“Usermontu,” Meren said. “I never did like him.”
Anath said, “You’re not alone.”
“You think he could have killed the queen to prevent her from exposing him?” Tutankhamun asked.
“It’s possible, majesty,” Anath replied. “He seems to have been the most corrupt of her servants.”
Meren tried to evaluate what the king had told him, but his heart was back in the sickroom with Kysen. Nothing mattered, not even Nefertiti’s death, as long as his son was in danger. The reason and clarity that usually governed his thoughts seemed to have vanished. In its place terror ruled, and now that old burning feeling in his chest had returned, the feeling he got when he’d missed something important. He nearly swore aloud as the agitation over this failure combined with the fear to make his state almost unbearable. He roused from this state of dazed misery when the king spoke to him.
“I must go,” the boy said. “You’re distracted and miserable, and nothing I can say will help.”
“Majesty, thy presence has been a great comfort.”
“I think not.” Tutankhamun drew near and searched Meren’s face. “Is this the torment a parent endures when his child suffers?”
“Yes, Golden One. There is no worse pain.”
“Ankhesenamun is with child.”
Anath smoothly stepped into the small silence. “We rejoice with thy majesty.”
“Indeed,” Meren said. “Amun be praised.”
Tutankhamun nodded gravely. “I will intercede with the god, my father, on Kysen’s behalf.”
At that moment Bener rushed in, barely able to contain herself long enough to kneel when she saw the king.
“He’s awake!”
Everyone rushed to Kysen’s room, including the king. Meren hurtled to the bed, and dropped to his knees.
“Ky?”
Kysen opened his eyes briefly, then closed them. “I feel so odd.”
He opened his eyes again and tried to get up. Meren grabbed his shoulders and pushed him down again.
“Nebamun says you mustn’t get up yet.”
“What happened?”
“Someone poisoned you.”
“Marduk! Ow, my head.”
Nebamun appeared with a cup of water. Meren held it while Kysen drank. After a few sips he sighed and lay back.
“There’s something I must tell…” Kysen’s eyes closed, and his voice faded.
Meren shook his son. “Kysen!”
“Fear not, lord,” Nebamun said as he steadied his patient against Meren’s frantic shaking. “This is a natural sleep, not one induced by poison.”
With relief Meren released Kysen, rose and turned to find that the king had slipped away.
“His majesty felt you needed rest now that Kysen is out of danger,” Anath said.
Meren walked to the end of the bed and stood gazing on his son. He didn’t know how long he spent measuring the depth of Kysen’s breathing, his coloring, his posture. Eventually he was able to believe the physician’s happy pronouncement. Anath waited patiently beside him, and at last he smiled at her. With Kysen out of danger it was as if his heart had been suddenly freed. His thoughts became clearer, and at the same time that grating sensation of having forgotten something rose to prominence.
“I wish pharaoh hadn’t left,” Meren said to Anath. “Something he said bothered me.”
“About Usermontu?”
“I’m not sure,” Meren said. He gazed at Kysen for a few moments, then realized he wasn’t doing any good here. “Come,” he said to Anath. With a last glance at Kysen, they left the bedchamber.
“What did pharaoh say that disturbed you?” Anath asked as they walked.
“I wish I knew. For weeks now I’ve felt I’ve missed something important. If I could only remember what it is, I might have the key to this whole mystery.”
“You’re tired,” Anath said as they walked into the reception hall. “Why not go to bed and think about it tomorrow when you’re refreshed?”
“No,” Meren said. He walked around the dais, his head bent, his thoughts released from their prison of fear. “No, I can almost see it. It will come to me, but not if I sleep.”
Anath folded her arms and watched him. “If you must push yourself to exhaustion, at least get some air. You’ve been cooped up in the house too long. No wonder your thoughts hide from you. Your heart is choking on stale humors.”
Rolling his shoulders to ease the ache in them, Meren sighed. “You’re right. Sitting around will do no good. We’ll take my chariot.”
“Good, then you can drive me to my house. I promised Bener some resins she wants to use for a healing incense for Kysen.”
