‘What? No!’
‘Then why do you not follow me?’
‘I...’ She paused. Her thoughts would not arrange themselves. How could she trust this strange man when his errand stretched the bounds of reason? ‘Forgive me, but I must know, why would the Queen want...me?’
‘It is my understanding that you have a special skill.’
Skill? She searched her mind. Beyond pouring beers and mixing brews, she had only one skill. ‘Do you refer to my ability to speak Latin?’
‘It must be that,’ said Sol, ‘though the Queen did mention something about your holy birth. Does that mean anything to you?’
‘I am a child of the Temple of Hathor.’
‘Ah! A child of the gods—it is no wonder the Queen summons you.’
Wen stood in confounded silence. Up until that moment, she had perceived herself unfortunate in her birth.
‘I assure you that I mean you no harm,’ said Sol. ‘But neither do I have time to waste. You may come with me now or remain here for the rest of your days. It is your choice. Only choose.’
Wen turned the coin over in her hands. She studied the profile that had been etched into its golden metal. It was a woman’s profile to be sure—a woman who, until only a year before, had ably ruled the oldest, most powerful kingdom in the world. She was a woman who had never known her own mother, had been neglected by her father and was hated by her husband-brother, who had lately put a price on her head.
If Sol was telling the truth, he would be leading Wen into mortal danger. Cleopatra was a woman surrounded by dangerous men, fighting to survive and likely to perish.
‘Well?’ asked Sol. ‘Are you coming or not?’
* * *
The carriage was of modest size, but to Wen it seemed a great chariot. They raced past the grand colonnades of Canopus Street with such speed that the pedestrians paused to observe them, staring out from beneath the green shade cloths.
Wen’s heart hummed. How bold she felt sitting on the bench with Sol—how wholly unlike herself. She undid her braid and let her hair fly behind her like a tattered flag.
Soon they had boarded a barge and were sailing upriver with the wind at their backs. Wen gazed out at the verdant marshlands as long-forgotten memories flooded in.
As a child, Wen had often travelled the River as part of the holy entourage of the High Priestess of Hathor.
It had been a great honor to travel with the High Priestess. As the goddess Hathor’s representative on earth, the Priestess was required to attend ceremonies from Alexandria to Thebes. She would always select from among the children of the temple to journey with her, for she loved them as her own.
There were dozens of children to choose from and more every year. They were conceived during the Festival of Drunkenness, when high-born men were allowed to couple with the priestesses of Hathor and experience the divine. Any children that resulted from their holy act belonged to the temple, their paternity unknown, their maternity unimportant.
For each of her journeys, the High Priestess chose a different set of temple children to accompany her, but she never failed to include Wen. While they sailed, she would invite Wen beneath her gauze-covered canopy and instruct her in the invisible arts.
She called the lessons ‘reading lessons’, though they had nothing to do with texts. They were lessons on how to read people—how to look into a man’s eyes and discover his thoughts.
She taught Wen how to spot flattery, how to uncover a lie and how to use the art of rhetoric to pull the truth from a man’s heart. She told Wen wondrous tales—the Pieces of Osiris, she called them, for they were words gathered together to teach Wen lessons.
‘You have the gift,’ the High Priestess told Wen one day as they floated towards Memphis. She stared into the eyes of her golden-cobra bracelet as if consulting it, then gave a solemn nod. ‘When you are ready, I will take you to meet the Pharaohs and we will find a place for you at the Alexandrian court. You will become a royal advisor, just as I have been.’
But that day never came.
Wen gazed at the silken water. So much had changed since then, though the River itself seemed unaltered. They skirted around shadowy marshes thick with lotus blooms, and floated past big-shouldered farmers who laboured in the deepening dusk.
Sol studied Wen with amusement as she gaped at the sights. ‘You watch with the eyes of a child,’ he mused, ‘though a child you are not.’ He glanced at her scar, which she had allowed to become exposed.
