Embla nibbled a shrimp. “Nothing is certain until your next season of menses.”
“So I sit upside-down until then?” Ileana asked, outraged.
“I will give you mandrake root to drink. Eat an egg with every meal. Those will increase your lover’s fertility.”
“Embla,” Ileana said, her voice strained, “are you aware of how many young women will challenge me this summer? You should know, because I am the only one who still believes you are an adequate KelaAta. If I am cast out, so are you.”
“So, we eliminate your contenders.”
Ileana sat up. “I cannot murder every qualifying cousin.” She rubbed her neck. “I may be the Queen of Heaven, but I am not above the Council. Not in this.”
The Kela-Ata smiled. “Not murder. Elimination need not be so extreme.”
Ileana’s gaze narrowed. “It’s a race, first.”
“Whom do you fear most, my mistress?”
“Vena. Sibylla. Selena.”
Embla’s jaw tightened, a ripple running through her multiple chins. “Selena is the inheritor for Kela-Ata. She is very qualified.”
“There are others, but those three are my strongest competition.”
“They are all powerful with the spirit of Kela, my mistress.”
“Surely not more powerful than you?”
“Nay, nay,” Embla said, a little too quickly, Ileana thought. “I will consult my tablets, see what can be done.”
“Do this first. Prevent all other women from competing. These three I will race at the midsummer fest. Just assure me that there will be no surprises.”
Embla smiled. “Chieftain Sibylla runs in a festival next week. Shall her competition lose?”
“Aye, my Kela-Ata. Give her a sense of speed and agility that is faulty. Build her up, so I can enjoy breaking her down.”
“Would a broken ankle be too much?”
Ileana picked up one of Embla’s shrimp. “I think it would be perfect.”
PHOEBUS RAN, DUCKING THE SWINGING BAR, feinting to the left of the knee-length blade, and vaulting tightly over the shoulder-height spikes. He rolled and turned.
“Too late,” said Garu, his trainer.
Phoebus turned. “Why!”
“He gored your abdomen while you were turning.”
Grudgingly Phoebus shook his head in agreement. The twelve-year-old boy smiled. “It is easy for you,” Phoebus said. “You barely reach my chest. I have a lot more length to protect.”
“Truth, my master. However, you need do this only once.” The boy looked away, instructing the attendants to move the obstacles into new positions. Aye, Phoebus thought. I do this once, you do this until you die. Bull dancing had been so much easier as a child—jumping, dodging, riding.
Phoebus stood and walked back to his mark. It was mere moons before Becoming Golden. In this, as in each aspect of his life, he must prove himself superior to every other man in Aztlan. Sound of body, agile of mind and limb. His birthright demanded that he be as limber as a twelve-year-old with the mind of a Scholomancer. Every facet of his personality would be tested. Then self-control: a year-long test.
He grimaced and knelt.
“Now!”
Phoebus jumped over the bar leveled at his knees, then rolled under the one swinging at his shoulders. Spikes came from both left and right, and he froze as they passed within a finger’s width of him. Alerted by a roar, he propelled himself forward, curling tightly between the fake bulls’ horns. He was thrown and rolled. Phoebus knew he was dead.
Garu called a halt and knelt beside him. The Rising Golden was breathing hard, sweat gluing his hair to his back.
“You have one main flaw,” his trainer offered. “You do not tumble quickly enough.”
“Aye. But how can I improve?”
“Think of your limbs as liquid, each muscle moving into the other with no stress, no strain. Your movements must flow like a wave. As the bull approaches, throw your bulk forward, and pull the rest of your liquid body in a curving arc. Think of this as you practice, my master.” Garu faced him, his somber expression disconcerting in his boyish face. “You have neglected this practicing. If you do not improve, you will be buried and mourned the day you should be crowned.”
Phoebus didn’t need to hear that his name would also be reviled as the first Olimpi who had failed. How had the weeks and moons passed so quickly? “When may I meet the Apis?”
“They are due from Egypt, my master. You will know of their arrival before I do.” The trainer rose to his feet. “Practice, Golden One. There is no other way to avoid death, save practice.” Gesturing to the rest of the serfs, he left Phoebus standing alone.
