I do not see Pepi, but the keeper of bees comes out of his hut. Like Min, he is older, but unlike the healer, he does not have many teeth left.
“Sesha.” He lifts his hand in greeting and gives me a gummy smile. “How are you this morning?”
“Very well,” I say cautiously, glancing around for Pepi.
“I am Pentu. Pepi said you will be helping to extract the honeycomb from the hives today.”
I stare dubiously at the droning insects flying around their priceless horde of sweet nectar. Me? “I’ve never handled bees before,” I tell Pentu. Beekeeping is a time-honoured and important tradition, but after my recent bout with rash and blisters, it is not something I am eager to experience.
Pentu smiles. “We will teach you what you need to know.”
“We?”
“One should always replace what they take, Sesha,” Pepi says at my ear. I whirl to see him standing next to me. He grins. “As you and Merat were the ones to use up the propolis balm, it seems only fair that you help collect the honeycomb.”
On the surface, Pepi is right. Honey is worth a lot in trade. Aside from sweetening foods, its most important uses are, in my opinion, medicinal. It keeps wounds clean and sealed, and there are hundreds of medical recipes that call for its healing powers. The wealthy also use it for cosmetic purposes, applying the wax to their hair and in beauty balms, like the one Merat and I slathered on our tormented skin.
But somehow I suspect this is less about obtaining the precious substance and more along the lines of another test.
“Does it hurt when they stab you?” I direct my question to Pentu while staring defiantly at the spy.
“It is no more than a pinch,” the bee charmer says. He gives my arm one to demonstrate.
I do not break eye contact with Pepi. “What about when it is in the back?”
“They do not sting often, and only to protect themselves,” Pepi says, giving me a look that says we will talk later. “Pentu is good at his job.”
Pentu claps his hands together, oblivious to our unspoken communication. “I think there is a new queen in the hive. I am going to try calling her today.”
“Pentu has a way with the bees,” Pepi says. “He speaks to them, and they answer back.”
“Can you tell them not to sting me?” I say to Pentu, finally tearing my narrowed gaze away from the spy.
Pentu laughs. “Just move slowly. Bees can sense agitation. If you are calm, they will be calm. Wait here — I will return in a few moments.”
I turn to Pepi the instant we are alone. “What is this supposed to test? My ability to work alongside a traitor under absurd conditions?”
“If that is how you prefer to look at it,” he says, not denying the accusation.
“You’ve been seeking the scroll the whole time?” I hiss. “Why did you not say anything?”
“My missions were none of your business,” he says coolly.
“They are now!”
Pepi lifts an eyebrow. “I will tell you what you want to know after this test. Now, if I were you, I’d calm myself. As Pentu says, the bees can sense agitation.”
“Why are you making me do this?” I say in a furious whisper.
“Remember what I said about staying calm in the midst of chaos? It is also a lesson in distraction.”
“How does it work?” Putting aside my anger for the moment, I try to focus on the task at hand. Despite being mad enough to stick something in Pepi myself, I would like to do well on one of my assignments at least. There is the matter of my pride, something I have never been accused of having a shortage of. Especially by Reb.
“You and I will wave smoking fronds at the back of the hives. This distracts the bees and keeps them calm,” Pepi says. “They will escape from the front. Pentu will break the seal and extract the honeycomb.”
Pentu returns with sleeved shirts to put on as we prepare for the task. We wrap linen around our heads to protect us from the bees and from breathing in too much smoke. Pepi lights a bundle of fronds, sticks, and leaves, which produces curling grey wisps, and passes it to me. He then lights his own bundle and walks slowly toward the hives with Pentu. I reluctantly follow. The buzzing increases, as does the sweet smell.
Pepi begins to softly wave his bundle of burning sticks as we slowly approach the hive. My breath starts coming faster and my body tenses, preparing for an onslaught of painful stings. Pepi seems relaxed. I force myself to breathe deeply and copy his motions, waving the smoking fronds. Soon we are in the thick of the hive, bees buzzing everywhere.
Pentu moves with the grace of a dancer. He extracts the honeycomb with the practised expertise of a longtime keeper, letting out the occasional high-pitched noise as he communicates with the bees.
There is a piping call over the general hum: Zooah-zee-zee-zee-zee. Zoo-ah-zee-zee-zee-zee.
Pepi leans over to me. “That is the call of the new queen bee. She is challenging the old queen. Listen.”
Over the short, insistent whine of the young queen comes a steady quacking response, an unusual sound from a bee. The reigning monarch, I assume, warning the new queen off. Pentu makes another high-pitched sound and the queens respond. I wonder if he is encouraging them to resolve things in a peaceful manner, or whether he is merely confusing them so he can make off with their liquid gold. The keeper of bees works quickly, extracting as much honeycomb as he can, while we waft the smoke over the disoriented insects.
I feel a sharp sting on my arm and almost drop my fronds. Pepi motions me to step backwards, one cautious foot at a time.
When at last we are far enough away, he unwraps the cloth from around his head, dark eyes sparkling. “A new queen has emerged,” he says as I rub at the sting. It hurts, but it’s nothing I cannot bear.
