by Mike Lee
A dozen steps from the dais the swirling dancers stopped and bowed, their silken ribbons rippling sinuously around them like tongues of flame. Lamasheptra passed among them and approached to the foot of the stone steps, so close that Arkhan and Shepsu-hur had to bow and give way for the king to pass.
Lamasheptra spread his hands in greeting and gave Nagash a dazzling, practiced smile.
“Greetings, cousin,” he said to the Usurper. “I am Lamasheptra, fourth of the name, son of the great Lamasharazz. It is an honour to meet you at long last.”
“Then I am pleased for you,” Nagash said coolly. His smile did not reach the depths of his dark eyes. “It has been some time since the sons of Lahmia attended upon the King of the Living City. I had begun to believe that you and your father meant to offer me insult.” Looks of shock flitted across the faces of the dancers, but Lamasheptra would not be baited.
“It is a long journey to the Living City, cousin,” the Lahmian king said smoothly. “You may as well say the slow-moving river or the sandy road means to mock you.” Nervous laughter rose from the crowd, earning warning stares from the king’s chosen. Lamasheptra pretended not to notice. “I would not dream of offending a cousin of mine, especially one who has earned for himself such a fearsome throne.”
“Well said,” Nagash replied, his voice full of soft menace. “What, then, is the reason for this timely visit?”
“What else, cousin? Duty and loyalty,” Lamasheptra said, “and love of family. Before my blessed father died, he made me swear before the goddess to offer his blessings to his nephew Sukhet, whom he never knew. He also bade me give his farewells to his sister, Neferem. And so, to honour my father, I have made this long journey.”
“For Neferem, and for Sukhet, but not for me, your cousin?” Nagash asked.
Lamasheptra laughed, as though Nagash were the soul of wit. “As though I could ignore the great Priest King of Khemri! Naturally, I have come to honour you, and assure you of Lahmia’s continued esteem.”
“Nothing would please me more,” Nagash replied. “For centuries, Khemri has treasured Lahmia’s esteem greater than any other city’s. I assume, then, that Lahmia will join the other cities of Nehekhara in providing a small token of this esteem.” The Lahmians smile did not waver.
“One cannot put a price on esteem, cousin,” he said. “What sort of token would satisfy you?”
“A thousand slaves,” Nagash said with a shrug. “Surely a modest gift for such a wealthy city.”
“A thousand slaves a year?” Lamasheptra asked with a frown.
“Certainly not,” Nagash replied with a chuckle. “A thousand slaves a month, to help with the great work I am building in Khemri’s necropolis, and in the interests of peace, of course.”
“Peace. Of course,” the Lahmian replied, “and a smaller price than Zandri was required to pay, I’m sure.”
“Indeed so,” Nagash said. “I’m pleased to see you understand.” The Lahmian nodded.
“Never fear, cousin. I understand a great many things,” he said. Then he nodded to the lesser throne at Nagash’s right. “What I do not see is my noble aunt and her son. I have heard so many stories of Neferem’s legendary beauty, and I have longed to witness it for myself.” He bowed slightly in the direction of the throne. “I have a gift for her from the people of Lahmia, to show their continued love and devotion for the Daughter of the Sun. I trust you will permit me to present it to her?”
“We are always pleased to receive gifts from the great cities,” Nagash said dismissively. “Bring it forth, and let us see it.”
Lamasheptra smiled broadly and beckoned to his retinue. A small figure slipped from the midst of the bodyguards, courtiers and slaves and hurried to the base of the dais. Nagash saw that it was a young boy, scarcely more than fifteen years of age, but he wore the bright yellow robes of a priest of Ptra. The boy stood at Lamasheptra’s side and bowed deeply to Nagash.
The King of Khemri glowered at the boy. “Is this some kind of jest?” he asked.
“An understandable reaction, cousin,” Lamasheptra said with a chuckle, “but I assure you, Nebunefer here is a fully sanctified priest. The priests at Mahrak proclaim him to be the most gifted young man of his generation, and that the Great Father has a special destiny in mind for him. For now, though, he will wait upon the queen and see to her spiritual needs, since she is unable to attend the rites at the city temple.”
