by Scott Peters
"My father and I, we saw chariots like that once," he said.
Her cheeks flushed a deeper red.
"It was two years ago," he said quickly, trying to keep her attention. "Before the flood. We’d crossed the river from Thebes and—"
"Who do you think you are?"
He froze. "No one, I—"
"The priest said you were cursed. He was right. Cursed with stupidity! Hiding back here, pretending you’re some god-given craftsman?"
"I never said I—"
She wrenched the stick away. "You’re a flea-bitten farm boy, not Pharaoh’s royal tomb-painter."
He almost laughed with relief. Did it mean she couldn't see Horus, who was staring at her even now? Become a tomb-painter? That's what she was thinking he was trying to? He’d never be stupid enough to imagine that.
She pushed him aside. "This nonsense ends now." Ignoring the worth of her beaded sandals, she kicked the image of the racing carts to pieces.
In a fury, she swirled across the sand and advanced on Horus. Yet as she approached, her footsteps slowed. She stopped before she reached the god’s image, as if held back by some power she couldn't see. The God of the Sky shimmered and shifted, mirage-like in the heat. Maybe she didn't see the life blazing in Horus's eyes. Maybe she couldn't read the warning.
But Ramses knew, looking at her, that she felt something.
"It’s just a drawing," she muttered.
A bead of sweat trickled between Ramses’ shoulders. She wouldn’t. Would she?
Her fingers tightened around the stick; her hand trembled. With sickening foreboding, Ramses knew it would be a bad idea to erase it. A really bad idea. She lunged, slashing the god’s chest. Horus’s eyes seemed to flick to Ramses’ face.
He darted forward. "Stop!"
Aunt Zalika’s arms shot out and sent him flying. The ground rose up, hard and unyielding. Ramses came at her again. He was strong for his age, but she was tall, wiry, and surprisingly powerful. She moved like a demon. The drawing stick cut left and right, deeper and deeper.
Unyielding, she hacked Horus to pieces.
Heavy silence fell over the riverbank. The hot air grew thick with a strange odor. It was the smell of rotting decay.
Aunt Zalika turned on him. She looked stricken and pale, and her hands were shuddering. For a moment, he thought she might throw up. Somehow, she wrestled control of herself.
"How dare you attack me?" she croaked.
Chapter Four
Ramses faced his aunt. All traces of the meek, concerned woman who’d stood by his father’s bedside were gone. She forced her shoulders back until she stood tall and straight. Her new gold collar glittered with blinding flashes. Despite her pale cheeks, she towered over him like a queen.
Along the shoreline, flies buzzed amongst the moldering reeds.
Aunt Zalika pulled her hand back, raising his drawing stick overhead. Then she brought it down fast. The hiss of movement broke the stillness of the air. The stick slammed into his back. It tore away a layer of skin. He gasped. No one had beaten him. Ever.
The stick he'd sharpened so carefully, and had used to draw so many images, tore down a second time. He squeezed his nails into his fists, masking his fury behind a cold face. It took all his control to keep from shouting that she couldn’t strike him. But she could.
Who would stop her?
Perversely, on the ground, Horus’s eye—the legendary wadjet eye—remained whole.
It watched Aunt Zalika, steady and unblinking.
She threw the stick down, breathing hard. Sweat beaded on her oily temples; her kohl-lined eyes had begun to smear. Ramses knew he should keep his mouth shut. Instead, the two blazing welts on his back loosened his tongue.
"My father told you he wanted me to draw. I heard him."
Her fingers found his chin and tilted it up to hers. "A little spy, are you?"
The design of her features mocked him, for they reminded him of his mother. But they were all wrong—it was as if a sculptor had taken his mother’s beautiful face and twisted it out of proportion.
"Your parents are dead." Her voice was flat. "I make the rules now."
His mouth opened, but nothing came out.
"Are we clear?" she asked.
He glared at her, unable to believe she could talk about her sister that way. His fists balled against the gashes that were making his head spin.