‘It is a battle scar,’ she offered, quickly pulling her leg beneath her skirt.
‘And did you win the battle?’
‘I am here, am I not?’
They travelled relentlessly into the night, moving from the gentle current of the river to the jarring bumps of unseen roads. Wen willed herself awake, fearful she might close her eyes and discover that the journey had been nothing but a dream.
She must have finally slept, however, for by the time she opened her eyes it was evening again and the souls of dead Pharaohs had already begun to salt the sky. Wen sat up and smelled the air. It was thick and briny, and she knew the sea was near.
They descended into a wide, flat plain where thousands of men loitered amidst a collection of tents. Sol explained that the men were soldiers—Syrian, Nabataean and Egyptian mercenaries who had been hired by Queen Cleopatra with what remained of her wealth. They were her only chance against her husband-brother’s much larger army, which was stationed in the nearby town of Pelousion, preparing to strike.
They came to a halt beside a large cowhide tent, and Sol leaped to the ground. ‘We have arrived. This is where we must part.’
‘Arrived where?’ asked Wen, taking his hand and jumping down beside him.
He flashed her an enigmatic grin, then motioned to the tent. ‘Go inside and wait. The Queen’s attendants will find you when her council concludes. No matter what happens, you must never address the Queen directly. You must wait until she speaks to you. Now go.’
‘You are not going to accompany me?’
He laughed. ‘The fate of Egypt will be decided in that tent.’
‘Do you not wish to learn it?’
‘The less I know, the better.’
‘I do not understand.’
He shook his head. ‘I think you do understand. You only pretend not to.’
He does not wish to be implicated in what is being decided, Wen thought. ‘Sol is not your real name, is it?’ she asked.
‘No, it is not,’ he said, smiling like a jackal. ‘Good for you.’ He bent and kissed her hand. ‘It has been an honour, Wen-Nefer. Perhaps we shall meet again some day.’ He gave a deep bow, then jumped back into the carriage.
‘Wait! You cannot just leave me here!’ she yelled, but he was already rolling away.
Copyright © 2018 by Greta Gilbert
Keep reading for a special preview of HIS WICKED CHARM, the latest book in Candace Camp’s popular MAD MORELANDS series!
His Wicked Charm
by Candace Camp
PROLOGUE
1892
THE DOOR OPENED. The room beyond lay in darkness, broken only by a swath of moonlight. There was no reason to be frightened, yet some nameless, faceless terror iced Con’s veins. Still, he stepped inside. The fear in him was worse.
The walls of the room were curved, disorienting, and everywhere he looked were clocks—standing, hanging, scattered over tables and stands, lined up in cabinets. Brass hands winked, catching the dim light. Con moved farther in, his heart pounding, and stopped at a narrow table. The tiered rows were padded with dark velvet, and they were lined with not clocks, but compasses, their needles pointing in unison toward the windows. Turning now, he saw that compasses stood in the cabinets and hung on the walls amid the clocks.
He was too late. He knew it with a certainty that clo
sed his throat: he would fail. Con ran toward the window, but he didn’t move. The needles on the compasses began to whirl. Running, gasping, he reached out, knowing he’d never reach it in time. Someone screamed.
Con’s eyes flew open, and he jerked upright in the bed. His lungs labored in his chest, his heart thundering, and he clenched his muscles, fists curled so tightly his fingernails bit into his palms. Sweat dried cold on his skin.
It was a dream.
He glanced around him. He was in his own bed, in his own room. It was only a dream.
Through the open doorway to the adjoining sitting room, he could see Wellie perched in his cage, regarding Con with bright black eyes. That scream must have been the parrot’s screech.
The bird moved from foot to foot and rasped out, “Wellie. Good bird.”
“Yes. Good bird.” Con’s voice came out almost as hoarse as Wellington’s. He sank back onto his pillow, closing his eyes. It had been nothing but a bad dream and easily explained—today was Alex’s wedding day. He was worried about oversleeping and failing in his duties. The problem was he’d been having the exact same nightmare for weeks.
