Then nothing.
No one had been found with him. Chloe had already been dead, he comforted himself. She was gone before the first bull. She had felt no pain, she’d already been with le bon Dieu. Why hadn’t he been allowed to join them?
“My lord?” The vizier’s tone was impatient. Cheftu blinked. He had been ignoring the second most powerful man in Egypt.
“My apologies,” he said. “It is just… that…,” Cheftu inhaled sharply as the reality came crashing in. Chloe was dead! It couldn’t be true! It couldn’t be! But it was. He’d seen her body. He’d touched her corpse-cold hands. Mon Dieu! “What… happened to her … remains?” Was she … ? Had they … ? Cheftu couldn’t bring himself to ask of her burial.
Ipiankhu looked away. “I know not, but I will ask.”
Cheftu looked at the delicate ring on his finger. The memory of her trampled body filled his mind and he doubled over, relieved for the pain of his cracked ribs. It kept him from feeling his broken heart so strongly. “My lord—,” Ipiankhu began, then he placed his hand on Cheftu’s shoulder. Cheftu froze, fighting the tears inside. Chloe was gone? How could such a life be gone? The first sob caught in his chest as he heard Ipiankhu leave.
“Chloe,” he whispered brokenly. “Mon Dieu, Chloe!”
CHLOE TURNED IN HER SLEEP, the woolen sheet tangling around her waist, long hair tying around her neck. Long hair? Why long hair? The thought was lost as her dreams swept her away again…
Dreams? Or memories?
The ship moved gently beneath them, and Chloe tossed the throwing sticks and landed in the net, which meant she had to go back at least half the senet board. Cheftu got two more pieces into eternity. His tossing of the sticks had become a sensual act, his long fingers moving over the carved bone pieces with slow grace.
She felt heat in her cheeks and looked away. There were so many things they weren’t speaking of, so many painful topics they were avoiding. She looked at him, his amber eyes narrowed against Ra’s light. Shadows sculpted his chest and arms, highlighting the sweat-sheened muscle, delineating the cut of ab, delt, and bicep. At least fifty people were easily a glance away. “If you had to lose a physical sense, which would it be?” she asked.
Cheftu tossed the sticks; for once his throw was bad. Chloe kept her gaze focused on the wooden deck, not on his sinful hands.
“A sense?”
“Aye. Sight, sound, smell, touch, taste, hearing.”
“Which for you?” he asked.
“Anything but sight. If I couldn’t see color, or texture, differentiate between the sky’s blue and sea’s blue …” She trailed off, watching his hands. Such long, beautiful fingers, square nails—masculine hands, but not harsh. “I think I would die if I couldn’t see. My world has always been in color, in shape and perspective. To have that taken away would be to kill the core of me.” Chloe tossed the sticks. Finally, a decent roll!
“To pick a sense means I would lose one of my ways of loving you,” Cheftu said. He stretched out, laying his head on her linen-covered thigh. In the way of dreams, his touch melted away her linen and his bronzed hand lay on her naked, quivering leg.
“I wouldn’t be able to hear your cries of pleasure, or I wouldn’t be capable of feeling the satin of your skin or I wouldn’t recognize the perfume of your arousal…” His hands suddenly caressed her everywhere, stroking, touching, teasing. His voice was in her ear, inciting her.
“Or I couldn’t see your hair like a sheet of night, around me, black and shining. Or your eyes, green and full of life. Ma belle,” he murmured. He picked up her hand, still clasping the throwing sticks, and brought it to his mouth. “To forfeit taste would mean the sweetness of your body”—he sucked on one fingertip—“would be lost to me.” He sucked on another. “To lose my speech would mean I could only tell you with my body”—he sucked the tip of her ring finger, tightly, almost stinging—“how much I love you and worship you with my soul.”He took the length of her index finger into his mouth, and Chloe inhaled sharply as he closed his eyes in pleasure.
He tossed the sticks and moved his man. “I won.”
Then they were rolling on the deck, not only linked by flesh, but linked by soul. She felt her skin melt into his, heard him begging … begging …
Chloe, don’t be dead!