Nagash fought to conceal his irritation. The Lahmian fop was a clever one, he had to admit, but what were his motives? Had the Hieratic Council bribed him to send their little spy into the palace, or was Lamasheptra a willing ally of the damned priests?
He could refuse the gift, of course, but doing so would suggest weakness, and Mahrak would simply send one after another until they forced his hand. Nagash eyed the boy suspiciously. Nebunefer’s face was open and confident, full of the self-assurance of youth. The king wondered what the boy’s blood would taste like, and smiled.
“Welcome, boy,” Nagash said to Nebunefer. “Serve the queen well, and in time, you will be rewarded.”
Nebunefer bowed once more. Lamasheptra’s eyes glittered with triumph.
“Where is my beloved sister and her son?” he asked. “I had thought to find her here, presiding over her guests and loyal subjects, as good rulers ought.”
Nagash considered Lamasheptra for a long, silent moment. Then he raised his right hand and beckoned to the shadows behind the throne.
Whispers rose from the darkness, followed by the sound of shuffling feet. The first person to appear was not Neferem, nor even Sukhet, but an old man, limping and broken, as though his bones filled his skin like shards of clay. His head was bald and scarred, his lips slack and twitching, but his blue eyes were sharp and fever-bright. Ghazid, the last Grand Vizier of Khemri, turned and beckoned to the shadows like a child calling for his playmates. He was ignorant of the staring faces in the crowd. The looks of horror and pity had no meaning for him any more. Nagash had spared his life on the night that he had buried his brother alive, but not out of mercy. He had given the old man into the hands of his vassals, who had tortured him inventively for many years. Age and great pain had worn away his once-sharp mind, until he was little more than a child in an old man’s body. Then Nagash had returned him to Neferem and Sukhet as a gift.
Ghazid beckoned a tall, noble-looking young man out into the light. He was clad in noble finery, with a kilt and cape of purest samite and a prince’s golden headdress on his brow. Sukhet had the handsome features of his father and the fierce demeanour of his illustrious grandfather, with piercing eyes and a strong, square chin. Gasps rose from the assembled crowd at the sight of him. Even Lamasheptra seemed struck by the young man’s regal bearing.
Sukhet, son of Thutep, carried himself with great dignity and poise. He stepped past the great throne as though it were empty and descended the stone steps until he stood before the Lahmian king. A ripple of unease passed through the king’s chosen at the sight of the young prince. Arkhan in particular eyed Sukhet as though he were a form of especially venomous snake.
Lamasheptra smiled warmly at Sukhet, apparently ignorant of the apprehensive stares of the noblemen around him. He started to speak, but the words dried up in his throat as he saw the Daughter of the Sun emerge from the darkness behind Nagash’s throne.
She wore a simple gown of purest white, cinched by a girdle of leather and burnished copper that hung lightly upon her hips. Her long, black hair had been washed with scented oils and pulled back in a thick braid that hung nearly to her waist. The queen’s green eyes were vivid in their kohl-darkened orbits, but no other balms or tinctures had been added to her face. Her feet were bare, as was her brow: the heavy golden cape and wondrous headdress of the queen had been left behind, along with the gold bracelets and rings that she had brought with her from far-off Lahmia. Neferem, Queen of the Living City and Daughter of the Sun, cloaked herself in anguish and loss. Her face was a pale mask, beautiful but sti
ll, like the image carved upon a sarcophagus.
The queen was not the young maiden she once had been. Life and loss had left their mark upon her features, ageing her well beyond her years. Gasps filled the echoing court at the sight of her, and even Lamasheptra was taken aback. The king staggered a half-step back, as though the sight of her were a physical blow. For the briefest instant, his brown eyes glanced at the man upon Khemri’s throne, and then slowly, reverently, the King of Lahmia sank to his knees before Neferem.
In a rippling whisper of cloth, the rest of the court followed suit. Some knelt gracefully, while others simply fell to their knees in wonder. Within moments the only men standing were the king’s chosen, who looked to one another with shifting, apprehensive stares, and the queen’s son, Sukhet.