“The old queen will probably leave the hive with her loyal subjects,” Pentu says. He points at another area of mud cylinders. “That one is ready for them.”
“Thank you for allowing us to assist you today,” Pepi says. “Sesha is building up her collection of skills here at the oasis.”
“You are most welcome,” Pentu says. “I am going to wash the stickiness off. If you like, you can prepare the honey.” He demonstrates how to crush the honeycomb, squeezing the sweet liquid into the container. “Leave it in the hot sun. The wax from the bees will float to the top and the honey will stay below.” He waves his farewell and makes his way down to the lake.
Pepi and I work in silence, crushing the hard honeycomb in our hands; the viscous substance oozes between my fingers. Now that we are alone, it is time for some answers. I do not even know where to begin. “Tell me about this prophecy,” I say at last. A few of the insects buzz around, curious about what we are doing with the spoils of their labours. “And the scroll.” I look at him, challenging him to refuse me, to put me off, to avoid my question. But he only nods.
“As you wish. Then you can tell me why you want to get to Avaris so badly.” He grins at me. “I do not think it’s because it is a superior wedding locale. Though the views of the water are quite spectacular.”
“Very well,” I say through gritted teeth, pulverizing the piece of honeycomb in my hands.
“Let us begin, then,” Pepi says, clearing his throat like one of the head scribes settling in for a long lecture. Unable to stop myself, I lean forward.
41
“THERE IS A SCROLL,” Pepi begins, without pausing, “that lies at the centre of a prophecy. As I am sure you overheard.” He gives me a pointed look and I give him one back. I was only doing what he is training me to. “This document —”
“What makes you think my scroll is the same one from your prophecy?” I interrupt.
“The scroll was referred to as the ‘healer’s papyrus’ by an oracle.” He gives me another look. “May I continue?” I nod. “The prophecy says that this document holds the power of life over death, and that whoever holds it holds the power to rule over their people.”
“Eye of Ra,” I say faintly. I shake
my head to clear the buzzing; I am not sure if it comes from within my skull or outside it. “The scroll has the power of life over death? Why? Because it can help mend horrible injuries and save lives?”
Pepi picks out a large piece of honeycomb from his bowl. “That may be part of it,” he concedes, examining the comb.
My eyes narrow. “What is the other part?”
“You would likely know better than I.” He discards the honeycomb. “You transcribed it, assuming your scroll is the same one.”
“Only parts of it,” I protest. “I did not have it in my possession for long.”
“Did you notice anything unusual about the document?” he asks as we continue extracting and filtering the honey, receiving a few more stings for our efforts.
“Other than the fact that it was written over a thousand years ago by one of the most respected physicians of Egypt?” I retort. Imhotep had been vizier to the pharaoh, first architect of the pyramids, an astronomer, a healer, a scribe, a High Priest, a magician. “The scroll was a masterful work blending art, magic, Heka, and science. Aside from a few spells, it is remarkably methodical and rational in its approach.” I stop. Pepi is staring at me. “What? The spells?”
“Tell me about these incantations,” Pepi asks, voice quiet, as if not to startle the bees.
“I do not remember much about them,” I say. “They were difficult to decipher. The language was old, and many of the scripts are no longer in use, being written so long ago.” At the time I was copying the scroll, my attention was focused on the case studies dealing with injuries to the head, on saving my brother. “Is that why your cousin wants it? Because he thinks it will ensure his succession to the throne?”
“Essentially, yes. Though I am sure my brother would also like to save Akin,” Pepi adds generously. “He is the chieftain’s number-one man, and Yanassi needs him badly, should he manage to convince those at Avaris to support his … activities.”
“Wait.” I wonder if all the stings I’ve received are causing me to hear things. “What did you say? Your brother?”
“Yes,” Pepi says calmly, carrying the honey over to a flat rock to leave it in the sun as Pentu instructed.
I follow him, wiping my forehead, leaving a sticky streak across it. “Your brother in the sense that you and the chieftain are members of the same tribe?”
“My brother in the sense that we share a father.” Pepi sets the honey down, careful not to spill a single precious drop.
My mouth hangs open. He has the most casual way of imparting ground-shaking news.
“Careful, Sesha,” he remarks mildly. “That is a good way to swallow a bee.”
I shut my mouth. Then open it again. “You two are only pretending to be cousins?”
“I am not sure,” Pepi says, looking at the hives, which are ready for their new monarch to take the throne. “Or rather, one of us is at least. In actuality, I do not think he knows the truth.”
“You have not thought to speak with him about such a thing?” I cannot keep the disbelief from my voice.
“I have thought about it,” he concedes, looking around for something to wipe his sticky hands on. “But it may not be the wisest course of action.”
“Why not?”
“Yanassi is set to inherit the Hyksos king’s throne when he dies. Many rulers, with such a prize in their grasp, do not do well with competition. As I am nephew to the king, and in line for the throne, our relationship is already precarious.” Pepi finds a rag and wipes his hands on it, then passes it to me to do the same. “I do not know if my father even knows I am his son, though he may suspect it.” He looks at me. “My mother was a spy, sister to the wife of the Hyksos king. She told no one of my paternity, for several reasons, but it does not escape me that many may consider me a usurper and threat to the throne. Yanassi’s throne. Those who support him, and he himself, would have good reason to kill me.” He falls silent at these words. The distinct piping of the challenging queen bee echoes throughout the area.