"Answer me. Are we clear?"
"Very."
Yes, it was clear—that she didn’t want him to draw. But he hadn’t made any promises. Not to her. And why should he?
"Good." She pushed him up the Nile’s bank. "Then wipe off that frown and march."
He felt Horus's wadjet eye blazing into the back of his head as he turned. They left the river and passed beneath palm trees heavy with dates and humming bees; they hurried across fields, and along paths still creased with his father’s footsteps.
In the distance, the second gong rang out. Lunch was over.
Ahead, workers picked up their tools and moved to-and-fro, cutting wheat with curved scythes. Others gathered it into baskets. One sat on a stool, sharpening the men’s blades as they grew dull.
"Where are you taking the boy?" called a deep voice.
Ramses glanced up to see Sobek, the farm manager, watching them. The man's blade rested over one ox-like shoulder. His eyes were bright blue, his irises ringed with a thin black line. They measured Ramses with a swift glance and then moved to Zalika's face.
"That’s none of your business, Sobek," she said.
"It is, Madam, if you’re robbing me of one of my workers."
"He’ll be working. Just not with you."
Sobek’s brow darkened. "I need my crew."
"You’re out of line," she said.
"And you’ll be out some riches, Madam, if the boy doesn’t cut his share of wheat."
The shadow of an ibis flew across the ground between them.
Aunt Zalika studied the shimmering fields. After a moment, she said, "Tell me, do you know about this little flea’s ridiculous drawings?"
"I do."
"How many others know?"
"No idea."
She smoothed her gold collar. "I find it interesting how intent you seem on guarding my nephew."
"My crew is my responsibility."
"Is it? Then why did I find him lazing on the riverbank? I don’t want people thinking I’m spoiling him because he’s my nephew."
Ramses said, "Lazing! It was break time!"
Sobek shot him a scowl. "The boy works as hard as any man."
"Well, if he didn’t tire himself playing in the sand, he’d work harder." She laughed. "Ramses has had his head filled with nonsense. But he’s a worker. My worker. And do you know what your job is, Farm Manager?"
"Of course I know my job."
"Then know this. Your job, Sobek, depends on making sure Ramses does what he's supposed to. And that's work, not play."
"My job depends on it? Now that sounds strangely like a threat."
"It is a threat. I want Ramses' drawing to stop. And if it doesn’t, you'll feel the blame."
"Indeed?"
"I'm not joking. Make him stop, or lose your job. Is that clear enough?"
"That’s not fair," Ramses said. "It’s not Sobek’s fault if—"
"Silence!" Sobek roared.
Aunt Zalika smiled at Sobek. "We understand each other then." She paused. "Oh. One more thing, Farm Manager."
Sobek waited in silence, mouth set.
"I don't want Ramses going near my son. Keep him away from Sepi."
"Why keep them apart? The boys are cousins," Sobek said. "And why should I be the one to do it?"
She raised her painted brows. "I have my reasons. Just do what I ask, and you'll be fine." Taking hold of her skirt, she turned and strode off.
"You can’t treat Sobek like this!" Ramses shouted after her.
She didn’t reply. Soon her thin shadow disappeared in the distance.
"I’m sorry," Ramses said.
"Don’t be. No reason."
The next few words were a struggle. "I won’t . . . I can’t let you get in trouble. I promise, I’ll—"
"You’ll what? Stop drawing?"
"You heard what she said!"
Sobek clapped a strong hand on Ramses’ arm. His nut-brown face creased into a smile. "Don’t concern yourself with me."
Sobek was a powerful man.
But her words were no empty threat.
Ramses picked up his scythe and fingered its blade. Then he whacked the blade through a stalk of wheat. The golden head toppled to the ground. Broken, it lay shining in the dust. "I never asked to be born wanting to draw. What if the priest was right? What if I am cursed? What if it’s my fault my parents—"
"Enough. I don’t believe it. Neither did your father. No one does. No one who matters."