DARKNESS ENGULFED HER. It was pitch, like night. She sat up slowly, her hand to her pounding head, where it felt slightly disconnected. Her sense of direction was shot; she had no clue of where she might be. The silence was consuming as the last images of an ancient temple played back in her mind… with the viewing came searing pain. Haii, Cheftu! Oh God, Cheftu!
She froze as the ghost of a voice echoed, rich and velvety in the blackness around her.
“Chloe? Chloe, don’t be dead!”
Sibylla jerked awake, sweating and shaking. Fear. She was deathly afraid. Something sought to take her over, to subject her! No one has the power, she thought calmly. I am the oracle, I am a priestess, I am in control. Breathing deeply, she steadied herself.
She had looked forward to the solitude of the Daedaledion. Once here, once purged of the shadow-infested cave, she’d thought all would be well. Her mind flashed images of burned fields, the young bride’s death. Sibylla flinched. Cigarette, she wanted a cigarette.
What was a cigarette?
Her tormentor had come with her, was living here with her. Recoiling from herself, Sibylla ran to the outside balcony, trailing her linen sheet. Cold rain lashed the sleeping countryside, and she let the steady sound soothe her nerves. It was the not sleeping, she reasoned. Every night threw her into a frenzy of emotion. She felt battered within and without. Sometimes the voices were almost audible, screaming in fury, weeping in agony. Sibylla smoothed her hair over her shoulders. She hated to face the possibility of no longer prophesying…
So she wouldn’t consider it. Kela was trying to tell her something; she only needed to be aware, to not fear and to not run. Breathing deeply, she let the cool breeze soothe her. Calm once more, she returned to her bed, lit by the oil lamp. She opened a small leather bag and poured the few stones into her palm. Opal, lapis lazuli, turquoise, red agate, and tiger’s eye. She wanted to purge herself of mental conflict, of this oppression, so she slipped the others into the bag and placed the tiger’s eye on her right elbow. Still breathing deeply, Sibylla willed herself the calm of the Great Goddess to pour into her veins through the stone. She visualized the words in a dance of pattern, backward and forward, twisting and turning.
Sibylla’s eyes closed.
“We need to talk,” Chloe addressed the resting mind of her host, Sibylla. “Though it’s not possible, both of us are in this body. We need some rules.”
“It’s my body,” Sibylla said. “You are only here because you took advantage. My psyche had not left, it was merely traveling.”
“Your body should be like an American Express card. Don’t leave home without it.”
Sibylla groaned. “You fill my mind with this meaningless chatter all the time! What are you? Who are you? Why are you here?”
Chloe had an immediate cartoon visual: a miniature of her, with green eyes, and a miniature Sibylla with blue eyes, sitting on the shoulders of the life-size body of Sibylla. The question was, who was the devil and who was the angel? “A disaster is coming. I can help you.
“You are a manifestation of the Great Goddess and can calm the earth and soothe the sea?” The sarcasm was apparent, though thousands of years separated their minds.
“Actually more like a manifestation of the Federal Emergency Management Agency,” Chloe snapped. “Look, we have to share this body. Let’s do it in peace.” She waited in silence. “Or we can continue to battle it out every moment of every day. After all, you do have to sleep sometime.”
“My reasoning must be trapped out of my body, along with my memories!” Sibylla snarled. “I am loath to agree to this. These disasters you see are allegories, metaphors. The gods would never destroy their faithful s
upplicants.”
“Then why did you tell that young woman to move to Phaistos?”
“I didn’t,” Sibylla said archly. “You interfered. The gods can be placated, they always have been, time before mind.”
“You can’t reason with nature,” Chloe said. “I can help these people, your people.” She was silent a moment. “I tell you what—you can do all of your priestess activities. I will act as your nonpublic per-sona.”
“How benevolent of you to grant me control of my own body. At least now I won’t have to confess that I’m bartering with a skia.”
Because the communication seemed to be on visual and verbal levels, Chloe knew that a skia was a ghost, a fanged shadow, to be exact. The equivalent of an Egyptian khaibit. Just once I would like to live in a nonsuperstitious time, Chloe thought. Why can’t I, just once, step into the future; into a world of silver-and-glass structures, female urinals, and everyone wearing Saran Wrap? “In return, I get to make the decisions about the disaster, the prophecies.”