It didn’t take long before they were driving out of the gates of Golden House. The chariot clattered over ruts in the street, and Wind Chaser and Star Chaser snorted and tossed their heads in the chill air of early morning. Meren welcomed the drive. Guiding the chariot, allowing his hands to feel the mood of the horses through the reins, these familiar activities allowed his heart the freedom to open to any drift of memory, any small eddy of thought that might spark the key recollection. Unfortunately the trip wasn’t long enough, and he was still preoccupied as they walked into the house.
Anath vanished in the direction of the kitchen, and Meren wandered through the house. He stepped around a couch made of ebony and decorated with bands of gold and passed several chairs of the finest cedar. Brilliantly colored hangings covered the walls, and in a side room he glimpsed serving vessels of silver. He wandered onto a loggia that afforded a view of a reflection pool the size of a small lake.
If he couldn’t resolve this matter of the queen’s killer soon, he might have to resort to the king’s methods and seal the city, apprehend all the suspected ones, and interrogate them until one of them broke. He desperately wished to avoid such a course, for the search would take days, during which his family would be at risk no matter how he protected them. Allowing his thoughts to roam freely was the best way to encourage the spark of recollection.
Something in that conversation with the king and Anath had provoked that burning feeling in his chest, that feeling of having almost glimpsed the solution. Not the part about Usermontu. Something else. There had been a discussion of the reasoning behind Bener’s abduction and Kysen’s poisoning. Meren leaned against a column and lifted his face to the north breeze as his thoughts drifted.
The king’s praise of Kysen had been small comfort while his son had been in danger, but now he could enjoy the fact that pharaoh had a good opinion of him. Tutankhamun admired strength, to a certain degree. He didn’t admire strength that pitted itself against him, and he was highly suspicious. That was why he remarked upon the fact that Meren’s troubles began the moment he returned from Horizon of the Aten. But Meren had learned over the years that just because two things happened around the same time didn’t always mean they were related.
It was unfortunate that Tutankhamun had been so young when the queen died, for his clever heart would have been of great help. He might have understood more about the quarrel between the queen and Usermontu. But the king had been a child. What had he said? He’d been five in the fifteenth year of Akhenaten. Pharaoh had been reading through those records—the old tallies of foreign tribute, the orders for rations for slaves belonging to the Aten temple, that transfer of deed for the land old Thanuro never lived to enjoy.
His thoughts slowed, and Meren pushed himself away from the column, his gaze fixed on a stand of reeds in the lake. Like a leopard crouched in tall grass he waited while a piece of information from one place, and a fact from another drifted together with inconsequential remarks from yet another source. Not daring to move, hardly breathing, he held still while his view of certain events shifted with the suddenness of a whip stroke.
At last, his heart racing, he whispered, “Damnation.”
“There you are.” Anath walked onto the loggia holding a small cloth bundle. “I found the resin.”
“Damn
ation, Anath.” Meren was still staring at the reeds.
“What is it?” she asked, staring at the lake. “I don’t see anything.”
He looked at her then, and she went still.
“What?” she said with a sharpness that woke him from his stunned trance.
“By the gods!” He slapped the column. “It was there all along, and I didn’t see it.”
“Meren, you’re not making sense.”
“The transfer of the deed to Thanuro’s land. The gift from pharaoh.” He grabbed Anath. “The transfer was recorded in year sixteen of Akhenaten’s reign.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Anath, Thanuro died in year fifteen.”
There was a small pause. Then Anath said lightly, “No, I don’t think so.”
“I’m certain of it. I’ve been over those cursed documents too many times. Even the script is engraved in my memory. The deed was finalized a year after the priest was supposed to have died. Which means either someone took the land pretending to be him, or he never died at all.”
“It’s merely a confusion,” Anath said. “There are thousands of such transfers every year, and some of them are bound to be wrong.”
“Ordinarily I’d agree,” Meren said. “But not this time, because two things happened the year before that transfer. Thanuro died. And Zulaya appeared in Egypt.”
“So did many people.”
“You still don’t understand. Remember what Yamen told me about his murderer when he was dying? He said, ‘He’ll sacrifice you as he does all who know him.’ ” Meren clapped his hands in excitement. “And then he said something that has always bothered me. He said, ‘He is in my heart. There is no other who knows him.’ That phrase always seemed familiar, but I didn’t place it until just now. Then I remembered that not long ago the king was reading Akhenaten’s hymn to the Aten.”
Anath’s brow wrinkled and she shook her head.