Garu had not answered his question.
Scowling, Phoebus approached the hanging rings. He pulled himself up, then brought his knees to his chin. A wave, he was a wave. He turned in a ball, then straightened. Too slow.
He straightened, pulled tight, and turned again. In his mind he saw the sea churn into curving shapes, then flatten out again. Phoebus straightened, then pulled tight and turned. A wave. And again. The sea. By the stones of Apis, he had done this perfectly before and would do so again! He pulled his legs up and turned.
Straight. Turn. Straight, Turn, Waves coiling and flattening on the shore.
Sweat ran down his arms, slick on the soft leather handles. Straight, turn, straight, turn… He felt his movements begin to slide into each other. With each try, the motions became smoother, one flowing into another. I will become the Golden One. He refused to think of missing Zelos, of the dark mystery of the day. He would rule. He would Become Hreesos.
It was his destiny, just as certain as the tides.
THE SPIRALMASTER OPENED THE INSCRIBED RECORD. The language written on these leather pages was in his native tongue, Egyptian. His grandfather had translated the contents of this tablet from an earlier account written by the hand and in the language of the founders of Aztlan.
The Clan Olimpi had stepped into power only a hundred summers ago, but the founders of these islands had lived here time before mind. When the earth had been one sea, a man and his wife had come to this land. The man’s grandfather, Noach, had walked with a sole god, who had given him some mystical stones. Noach passed these stones to Iapheth, and Iapheth passed them to his son Iavan, who settled on these isles.
These stones had offered direct communication with their one god. In his protection, the people thrived: the god showed them where the springs were, taught them about the plants, the sea, and the stones. Spiralmaster’s trembling hand followed the text roughly.
“In justice and mercy the One God spoke. Light illuminated our way, and we were guided by the clicking of the stones.”
The stones. All the references he’d found claimed they were connected to this one god. Spasms racked Spiralmaster’s body, and he dropped the tablet. The leather fell to the ground, and Spiralmaster cursed; how was he supposed to get it? He could barely walk, and bending was impossible!
Narrowing his gaze, he studied the fallen tablet. Each missive was made of inscribed leather, two pieces fitted together and sewn, then attached to the next section in reversing folds. Something was hidden between the two sections.
Adrenaline raced through his old body, and he fumbled for a stick, clumsily dragging the leather folder closer. Two specters appeared before him. Skia. Both were tall, to appearances male. One appeared limned in light, radiating warmth and compassion. The other seemed dark, forbidding and solemn. Words whispered through his mind, a language he didn’t know but intonation he recognized. Then they were gone, and the tablet was in his hands.
Though his movements were awkward, Spiralmaster managed to extract the narrow piece of papyrus from between the leaves of leather. Egyptian hieroglyphs, mixed with the strange scratchings of Aztlan’s first language, crossed the page, right to left. He read quickly, his lips pressed together tightly lest he accidentally whisper some word and give it life. Like Egyptian spells, the articulation was left out of th
e original language—a protection against anyone save the initiated speaking this magic.
The fold of papyrus fluttered to his feet as pain beat against his skull. Iavan’s stone-borne warning was explicit: “Three times will Aztlan be raised up. She will wound herself, then maim herself, then destroy herself.” Was this the first time? or the third? Spiralmaster wondered through his agony. He called for help, his vision clouding as an adept carried him to his couch. I cannot die, he thought fiercely. There is much to be done. Oh gods, help me.
EGYPT
THE MAGE WALKED SLOWLY, easing his weight onto a cane. His light eyes reflected more than they revealed. His body, though scarred from his recent encounter with the Apis bull, showed no telltale signs of famine: loose teeth, hair loss, flaccidity, dull skin. He looked as though he’d stepped into court from the Egypt of three Inundations ago. Deadly Inundations, Ipiankhu thought. The mage moved stiffly, regally, his jaw set.
Imhotep said he’d virtually refused to speak, to explain anything, which made both Ipiankhu and Imhotep nervous. Cheftu was deeply angry, grieving. Telling him about the body of the woman had unleashed a monster who had destroyed a room and sent slaves cowering. To let such a man close to Pharaoh was grossly irresponsible, yet even they could not disobey a direct command. Who could have guessed that Pharaoh would demand this surgery? Senwosret’s advisers’ pleas had gone unheard. Ipiankhu sighed heavily.
