays, scribes calling out numbers, soldiers shifting in the shade of the pillars.
Just another delivery.
Just another courier.
He kept his pace steady.
The guard’s footsteps echoed faintly against the stone behind him.
Closer.
Asher resisted the urge to look back.
A man who looked back looked guilty.
He passed beneath the outer colonnade where two soldiers stood talking beside a rack of spears. One of them barely glanced at him as he walked by.
The guard’s steps slowed.
For a moment Asher wondered if the man would call out.
“Courier.”
Asher stopped.
Slowly he turned.
“Yes?”
The guard studied him carefully now, eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to place something that didn’t quite fit.
“Where did you say you were from?”
“Asher of Mishkanor,” he replied calmly. “Grain deliveries.”
The guard held his gaze another moment.
Then he nodded once.
“See that the records match the shipment.”
“I will.”
Asher inclined his head and continued toward the gate.
He did not hurry.
Not until the palace walls were behind him.
Only then did he allow himself a breath.
He had the name.
Now he just needed to leave the palace alive.
TO BE CONTINUED…
🔄 Previous Episode 22: Before the Sirens
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