There are so many questions I want to ask, so much more I need to know, but Pentu returns just then, clean and refreshed from his wash, and our conversation pauses for the moment. The bee charmer is carrying a few small items in his hands.
“Take this back to Min for his supplies,” Pentu says, passing over a sealed jar of honey. I nod. “This is for you as well.” He presents me with a small beeswax candle.
“Am I also to give this to Min?” I ask. It will be useful when tending someone in the dark.
“It is for you, Sesha.” Pentu smiles. “In honour of your first time working with the bees.”
“I cannot accept,” I say, honoured by his generosity. A beeswax candle is highly valued for how brightly and cleanly it burns. The last gift I received was my scribe tools from Pharaoh. I feel a pang for the precious writing instruments, used to transcribe the very scroll that, while already of inestimable worth, has just become even more priceless.
“Think of it as compensation for your stings.” The bee charmer’s eyes dance as he glances at Pepi and me. “Or as an early wedding gift, if that makes you feel better.”
It does not.
I open my mouth to object, but Pepi gives me a sharp elbow. He inclines his head graciously. “Thank you for your generous gift, Pentu.”
Saying our goodbyes, we leave Pentu to his bees. I hear the piping of the new queen again, calling out the older one to defend her territory.
Struck silent with all that I have learned before even eating my midday meal, I walk along the path with Pepi, letting the birds carry the conversation.
“It is your turn,” he says finally.
Blankly, I look at him. “My turn for what?”
“A secret for a secret,” Pepi says, reminding me of our bargain. “Why do you wish to get to Avaris so desperately?”
I look at the candle in my hand. I am aware that Pepi told me his story as a sign of faith. “My friends and I wish to be free,” I say. It is nothing he couldn’t have guessed on his own, and not much of a revelation when compared to his own confession.
“So it is not for the majestic views? I am shocked,” he says, sounding nothing of the sort. “Have you told your friends about returning to Thebes?” We are approaching the healer’s hut.
I hesitate too long, and he shakes his head in dismay. “Keeping secrets is a critical task of a spy. I understand and admire your loyalty. But I need to know I can trust you.”
“You can, as I can trust them,” I say. It does not feel right keeping things from Paser, Reb, and Merat. “They would never betray me.”
Pepi grabs my hand and whirls me to face him. “Even if the betrayal is accidental, it will not matter if you are dead. Do not put faith in anyone but yourself.” His dark eyes examine me intently. “Remember this.”
“Not even you?” I challenge, off balance from the spin, from everything he has told me.
He is silent for a moment. “Not even me. Can I trust you to keep my secret?”
“That you are really a Hyksos prince?” I say, still in shock over his birthright. Is he telling the truth? I only have his word to go on. And what is the word of a spy worth?
“I am a prince of nothing but sand and secrets, Sesha,” he says quietly, his smile full of sorrow. It is this heartbroken smile, so full of devastating honesty, that convinces me. In it, I see Pepi has lost much. Like me.
Yet, despite the death of my parents and the loss of my brother, I am not broken. I have others whom I care for and who care for me. The fate of their lives, even Pepi’s, rests on my shoulders now. Pepi implies that love for others makes us vulnerable, weak. This may be true, but I wonder if he knows it also makes us strong. Straightening my spine, I take a deep breath. “I will tell no one of your secret.”
“Good,” he says. “Now, let us get down to planning. We leave for Thebes tomorrow night.”
42
PEPI LEAVES ME AT MIN’S HUT with instructions to fill my belly and get a good rest that night. I do not
think either will be possible. It seems as unfathomable as the sands that I am going back into the desert. The thought terrifies and electrifies me all at the same time. I will have a chance to find the scroll, to see Ky, maybe even to prevent notions of war from escalating. But I will also be in grave danger, especially if Queen Anat or Crooked Nose should discover me. I could end up in the same pit as Pepi.
I manage to eat some honey with bread and some dates for my afternoon meal and am just finishing when Amara appears at the hut. Today she is alone. She looks odd without the usual bundle on her chest.
“Amara,” I say, jumping to my feet. “Where is the baby?”
“She is well. I left her with the princess. I wanted to speak with you.”
“How is Akin?”
“The same. Min is with him now.” I see by her posture, the tension in her face, and the way she holds her limbs that she knows of his diagnosis. “I hear what you are going to do for us,” she says softly. “That you are going back into the sands with Pepi, to find a scroll that might help heal Akin.”
I wonder how much is safe to say. “Yes. This scroll … it is very special.”
“Do you really believe it will help?” She is seeking assurance, hope. It feels like I have lived this moment before, when debating whether or not my brother should have the risky operation that Ahmes performed. It is an odd feeling.
I touch her arm. “It healed my brother.” Hope is a powerful thing, and I want to give some to her. “There is a good chance it may do something for Akin.”
The Desert Prince Page 17