CHAPTER ONE
WHEN CON AWOKE AGAIN, sunlight was shooting through a crack in the drapes straight into his eyes. For the second time, he bolted upright. Heaven help him. After all that, he’d overslept. He jumped out of bed and began to shave.
Wellington called Con’s name and flew into the room, taking up his favorite position atop a bedpost. “You wretched bird—screeching like a banshee in the middle of the night, yet not a word when it’s time to get up.”
Wellie let out a noise that sounded disturbingly like human laughter. Con grinned and patted his shoulder for Wellie to perch on it. Con stroked a finger down the parrot’s back.
“It’s just you and me now, boy,” he said softly. “Alex is going on to better things.”
There was an odd pang in his chest; Con had felt it more than once lately. He couldn’t be happier for his twin—Sabrina was perfect for Alex and loved him madly. Alex was over the moon about marrying her. There was nothing in the world Con wanted more than his brother’s happiness. And yet...he could not help but feel as if a piece of him was leaving.
With a sigh at his own selfishness, Con set Wellie aside and headed downstairs. He found Alex in the dining room, gazing out the window—shaved, dressed and ready to go eight hours before the ceremony. Casting an eye over his twin, Con said, “Eager or terrified?”
“A little of both.” Alex let out his breath in a whoosh. “Thank God you’re finally up.”
“Why didn’t you wake me?” Con asked, going to the sideboard to fill his plate.
“Because it was four o’clock in the morning. Wellie woke me up screeching, and I couldn’t go back to sleep. I didn’t think you’d care to be awakened.”
“Where is everyone?”
“The women have gone to Kyria’s to help with the last-minute preparations. Though what any of them could do to set up a party, I cannot imagine.”
“Mmm. Maybe Thisbe has a formula for it.”
Alex grinned. “Or Megan and Olivia have investigated the subject.”
“I’m sure Mother will enjoy trying to persuade the servants to go on strike.” Con returned to the table.
Alex took a seat across from Con. “Not like Wellie to sound off in the middle of the night like that. One has to wonder what set him off.”
“Does one?”
“Con...did you have that dream again?”
“Yes. It’s not important.”
Alex grunted softly. “It certainly doesn’t seem to have affected your appetite.”
“Little does.” Con gestured toward the pristine expanse of table in front of Alex. “What about you? Have you eaten anything?”
“I had a cup of coffee.”
“No doubt that will calm you down.”
Alex rolled his eyes and went over to pull a piece of toast from the rack. “You’re not going to distract me from your dream.”
“I know. But there’s nothing new to tell. It’s the same dream I’ve had five times now. I’m in a bizarre round room. There are clocks and compasses everywhere, and I have this feeling of absolute dread.” He paused. “Maybe it’s panic rather than dread. I feel as if I’m late. I’m sure it’s just because of the wedding. I’m worried about not getting to the jeweler’s in time for the ring. Keeping this family in line. Being late to the church. All that.”
“I have never in my life known you to be so concerned about being late,” Alex said flatly.
“You’ve never gotten married before.” Con shrugged it off. “Speaking of being late, why the devil are you all turned out in your wedding coat this early? You’ll be creased and stained by the time the ceremony rolls around.”
“I know. I’ll change. It was just... I couldn’t think what else to do.” Alex sighed. “This is going to be the longest day of my life.”
“Why so nervous? You’ve been champing at the bit for weeks. I can’t imagine you’re having second thoughts.”
“Lord, no, nothing like that. But I can’t rid myself of the fear that something will keep it from taking place. That Sabrina will decide to call it off at the last minute.”
“The woman’s mad for you. Anyone can see that.”
“I woke up this morning thinking, what if the Dearborns grab her again?”
“Idiot. She’s at Kyria’s, with all that brood to protect her.”
“I know. Not to mention her friend Miss Holcutt.”
“Indeed. I’d warrant Miss Holcutt could scare off any chap with wicked intentions.”