Sibylla shuddered. “Aye! The visions are horrible. Never before has Kela communicated such terrors to me.”
Chloe had serious doubts about Kela communicating anything, but she kept her mouth shut. Metaphorically speaking. This wouldn’t last more than a year, right? She’d been in Egypt for only a year. What was one more year?
“In payment you will have to run the race,” Sibylla said.
“The race?”
“Aye. Contending for the position of Queen of Heaven.”
“I hate running.”
“I hate to share my body,” Sibylla said tersely. Both women were silent for a moment. “May I sleep in comfort now?” she asked with knife-edged courtesy.
“I’d say it’s a free country, but it’s not,” Chloe said.
Sibylla’s spirit quieted, and Chloe looked around at the body, quickly checking for the identifying marks that made it hers. Scar from the dog bite on her palm, slash across her knee from Camille’s motorcycle accident. Her body was shaved smooth, in the same fashion as the Egyptians. It seemed familiar, though: long, lean, muscled. Her hands looked the same. But she had this hair! Long hair! Black and curly! She finally had the hair she’d always dreamed of.
Immediately Chloe decided she liked this body.
Touching her face, she felt the bridge of her nose, the tiny cleft in her chin. She ran her tongue over her teeth. All present, though she would kill for a toothbrush. Still no movement from Sibylla. Mentally Chloe slipped into the caverns of the woman’s knowledge.
It was sneaky, it was guerrilla warfare, but Chloe had to learn more about this woman and the world she inhabited. She was going to have to use every skill and bit of wisdom to prevent these disasters from wiping these people off the planet. If need be, she would have to invade Sibylla’s mind, take over completely. She had to save these people. Otherwise, what was she here for? What could be vital enough to separate her from Cheftu?
CHAPTER 5
AZTLAN
THEY PULLED AWAY FROM EACH OTHER, sticky with sweat. Ileana was shaking; she’d never given or taken like this before. Priamos was a tidal wave of passion, and she’d been swept along, unwilling to seek help. She rolled over, looking at the young man whose gaze was focused on the ceiling. He seemed completely awake and henti away.
“I must leave,” he said.
Ileana struggled to focus her thoughts. “Why?”
“I do not want to,” he said, ignoring her question. “But I fear to stay.”
“I find it hard to imagine you fear anyone or anything,” she said, smiling.
Priamos rolled on top of her in one quick, fierce motion. “I fear I will kill Zelos when I think of him in your bed.”
She stared into his eyes: they burned with anger and hate. “You dislike Zelos so?”
“He has you. I do not.”
“You just had me, Priamos,” she said with a coquettish smile. “You forget too quickly.”
“I want you for always, Ileana. You are my sun, my moon, my stars at night.”
How stunningly trite, Ileana thought. She pushed him away, covering her shoulders. “I must leave for the temple,” she said.
“Phoebus despises you, Ileana.” He caressed her nape, ignoring her stiffening. “He would rather kill you than fulfill his duty toward you. I would adore you, live to serve you.” He kissed her neck as a petition. A peacock screamed outside her door.
What a nuisance, Ileana thought. She didn’t want to offend the handsome boy, she might need him later, but this affection was time-consuming, time she didn’t have. She’d picked him because he seemed self-contained, too proud to fall in love. She didn’t want emotions. “Priamos, love”—she grimaced inwardly—“I must go to the temple. You need to leave so I can send for my serfs.”
“I will be your serf, Ileana. Let me dress you, wash you—”
She stood up. “Now, Priamos.”
He blushed prettily and dressed, his back to her. Please, Kela, tell me I haven’t wounded his fragile ego. The set of his shoulders was tense, and she turned him around, kissing him with all her technique. He was a glorious lover, he just needed to learn when to leave. “Come to me tonight,” she whispered in his ear, then swatted his firm buttocks in farewell. The peacock screamed again.
“Until my eyes hold you again,” he began.
“Aye. Until then.”
