I reached for it and spread it wide to read the headline aloud: “Explorers Unearth Stela of the Lost Queen.”
Nasira peered over my shoulder and frowned. “Why should we care about some lot of Egyptomaniacs?”
“What’s an Egyptomaniac?” I asked, scanning the large photo in the center of the page. Several finely-dressed white men surrounded a rectangular slab of limestone covered with markings too small to make out.
“Toffee-nosed aristocrats and industrialists who employ archaeologists to desecrate royal tombs,” Nasira explained, her face twisted with disgust. “They keep all the gold and jewels for themselves and their ‘collections.’ I’m not interested in these despicable grave robbers, thank you.”
“Why don’t the artifacts go to a museum?” I asked.
“Some do,” she explained. “But there are many privately funded digs. In a perfect world, there would be no thieves and the tombs would remain undefiled. The European explorers who first invaded our country and stole our antiquities did not do so with the intent to protect what they found. To them, our history is treasure and riches. Their ‘museums’ showcase our culture as spoils of conquest. Their claim of preservation is an excuse for their greed and implies Egyptians cannot care for our own heritage. We could have reclaimed our lost history if we hadn’t suffered from nearly constant invasions for thousands of years. The damage imperialism has caused is a cold truth and its darkness should not be ignored. We can help our people with the power we have.”
“Look closer,” Sayer insisted, snatching our attention back. “That’s the cartouche of Nefertari.”
She gave an incredulous huff and took one corner of the page to examine the image herself. Her eyes grew wide as she rapidly scanned the article. “What does ‘the queen of cardinals’ mean? Their translation makes no sense.”
“That’s because an amateur translated it,” Sayer said confidently, his gaze dark. “All I can decipher is, ‘The cardinal treasures of the queen of kings are the key.’ I must see the stela in person to read the rest.”
“The key to what?” I asked.
“Exactly,” he replied. “There’s a chance the hieroglyphs on this stela could tell us more about Nefertari’s resurrection and your part in it.”
I read the article in its entirety while Sayer and Nasira argued over the rest of the inscription. When I spoke, I nearly had to yell over them. “It says here the stela’s owner will hold a viewing at his residence on Park Avenue tonight.”
They both shushed and stared at me with excitement. I grinned and asked, “What do you say we crash this clambake and you can read the rest of the stela yourselves?”
A smile spread slowly across Nasira’s face. “That’s not a bad idea.”
“The three of us?” Sayer asked.
“Any more would look suspicious,” I offered. “But three Medjai could sneak in.”
Nasira beamed. “Another brilliant idea, Ziva. A little espionage would be fun.”
“Count me in,” Sayer said with a nod.
“That settles it,” Nasira declared with a clap of her hands. “Tonight, we’re going to town!”
When I got to my room, I drew a bath. I may have fallen asleep in the bath, but I could neither confirm nor deny that. Afterward I finished and dressed in combat gear, and when I found the dining hall, the tables were empty. The food was gone. An attendant carried a stack of plates past a door and into a noisy room I guessed was the kitchen. I considered chasing after him in case anything was left over. Even as my belly started to chew itself from the inside out, I told myself it was all right. There was still a lot of fruit in the bowl back in my bedroom.
But it wasn’t French toast.
With my feet dragging, I headed upstairs. The orange in my hand was barely half-peeled before a knock came. I set it on the table and answered the door to find Sayer. In his hands was a plate of syrup-drizzled slices of bread caked with sugar. I blinked, and my head tilted to the side as I tried to comprehend why he would do something like this. To think of me. To remember the dish I loved. To put together a plate for me. To bring it all the way to my room.
To think of me.
My silence had grown painfully awkward. What should I have said? Should I have taken the plate?
“Ziva?” he asked.
Uncertainty passed over his face, and I couldn’t help wondering if regret now hit him. I wondered if he thought this had been a mistake and he’d never do it again. He shouldn’t have thought of me.
“Ah—I’m sorry,” I stammered, and still I couldn’t move. It was like a sheet had been pulled over my head. Everything went blank in me.
He exhaled, half smiling. “I had imagined you’d be thrilled.”
An uncomfortable laugh burst from me, and I asked, “Is that for me?”
“Unless you don’t want it,” he said. “I never saw you at breakfast and worried you’d missed it.”
“I did,” I said. “Thank you.” Perhaps to him, and most people, the gesture was insignificant—a kind thought that took mere minutes of his time. He had plenty of minutes anyway. To me, however, the gesture was rare and beautiful, like a strawberry moon. In my world, everyone was too wrapped up in their own misfortunes to take any time for an act of kindness. Why should they go out of their way to help others if no one would do the same for them? I’d been guilty of this myself. I saw now how easily a kindness could be done. How simple it could be and how great the impact.
I thought of Lou, who saved day-old bread for me, and how I didn’t want to hurt him by stealing. I didn’t want to hurt Sayer either. If I got what I needed from the Medjai and left, would it hurt my new friends? Were they my friends?
“Do you intend to eat this in the hallway?” Sayer asked, one eyebrow lifting in that curious way of his.
“No!” I laughed and stepped aside. “Please, come in. Thank you for this.”