The prince turned, and saw his mother for the first time in nearly a decade.
Nagash studied the pair over steepled fingers and fought to stifle his anger. This had been a mistake. He should have arranged a private meeting between Lamasheptra and Sukhet instead of permitting this spectacle. He’d thought to demonstrate his control over Thutep’s wife and heir by allowing them a brief moment at court, but he hadn’t counted on the enduring superstition and sentimentality of the populace.
Sukhet stared into his mother’s eyes, and in that moment he forgot himself. All dignity fled as he rushed to his mother and reached for her hands. Neferem reached for him as though in a dream, a slight frown of bemusement penetrating her shock. The prince took her hands in his and touched his forehead to them in a sign of reverence.
The King of Khemri paid no mind to the maudlin scene. His eyes were on Lamasheptra alone. The Lahmian was watching mother and son with an awestruck expression that could not quite hide the calculating look in his dark eyes.
At that moment Nagash realised that Sukhet had to die.
They came for him in the dead of night, when the rest of the palace was sleeping. Sukhet’s cell was two levels beneath the sprawling palace, in a cramped chamber formerly reserved for storing expensive spices and wines. The entire section had been abandoned decades ago, back in Khetep’s time. Only Khefru and Ghazid came and went through its darkened corridors these days, and Nagash’s servant alone had the key to Sukhet’s chamber.
Khefru led the way, holding an oil lamp in one trembling hand. The priest moved unerringly through the labyrinthine hallways, until he finally came upon an unmarked door of heavy, scarred teak. Khefru fumbled in his robes for several long moments before producing a long rod of tarnished bronze that he fit into the door’s massive wood and bronze lock.
The mechanism turned with a loud clatter. As Khefru started to pull the door open, Arkhan the Black stepped forward and shoved the servant roughly aside, sending the oil lamp crashing to the floor. Behind the vizier, Raamket and Shepsu-hur rushed silently into the cell.
The chamber was small, barely twelve paces by six. A narrow bed was set against one long wall, with a cedar chest at the end for the prince’s clothes. Opposite the bed stood a narrow table with a single chair and a small oil lamp, where the prince would take his meals or read books brought to him from the library. Though he was allowed to walk the grounds of the palace within carefully proscribed limits, the small room had been Sukhet’s home for nearly ten years.
Ghazid rose from his pallet just inside the door, his battered face gaping in terror. He let out a wordless, childlike cry of fear as Raamket seized his arms and hurled him out of the way. The servant hit the stone wall beside the table and crumpled into a senseless heap.
Sukhet bolted from the narrow bed as the two noblemen closed in on him. Raamket reached him first, closing a powerful hand around the prince’s left arm. Sukhet’s right arm flashed downwards in a blurring arc, and Raamket let out a roar of pain. The handle of a small eating knife jutted from the man’s collarbone, just a few inches to the right of his neck.
Shepsu-hur stepped forwards and smashed his fist into the prince’s face, breaking his aquiline nose and splitting his lip. Sukhet’s head jerked back and hit the wall over the bed, and the young man collapsed.
Raamket and Shepsu-hur grabbed the prince’s legs and dragged him roughly onto the floor. Ghazid, regaining his senses, cowered against the wall and began to wail in terror. Sukhet spat blood and tried to tear himself free from the grip of his assailants, but then a shadow fell over him from the doorway of the cell.
Nagash loomed over the young prince with a pair of long, copper needles clutched in his hands.
“Hold him still!” he snapped. The coppery smell of spilled blood hung in the close air of the chamber, making the king almost dizzy with hunger.
Shepsu-hur and Raamket tightened their grip on the prince’s arms, their faces contorted with effort. Nagash lunged forwards like a striking snake and drove the needles home. Sukhet’s body went rigid with agony, the sight of which made Ghazid wail all the louder.
“Shut him up!” Nagash snarled, and Raamket began to beat the old man. At a nod from the king, Shepsu-hur stripped away the prince’s tunic and threw it aside.
“The ink!” Nagash commanded, turning and stretching his hand to Khefru, who still stood in the corridor beyond.