Ramses shrugged. "What matters is I’m a farmer. And I should be happy about it. Because that’s all I was ever meant to be."
"Is it?" Sobek demanded.
His tone snapped Ramses to attention.
"Is that all you were meant to be?" Sobek said.
"Of course. What do you mean?"
The farm manager shielded his face, staring intently. There was something strange in his expression. Something that made Ramses’ skin prickle.
"Only the gods can answer that," Sobek finally said.
Chapter Five
Less than an hour’s walk from Ramses’ farm, a girl hurtled across the desert. She was breathing hard. Long black hair flying, slim arms and legs pumping, She ran toward a towering wall. Her bare toes raked a sharp stone. She sucked in her breath, but kept going.
Avoiding the gates she skirted east, staying close to the perimeter.
The Place of Truth. That’s what they called the tiny village hidden inside those dusty old walls. But they should’ve called it the Place of Mystery. People in Thebes spoke of it in curious whispers—they wondered about its guarded secrets, told stories of its ancient magic. No one knew the truth except its few lucky craftsmen; the village was forbidden to anyone who wasn’t born there.
Blue shadows stretched across the rippled desert. At the sound of footsteps, the girl’s heart skipped a beat. She pressed herself into a narrow crevice and held her breath.
A sentry rounded the corner. He paused, one hand on his dagger, and glanced into the distance. The sun capped the nearby mountain, sending rays slanting toward its base.
There, emerging from the Valley of the Kings, came a caravan of figures. Pharaoh’s tomb-builders were on their way back home—back to her secluded village.
Neferet squinted, imagining she could see Tui and Paimu with their brushes and ink; imagined she could see the gilders, draftsmen, wood-carvers, and stone-workers with their hammers and chisels. And leading them all would be their chief, the Head Scribe of the Place of Truth. Her father.
She stifled a groan.
She had to get back inside, and quick. If only the sentry would leave!
She watched him, remembering the countless times spent waiting to climb back in. By now, she could clamber over with her eyes closed.
Today, the only thing missing was Paneb. They’d been friends for ages—even though people frowned on it. The first time she and the painter’s apprentice met was when he found her trying to climb out over the village walls. She thought he’d be mad, and that he’d tell on her. Instead, he’d helped her out, and had followed her over. It became a habit. Their secret. Mostly they ran wild in the desert, daring each other to do crazy stuff like stir up scorpions’ nests, or climb into lions’ dens.
But two weeks ago, he’d been different.
"Let’s go up to the east ridge," she’d said.
He scoffed at her.
"What?" she said.
"Are you ever going to grow up? I’m sick of climbing around these old dunes."
She felt like she’d been slapped. "Okay . . . "
"It’s just . . . I want to do something new. Something exciting."
As she guessed his mind, she recovered quickly. She grinned "You want to find that pretty market-girl again. You want to sneak back across the river into Thebes! By the gods, I can still see her eyes when you said were from the Place of Truth." She giggled, picturing Paneb and the girl together. "I thought she was going to faint, she was so impressed. She acted like you were Pharaoh or something."
"I’m not talking about—"
"We could go back, and you could tell her you were just getting the gold collar to go with those crazy new cuffs. I bet she’d just die to see you again."
"Stop."
She looked up into his face.
"Forget the gold collar, Neferet. I’m talking about leaving."
"Leaving?"
"To Memphis."
"Memphis?" She stared at him, stunned. To Pharaoh’s white-walled city in the north of Egypt? "Very funny." She punched his arm. "You wouldn’t leave. Your father would keel over and die of shame."
"No, he wouldn’t. Not him." He looked away.
Neferet was confused. She knew Paneb and his father didn’t get along well, but she was sure Paneb was wrong. What was he thinking?
"Come with me," he said.
"You can’t be serious."
"Can’t I?" he said, sounding annoyed.