“You’re welcome.” He handed me the plate and sat with me at the little round table by the huge windows. He gazed out onto the gardens as I cut bite-sized pieces for myself.
“Share with me,” I said to him, tugging back his attention. “I want you to. Surely it was a great deal of work bringing this all the way from the kitchen.”
He smiled and replied, “It wasn’t, but I’ll share with you.” He closed his eyes briefly and muttered something under his breath before picking up a small square with his fingers and eating it.
“What was that?” I asked. “I didn’t hear you.”
“A prayer.”
“Nasira told me the gods left us. May I ask why you would pray to them if that’s true? I don’t mean any offense.”
“No offense taken,” he said. “I don’t necessarily believe we’ve been abandoned. We all have different experiences and gifts, and mine make me feel close to the gods. You have to trust in your heart, Ziva. It won’t steer you wrong.”
“All right then,” I said, studying his face as he ate another bite, curious to know if there was a story behind his words.
“How have your lessons with Nasira been getting on?” he asked.
“Well,” I replied. “She’s patient, but she makes me work hard. Looks like I’ll be a real Medjai after our mission tonight.”
“You already are,” he assured me with a smile. “Though I don’t expect things will get too thrilling at the party.”
I smeared my next bite into as much syrup as possible. “How did you learn to read Ancient Egyptian?”
“Practice,” he replied. “Lots of it. I shouldn’t have been so critical of the stela’s translation in that article. So much of it is educated guesswork.”
“Can you teach me?” I asked.
He nodded. “Of course. How’s your French toast?”
I smiled around a mouthful. “Wonderful. This is my favorite thing ever.”
“I remembered you seemed to really enjoy it yesterday.”
“Thank you.” For thinking of me. “Why did the article call Nefertari the lost queen?”
He took a deep breath and began. “Her tomb, arguably the most beautifully painted of them all, was uncovered empty. They found pieces of bone, but they didn’t belong to her. Perhaps a decoy mummy or that of an attendant. Some say tomb raiders found the treasure first and some say Nefertari’s sarcophagus was never there in the first place.”
“Then where is it?” I asked.
“Before her death, Nefertari commissioned a second tomb—a true tomb—to hide her mummy from her enemies, primarily Set. Those servants who laid her to rest, sealed themselves within the tomb and followed her to the afterlife. You, her descendant born beneath the Osirian alignment of the stars, are fated to lead us to Nefertari’s mummy.”
I shook my head. “But how would I have any idea as to her whereabouts?”
“We hope the stela will tell us,” he said. “Nefertari couldn’t leave us many clues. To ensure the resurrection’s success, she had to be very secretive. She’d had everything in the world and was probably more scared than anyone to die. Can’t fault her for that, I suppose.”
“What will happen once she’s resurrected?”
Sayer smiled. “We’ll have a queen again and the leadership to drive the French, Germans, and English—all threats—from our lands. Something to fight for. Perhaps we can rebuild our numbers again. I hope one day the Medjai will be restored to our glory as in ancient times.”
“And I hope you have those things,” I told him.
“You will, too, Ziva,” he said. “You’re one of us. Our glory will be yours.”
I finished my breakfast and left with Sayer. “Perhaps my training with Nasira could wait a bit longer today,” I suggested. “Would you be interested in starting my Ancient Egyptian lessons now?”
His brow creased with thought and he glanced at me sidelong as we walked. “I certainly could, if you’d like. The library is on the second floor. This way, then.”
Sayer hadn’t exaggerated when he said translating hieroglyphs was mostly guesswork. I was glad I’d grabbed my notebook before following him—studying the information later would be challenging without him there to explain what I couldn’t recall from the lessons. He showed me how some glyphs could be interpreted differently depending on context, if we interpreted that context correctly. His explanation for that was helpful in a complex way.
“If a crocodile were to emerge from the Nile miraculously able to speak English, contemporary human minds would not understand a word he’d say,” Sayer told me. “His words might translate, but the meaning is lost. The way he sees and interprets the world is so intrinsically different from the way we do. His words mean something we can’t possibly fathom because we are not crocodiles.”
I foresaw being able to read and write Ancient Egyptian becoming a life’s work. Regardless of the complexity, I grew mind-wrenchingly interested in the skill.
“There you are!”
Sayer and I looked up when we heard Nasira’s voice. She wore her combat equipment with an asaya in her hand.
“Hieroglyphs?” she asked, peering at the books spread out on the table before us.
“Ziva wanted to learn,” Sayer told her.
“Well, may I have her now?” Nasira inquired. “I can bribe her with gifts. Look, I’ve brought you your very own asaya.”
“For me?” I gaped, excited and surprised, at the beautiful weapon she presented to me. I took it gladly and clutched it to my breast.
She beamed at me. “Care to give it a go?”
“You bet!” I shot to my feet, but I looked down at Sayer. “Can we do this again tomorrow?”
“Certainly,” he said with a nod.
Nasira ushered me from the library and down a hall toward the gardens. “I’d like to show you some asaya basics. Get used to its weight in both your hands. Notice the points where the blades meet the staff are weighted with granite bands. Obsidian, even our magically tempered variety, is very light. The heavier granite helps the asaya spin faster.”