The young priest hesitated, clutching the brush and ink pot in his hands. A look of dread marked his sallow, puffy features, but he had been given a taste of the king’s elixir more than once, and a faint gleam of hunger shone in his eyes.
“Surely there is another way,” Khefru stammered. “We can’t do this, master. Not to him.”
“You dare to question me?” the king hissed. “You, of all people? He is flesh and blood, just like all the others you stole off the city streets. He is no different from the slaves whose blood you drained, and then sipped from a golden cup!”
“He is a prince!” Khefru cried. “The son of Thutep and the Daughter of the Sun. The gods will not forgive us!”
“The gods?” Nagash said incredulously. “You little fool. We are gods now. The secret of immortality is ours.” He gestured to the stricken prince. “His body is charged with divine power. Imagine how much sweeter, how much more potent it will be. We might not need another taste for a hundred years!”
Anguish wracked Khefru’s face. “If it’s divine blood you want, then kill a priest!” he cried. “If he dies, you lose your hold on Neferem, and Lahmia may well declare war against us. Is that what you want?”
“Neferem will not hear of this,” Nagash said coldly, “until such time as I choose to tell her. Neither will Lahmia be told.” He took a threatening step towards Khefru. “Sukhet has to die. He is too dangerous to be allowed to live. Did you not see how the people reacted to him at court?”
“But the queen—” Khefru stammered.
“The queen does not rule here!” Nagash roared. “Don’t tell me you have fallen under that witch’s spell, have you? Have you? Because if you would rather I took the blood of a priest, I will open your veins here and now.”
Khefru recoiled from the king’s malevolent voice, straight into the arms of Arkhan, who held him in an iron grip. The priest glanced up into the vizier’s ghoulish face, and the courage went out of him. With trembling hands, he held out the ink and brush to the king.
Nagash took the instruments and turned back to the prince’s rigid body. His eyes shone with avarice.
“Have a bowl ready once I’ve finished with the glyphs,” he said as he knelt beside Sukhet. “I don’t want to waste a single drop.”
Hours later, Nagash swept down the darkened corridor outside the queen’s chambers, his robes billowing behind him like the wings of a desert eagle. Blood roared in his temples and burned along his veins: stolen blood, hot with the vitality of youth and the divinity of royal birth.
The guards standing outside the queen’s door were hard-bitten men, cruel and incorruptible. As the queen’s jailers they were prepared to die at a moment’s notice to keep the queen’s chambers sacrosanct, but they all quailed like frightened children at the sudden appearance of the king. They looked
into Nagash’s eyes and glimpsed the terrible power burning in their depths, like the fiery gaze of Usirian. As one, the guards sank to their knees and pressed their foreheads to the stone, their bodies trembling in fear. The king paid them no mind, sweeping past them like a storm wind and knocking the heavy door open with a brush of his left hand.
At once, a chorus of frightened shouts arose from the maids sleeping in the great antechamber beyond. They rose from their couches in terror, crying out the name of their mistress and begging the gods for aid.
“Silence!” Nagash cried, clenching his left hand into a fist and reciting an incantation in his mind. At once, the shadows of the great room thickened like ink and swallowed the women up in an icy embrace. He glided across the piled rugs, past their silent and quaking bodies, and burst into Neferem’s bedroom.
The chamber was luxuriously appointed, with a gleaming marble floor and a high terrace that looked northwards towards the great river. Neferem had risen swiftly from her bed and covered her naked body with a silk sheet. Her black hair was unbound and spilled across her bare shoulders, and her eyes gleamed like a cat’s in the moonlight. For the first time, a look of real fear shone upon Neferem’s face.
Once more, Nagash looked upon her and was gripped with desire. With the power seething in his body, power drained from her son’s veins he knew that he could take whatever he wished from her. He smiled a jackal’s smile.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said slowly.
Neferem said nothing. Her body was taut with tension. All at once, Nagash realised that she had positioned herself with her back almost to the terrace across the room. If he took one step closer, he was certain she would throw herself from the balcony. The thought only made him want her even more.