"It’s not like the old days when there were piles of apprentices. Don’t look at me like that. You know as well as I do. You’re the only one."
"It’s not my fault if half our women are barren."
His words shocked her. Even if they were the truth.
"What about money? You can’t afford to go there."
"I have enough."
For some reason, she again remembered his gold cuffs. And the other trinkets he’d recently bought. A thought snuck into her mind, a horrible vision of Paneb stealing treasures from Pharaoh’s tomb and bartering them secretly in Thebes. She pushed it away.
"What are you thinking, Neferet?" he asked, studying her face.
She thrust an arm toward the Valley of the Kings. "All you ever talk about is how badly you wanted to learn the magic they use in Pharaoh’s tomb—all those spells to give your drawings power."
He took her hand roughly in his. "Come with me. You and me, on an adventure."
"Come with you?" She pulled away.
"Please?" he said softly.
"Paneb, you can’t just leave! Everyone knows if Pharaoh has no tomb paintings to guide him to the afterlife, horrible things will happen to us. We need you. The village needs you."
"I’m not staying."
"How can you even say that? How can you even think that?"
"Things change."
"Things change?" Her voice rose a level. "Things change? By the gods, Paneb, the village needs you! Don't you see what danger you'd be putting us in? Me, my father, all of us." Then she remembered the pretty market girl in Thebes and said, "I get it. There’s not enough attention for you here, is there? You want to go to Memphis so people will ooh and aah over you and pet your head and offer you gold and jewels!"
"You don’t know anything about what I want."
"Well then find it and don’t come back. You’re not my friend. My friend disappeared when he pretended to grow up."
His face turned white, and he said nothing more.
She wished she could take her words back. But it was too late. Two nights later, while he and the other craftsmen were at their encampment in the Valley of the Kings, Paneb left.
She should have been able to convince him to stay.
Instead, she’d lost her temper and cut him off forever.
Now, alone, she watched the sentry finally leave his post. She shoved her fingers into the wall, jamming them so hard they bled. She clambered over the top and dropped inside, silent as a temple cat.
"Stop!" a man shouted. Metal rasped as he pulled his knife from its sheath.
Chapte
r Six
"It’s just me!"
"Neferet?" The guard said in a low voice. "Again?"
"Please, Jabari. I just wanted to walk around. By myself . . . but don’t tell my father, he’ll be furious!"
"You need to quit this running around out there alone." He shoved his blade back in his belt. After a moment, he nodded. "Get going. He’ll be back from Thebes any moment."
"Oh thank you!"
"Run."
She sprinted down the narrow alleys. Women leaned out of cool, shadowed doorways and shook their heads at her.
As she flew around a corner, a girl stepped out and blocked her way. Layla. She wore one of her smug smiles—the kind that made Neferet want to give Layla’s hair a good, hard tug. Neferet tried to push past.
"Layla, move!" she said. "I’m late!"
The bigger girl spread her arms wide, touching the walls on either side of the alley. "Think you’re too good for us, don’t you? Always sneaking off outside? But I guess not with Paneb anymore, right? He showed you what he thought of you."
"Just move."
Layla smirked. "I guess your father couldn’t keep your precious Paneb from leaving, either."
"He’s not my precious Paneb. And no. He couldn’t."
"So you agree, it is your father's fault? That's not very loyal of you," she sneered. "Then again, it's obvious to everyone he's incapable of governing our village. This is simply the last straw, isn't it? Hopefully for your sake, Pharaoh—may he reign long and prosper—will spare you from his wrath. After all, you're just the lowly daughter."
Neferet raised her chin. "My father can take care of himself."
"Oh, so he’s found a new apprentice, out of thin air?"
"He will."
"Really." Layla flicked her beaded braids over her shoulder. "You know, I think my father will do your father’s job much better, don’t you? Not that his eminence, Pharaoh, will kill yours, but you understand. We can’t keep your father as Chief Scribe—governor of our whole town—after something like this."