Pharaoh was immobile, his open eyes unseeing. Ipiankhu held his breath along with the rest of the court. Had the dream been right? Was this golden-eyed man the cat Pharaoh had seen heal him?
“It is as I feared,” the mage said slowly. “The scales are in his eyes.”
Imhotep’s glance touched Ipiankhu before moving to the mage. “Can you heal him?”
Incredibly, the man shrugged. “I can try. Only God heals.”
Ipiankhu felt a touch of fire trace through his body. “God,” spoken in the singular. Did this man refer to Amun-Ra? Yet his tone … Ipiankhu swallowed and stepped closer.
“Do it now!” Senwosret commanded. Ipiankhu watched emotions cross the mage’s face, then he inclined his head and turned to Imhotep, whispering and gesturing. Tools, implements, Ipiankhu guessed, were presented to the mage. Slaves passed among the company, offering wine and beer, honey cakes and sickly fruit. The crowd pressed closer until the mage turned and glared at them.
“This is not a wrestling match. I need complete silence in order to perform this procedure. You would serve Pharaoh, living forever! and Egypt best by leaving.” Ipiankhu motioned to a guard, who ushered out the protesting courtiers and ladies. The mage picked up a bronze blade. Ipiankhu flinched and wondered again if this were the only, the best, alternative. With his hand bandaged could the man even manage surgery?
CHEFTU PERUSED THE TRAY. Lancet, ties, honey, fat, and three more blades, should they prove necessary. One to use on himself, he thought wryly. If this operation were less than successful, he was a dead man. Maybe that would be for the best? He looked up, gauging the best light, then asked for Pharaoh to be moved.
Senwosret, he thought. The pharaoh in the last dynasty before the Hyksos, known in French as Sesostris. How would this man, whose careworn face testified to his worry over Egypt, feel to know that centuries of subjugation would be his people’s lot, until Hatshepsut’s grandfather Ahmose conquered the invaders and ascended the throne? Would he consider the hardships of the past Inundations a worthy price? Or would he retreat into his own palace, gleaning from the masses’ fields and ignoring their problems? God knew, pharaohs had done that before. Nay, Egypt was protected by a father in Senwosret, even if Pharaoh could glimpse the red and black lands’ future.
Cheftu leaned over the man, forcing himself to regard Pharaoh as merely another patient. He stood to the side, allowing the sun to light the area, seeking his best angle. At Cheftu’s request, the patient had consumed copious amounts of beer with poppy juice; he was conscious but numb. Cheftu motioned for the priests to tie the patient’s hands to the armrests and hold his head steady on the headrest.
Cheftu wouldn’t actually remove the cataract. He would simply break it into tiny, unobtrusive pieces and scatter them in the eye, so vision would once more be complete. Cheftu reached for the delicate knife with his right hand and sent a quick prayer to le bon Dieu for dexterity and nerve. He’d been trained in the House of Life to use both hands with equal skill, but he preferred his left hand. Though the splint had been removed, his fingers still wouldn’t bend fully.
He closed his eyes, focused all his strength and energy onto the patient, then carefully inserted the lancet into the milky white between the corner of the man’s eye and his iris. Cheftu blocked out all other sound, listening for the slight crack and watching for the tears that would indicate he had the cataract. With quick, precise movements, he sliced the covering into pieces. Finally he laid a linen soaked in honey and fat on the eye and turned his attention to the other.
IPIANKHU WATCHED THE MAGE’S HAND as he moved over the still face of Pharaoh. Except for the unconscious gestures of his left hand, the mage’s movements were artistry. Where did this skill come from? How did he know what to do? Egypt had the world’s finest physicians; the man was Egyptian, yet some unnamable flavor of foreignness hung about him. It was as though he were playing a role. This Ipiankhu understood, having played many roles in his own life. He had yet to figure out the motive behind Cheftu’s careful behavior. A patch was put on Senwosret’s other eye, and the mage looked up.