“Do you think I’ll need this at the party?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Likely not, but you must always be armed—or prepared, rather. And you are. You always have magic. But it’s nice to also have a physical weapon.”
I moved the asaya around in my hands, familiarizing myself with its center of gravity. “If the viewing is a big deal, won’t the kriosphinxes catch wind of it?”
“That is a thought,” she muttered. “All the more reason for you to become familiar with the asaya and other weapons—and we can talk more about spells.”
“Great,” I said. “I’d like to understand magic better.”
“It’s not an easy thing to explain,” she began. “What you call magic is simply a matter of course for us. It infuses every aspect of our lives and daily activities. You grew up where people could not change and manipulate nature and objects—but you could. You had abilities outside the limited knowledge and understanding of everyone around you. That is what the word magic denotes. It was invented to describe what people could not comprehend.”
“I see,” I said, letting her words digest.
“Magic, as you know it, is the activation of your heart’s power,” she continued. “All words are divine, whether they are written or spoken. The gods gave us language so we may activate and use our heart’s power. When words are used during that activation, they become incantations to wield power over yourself or others to protect, to harm, to manipulate, to create, or to destroy. The stronger your heart, the stronger your magic.”
The morning had grown into a beautiful sunny day. The dew in the air had lifted and other Medjai had appeared in the gardens to train as well. A few of them turned their heads toward us, but none approached. Nasira directed me to an open grassy spot and she stopped a few feet across from me.
“You’re getting a bit of a crash course,” she said apologetically. “My ideal training would involve your first spar before we venture into the field, but I feel you’re a bit of a way off from that.”
“How so?” I asked.
“Firstly, sparring is about trust, and you and I aren’t quite there yet. Secondly, have you ever been hit in the face?”
I bristled and narrowed my gaze at her in suspicion. “Are you offering?”
She laughed. “My point is, at least half of fighting is a good defense and knowing what it’s like to get hit helps you learn how not to get hit. It hurts, and once you know that, you do a better job of avoiding fists. But I’m not going to hit you. Not today.”
“That’s comforting,” I mumbled, teasing.
Nasira grinned and held up her staff while stepping back with one leg. She placed a hand at one end and her other hand a forearm’s length above the first. “Do as I do. Are you left-handed, right-handed?”
I mimicked her with my own weapon. “Right-handed.”
“Left foot leading then. Good. Now hold your asaya above your head. Brace yourself on your rear foot. Imagine that foot is braced against a wall. You cannot take another step back. You may only go forward. All of your energy will come from there.”
I followed her directions again and held my breath as she raised her own asaya, slowly spun her staff in a figure eight, and brought it down against my staff more gently than I’d anticipated. The staffs clacked together.
Nasira met my gaze. “Trust, remember? I won’t knock you on your arse the first day.” She repeated the motion several more times, increasing her strength each time. “The harder you begin your rotation, the more torque you generate in your asaya. The spin increases momentum and how much momentum your asaya achieves will determine how hard the obsidian meets its target. Your strike can be light. A nick. Or it can cut deep and sever. However, once you extend the staff to make your strike, you lose some of that momentum due to friction with the air, so you must be fast, or start the spin over again. Does that make sense?”
I nodded, turning her explanation over in my head until I understood.
“Physics,” Nasira said with a shrug. “Well done. N
ow do the same to me.”
She raised her asaya and I did my best to swing—though, awkwardly—and clacked it against her staff. After praising me, she instructed me to repeat the swing again and again until the figure eight felt more fluid and natural.
“Very well done,” she said, beaming. “We will practice a few swings at different heights. Do as I do.”
By the end of our session, I felt pretty good about my ward, hand position, and swing. As long as I kept it up every day, the asaya would feel like a fifth limb to me. “Perfect practice makes perfect,” Nasira had said to me at least six times today.
She explained the asaya was for me to keep, so instead of returning to the armory, she led me to her rooms to pick out our disguises for tonight. Her bedroom and sitting room looked very much like my own, but the walls, furniture, and fabrics were decorated with different colors and patterns.
“While you were off with my brother,” Nasira began, “I took the liberty of picking out what we’ll wear. I ventured gold would do you quite well.”
She opened the huge, finely carved wardrobe and removed a stream of gleaming molten gold silk that had to be ten feet long. Its artfully scattered sequins glittered in the daylight, prismatic.
A dress. A gown. “I thought we were wearing disguises,” I said, my eyes wide.
“We are!” Nasira said. “We’ve got to look like party guests, not crashers, yeah? Go try it on!”
She shoved the garment in my hands and ushered me into the bathroom to change. I hung the dress on a clothing stand made of polished black cherry wood and I stared at it for so long I forgot how cold the marble floor was against my bare feet.
“How’s it look?” Nasira called from the other side of the door.
“Uh—” I scrambled, undressing. “One moment!”
I freed the hanger and examined the dress. The tag, a completely stitched-in patch on the inside, bore some French script I couldn’t read. The silk was slinky and the tiny sequins dazzled just enough to catch the eye and not to blind.
Wardens of Eternity Page 7