She closed the double doors behind him, letting in her pet, and snapped for her serf. Had Priamos’ seed taken root inside her? Was she even now fertile ground? With a modicum of her usual toilette, Ileana was hustled into a covered traveling chair and was carried down the flagged stones to the Kela-Ata high priestess.
Signs of spring, the Season of the Bull, were everywhere. The hint of green on the hills, the budding flowers. Oh, let Priamos’ seed make me like the spring, she thought. Let me be full of fruit and fertility! Once inside the sprawling red-columned temple complex, Ileana alighted, drawing a finely woven scarf over her hair and face. She would be as nameless as the hundreds of women who sought Kela daily.
She stood in line with the others, watching the women, young and old, disperse. Those who sought medical care through the hands of the Kela-Tenata were dispatched to examination rooms and apothecaries in the farthest third of the temple. Those who needed to be reminded of their sexuality, or craved a release their spouse or lover didn’t provide, were sent to the small, plain chambers where the Coil Dancers administered their skills. Shell Seekers ran back and forth through the temple, carrying their catch, the stench of fish heads and salt water following them. It was hard to believe that pampered, perfumed Vena once was brown and hardy like these girls.
Ileana deliberately relaxed her jaw so as not to grind her teeth at the thought of Vena. The woman was a strong contender for Ileana’s role. Was she training for the race?
Ileana was next in line.
“My mistress, how may Kela minister to you?”
In response, Ileana parted her scarf, showing the girl the golden seal of the Clan Olimpi. The young woman swallowed, uncertain whether to bow or salute, and settled for a hesitant smile. “She awaits you,” she said. Ileana heard her questioning the next supplicant as she walked into the narrow hallway that branched between two sections of the temple.
The Kela-Ata was hers. The woman owed her position to Ileana, and the Queen of Heaven never let her forget it. When Ileana had been the mother-goddess for only two summers, the then reigning Kela-Ata had confronted her. She’d had a vision: she knew Ileana had killed Rhea.
Thinking quickly, Ileana had confessed and played the part of a penitent. After swearing on the Triton and Shell, she had poured them both wine. She’d poisoned one rhyton and watched the Kela-Ata switch rhytons when Ileana’s back was turned. So the wily skeela had been expecting it! What she didn’t know was that Ileana had anticipated the high priestess’s suspicions and had served herself the poisoned wine.
A Shell Seeker had entered the room moments later. With a knife at he
r throat, Ileana had offered her the position. In exchange for silence and duplicity forever, Ileana would make her the Kela-Ata. She would never want for anything again. Though the Council had been divided, the succession had been approved. That was many summers ago, yet the relationship had not changed.
“I may be with child,” Ileana announced.
Embla, the Kela-Ata, turned slowly. She was so grossly obese, her every movement was labored. Ileana controlled her through food; Kela-Ata was eating herself to death. Ileana wondered briefly if she had made Kela-Ata hate herself, if bending this woman had unleashed some specter within her. However, this slow suicide was useful.
“Seduced Phoebus early, did you?” the high priestess asked.
“You fool. You know he hates me.” Ileana sat down. “Give me an elixir, a potion. Help me fertilize my lover’s seed!”
“You have had two children, Ileana. You know that you cannot be certain if you are with child for moons yet!”
“My youngest daughter is seventeen summers, Embla.”
“Aye, but since her birth we have used herbs to prevent conception.”
“What if they have made seed reluctant to settle in me? What if Phoebus uses herbs and withholds himself? This is the Megaloshana’a. I must be big with child by harvest! My…”Ileana bit her lip and sat back. “Do something.”
Embla lumbered to her feet. “You just left the couch of your lover?”
Ileana refrained from reminding her that she never shared lover’s couches, they came to her.
“The seed needs to stay in you. Turn around.”
“Around?”
“Aye. Your head to the ground, your feet in the air.”
Ileana hesitated, and Embla shrugged. “Eee, you must not be as anxious as you said.”
Fuming quietly, Ileana turned on the stone bench, resting her head against the floor, raising her legs high. Blood rushed to her brain, and she hoped the sacrifice of dignity was worth it. Please, Kela. Let me be pregnant. “How soon can you tell?”
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