“It will be several days before we are certain, but I feel, gods willing, that the surgery has gone well.” The cumulative exhalation of those watching brought a faint smile to his lips. Ipiankhu stepped forward; Cheftu would be his guest until Pharaoh was healed. With the appropriate bows and phrases, they left the palace and headed into the city of Avaris. Though Ipiankhu’s house could be reached by a private thoroughfare from the palace, he enjoyed milling with the rekkit. If the mage was surprised, he hid it well.
Mud-brick houses, slanting toward each other and whitewashed time and again, formed archways, pockets of shade for children to play in during the summer and old men to rest in during the winter. The streets, stone paved in the more affluent parts of town, were still muddy here. Scrawny fowl pecked at the muck at their feet. Tired housewives ground meal into powder. Children, their eyes black with flies, romped in the courtyards to the music of slowly dripping water.
Ipiankhu ground his teeth, recalling a verdant, fertile Egypt. It would be so again, this he knew; he just wondered how many would die while waiting. They walked through the marketplace. Jewelry was cheap, bread expensive. He watched two rekkit boys attempt to steal from a fishmonger. They were quick and sly, but the man was angry, and his wrath made him fierce. As the fishmonger brandished his knife at the skinny, filthy children, Ipiankhu moved instantly to intervene. The vizier of all Egypt was once again a child, wondering if he would be killed or sold into slavery. At the cost of a month’s wages to satisfy the fishmonger, Ipiankhu bought the children’s lives. He pressed his lips together tightly. Once again, the Unknown took what was meant for evil and redirected it for good.
CHEFTU WATCHED AS THE TWO BEDRAGGLED BOYS followed the vizier. He didn’t understand him. Until Ipiankhu’s last action, Cheftu hadn’t even tried. At least the mysterious Ipiankhu provided some distraction from the ache with which Cheftu had awoken, the ache that lasted through every day and into his dreams. Chloe, Chloe—so vibrantly alive—it was not possible that such a life was gone. He could not think of it, the pain was too exquisite. Even her body hadn’t been saved, no way to build her a tomb and spend the remainder of his days waiting to join her.
Why had he gone back in time? If he were whisked from Thut’s hands, shouldn’t he have arrived in the future, in his real body? With his real name?
Cheftu was baffled. Not that it mattered, any of it. He was in the wrong time. Wrong place. The Egypt that had been the mistress of his heart was centuries away. The nobles, hou
ses, and nomes he’d known did not exist. Pharaoh ruled and the priesthood prayed and each family sought to scratch a living from the sickly soil. In Hatshepsut’s time Pharaoh owned most of the arable land; in this time even Pharaoh was poor. Cheftu didn’t even know Egypt anymore.
Why the stampede had not killed him, he couldn’t imagine. What had he sacrificed for this shadowy world? The stench of the dying marketplace brought him out of his reverie, and he surveyed the broken stalls and refuse standing in the open, gathering flies. Senwosret’s Egypt with its disease and filth bore a resemblance to the Egypt of Cheftu’s modern time instead of the glorious Egypt of Hatshepsut, with its sewage systems, temple distribution centers, and education. He stepped over an indistinguishable rotting carcass and averted his eyes from the thin women nursing from sagging breasts.
Ipiankhu changed direction, and the whitewash grew whiter, the streets wider, and the people healthier. The air cleared, and Cheftu saw sandbags protecting the larger estates. Three Inundations of over-flooding had brought the famine, he’d learned. Egypt had been prepared, however, stockpiling seeds, grains, and dried produce from Inundations before. Cheftu shrugged. The events sounded familiar, but he didn’t care enough to pursue it.
After entering a low doorway, Cheftu followed Ipiankhu into a courtyard. He knew that once it had been beautiful. Now mud bricks shored up the house against stagnant green water. A dying tree stood in a mosquito-covered pool, and the stink of rotting vegetation hung thickly over the estate. Servants moved slowly before the oven, its gray smoke fading beneath the blue sky. Fowl was roasting; Cheftu’s stomach rumbled, and Ipiankhu turned. “My servants will show you to your quarters,” he said. “Bid them anything, anything you desire, and it is yours.”
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