Alex smiled. “You’re inordinately hard on Lilah.”
“It’s inordinately easy to be hard on Lilah,” Con tossed back.
“I think the reason is you’re also rather sweet on Lilah.” Con’s contemptuous snort only made Alex grin. “Not to mention the fact that she’s the only woman to turn down your advances.”
“That’s not true.”
“Oh, really? What other girl has told you no when you asked her to take a stroll in the garden? For that matter, what woman has turned you down about
anything—excluding our sisters, of course?”
“Dozens, I’m sure.” Con paused. “Well, a few. I’m not universally approved of, you know. You’re the one who’s the perfect model of a marital prize.”
“I’m not the one who’s a charming rogue.”
“I beg your pardon. I am charming, of course, but hardly a rogue.”
Alex laughed and reached over to steal a sausage from Con’s plate. “Actually, I’m surprised you aren’t pursuing Lilah. I would think she would be a challenge to you.”
“Maybe I would.” Con’s lips curved in a faint smile. “If she weren’t your future wife’s bosom friend. That makes things awkward.”
“Not necessarily. Not if the two of you suited.”
Con snorted. “What is it that makes a reformed bachelor want to take all the rest of us down with him?”
Alex ignored his plaintive question. “Miss Holcutt is rather attractive.”
Con thought of that bright hair, an indescribable color somewhere between gold and red, that dewy skin, the long slim body beneath her conservative gowns. “Rather attractive” didn’t begin to describe Lilah.
“That’s the problem. Lilah Holcutt is the sort of woman who leads you on a merry chase, and once you manage to catch her, you can’t imagine why you wanted to. She’s priggish, self-righteous, humorless and critical. She’d make any man’s life a misery. Besides, she’s made it quite clear that she detests me.”
Alex crossed his arms, regarding Con thoughtfully. Con was grateful that before Alex could speak again, their mother swept into the room. “Alex. Dearest.”
Both men rose. “Mother. I thought you’d gone to Kyria’s.”
<
br /> “No, dear. I’m of little use there. Neither are the others of course. Kyria and Miss Holcutt could easily handle it all themselves, but it’s a nice bit of sisterly time. But I’m not going to pass your wedding day away from you.” She took Alex’s face in her hands. Tears glittered in her eyes. “I can scarcely believe you’re getting married. It seems only yesterday you were in leading strings.”
“I’m not the first of your children to marry,” Alex protested.
“I know. But those times, I knew I still had my babies. Now it’s my baby getting married.”
“You have Con.”
The duchess smiled at her other son. “Yes, but it won’t be long before you are married, too, Con.”
“Nonsense. You’ll have me around to bother you for years,” Con told her lightly. “I doubt I’m marriage material.”
Emmeline Moreland chuckled. “Now, where have I heard that before?” She patted Con’s cheek. “And you were never a bother. Either of you.”
“Mother, how could I marry?” Con laughed. “I’ll never find a woman who compares to you.”
Hours later, Con stood beside his brother as Alex’s bride made her way slowly down the aisle on the arm of Uncle Bellard. Con was unsure whether Bellard was supporting her or Sabrina was holding up their small and shy great-uncle. Bellard had been thrilled when Sabrina, having no male relatives of her own, had asked him to escort her, but this afternoon the old man had been dithering about, several shades paler than even the groom.
Alex, oddly enough, lost his nervousness the moment Sabrina came into view. Black-haired and blue-eyed, with a strawberries-and-cream complexion and a bewitching smile, she was a vision, and Alex could not take his eyes off her.
Con looked across at Sabrina’s maid of honor. Lilah Holcutt was tall and willowy, and when she smiled, her lips curved in a faintly lopsided way that never failed to send a sizzle through Con. It was fortunate for him, he supposed, that Lilah was not prone to smile often...at least not around him. She was more apt to send him that look. The one that said she found him irredeemably foolish. Strangely enough, that one, too, set off a little tickle in him.
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