“Don’t you see? Those are Akhenaten’s words, written about his relationship to the Aten. Yamen was telling me that the guilty one made sacrifices and recited Aten hymns. He was a priest. Thanuro.” Meren prowled the loggia as he thought, murmuring to himself. “And Thanuro is Zulaya.”
He stopped, staring out into the painful brightness of the garden. Suddenly years dropped away, and he was back at Horizon of the Aten, and memories, obscured by pain and deliberate forgetting, cleared to the definition of a newly painted fresco. He was walking through the royal courts, the temple gateways, the queen’s palace, glancing at a priest, then moving on, concerned with his own survival, giving the man little thought. This man whom the queen distrusted, this priest, like all others, shaved his head, his eyebrows, his face. He wore the garb of a priest, and affected the stately demeanor of one who dealt with a god.
Meren heard Anath speaking to him, but he held up a hand for silence. He’d only seen Zulaya once, briefly, and then it had been in a dark, crowded tavern. Could it be? Meren tried to fit the image of the priest with that of the merchant. Zulaya was older than the man Meren remembered. He no longer shaved his head, eyebrows, and face. He wore the raiment of a foreigner, even the hairstyle of an Asiatic. The difference was just drastic enough to conceal an identity no longer of any use. Meren felt Anath’s hand on his arm and dragged his attention back to her.
“You’re certain Zulaya is the priest Thanuro?” Anath’s confused smile faded. She held Meren’s gaze for a long time. “Yes, I can see that you are.”
“Of course I’m certain. Don’t you see it too?”
Anath dropped the resin bundle and shook her head. “Oh, my dear love. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault. None of us noticed the discrepancy in the dates.”
She walked toward the doorway that led to the reception hall, turned, and looked at him sorrowfully. “No, Meren. I’m sorry you noticed it at all. Father?”
A tall shadow appeared in the doorway, cast by a figure approaching from the lamplit hall. Meren took a step back as Zulaya neared, followed by half a dozen armed men. Zulaya was holding Khufu, stroking his patched fur as he regarded Meren. Looking from Anath to Zulaya, Meren’s eyes widened. Pain followed his confusion, then he smothered his emotions. In the space between one heartbeat and another Meren went from elation to misery and fury, and on to battle readiness.
Zulaya inclined his head. “I trust your son has recovered by now, Lord Meren.”
Meren transferred his gaze to Anath, his heart pounding as he stalled for time. “Your father is dead.”
“My mother told me who my real father was when I was six,” Anath said. “Did you really think a man as aged as Nebwawi could sire a child? He was an arrogant fool to believe it, but then, he never bothered to wonder about anything having to do with my mother or me.”
“None of this is relevant to our problem of the moment,” Zulaya said.
Meren eyed the men who had moved around him to form a half circle. “Now I understand your habit of elusiveness while you’re in Egypt, Zulaya, although I don’t think anyone would recognize you in your present guise. You’re the Aten priest, Thanuro.”
“That’s not important.”
“True, Zulaya. What’s important is that you bribed the steward Wah to poison the great royal wife Nefertiti, and for that you will die.”
Zulaya stroked Khufu and said, “My dear Lord Meren, you’re in no position to speak of who is going to die.”
Chapter 18
Bener carried a bowl of soup and a wooden spoon into the house from the kitchens, her spirits light with relief at her brother’s awakening. Kysen’s illness had frightened her as much as being abducted. She paused to blow on the soup, for it was too hot to be consumed. Chunks of heron meat floated in the broth along with cabbage and beans. Kysen liked heron, and she’d ordered the soup prepared hoping to tempt him. He’d rested after Father left with Anath, but he was awake now.
She paused in her cooling efforts to look over her shoulder. A charioteer lurked at a distance, her ever-present companion when she wasn’t with Anath. Who was it? Bener scowled as she recognized Lord Irzanen. That arrogant son of a sow had ruined her plans to charm incriminating admissions out of Lord Usermontu’s son. It was beyond her understanding why he thought he had a right to interfere. Besides, if she hadn’t been forced to take him to task for his rudeness, she wouldn’t have been captured by that enormous dark creature with the knife.
No, don’t dwell upon it. Her sleep was invaded by demons, her dreams bizarre versions of the endless hours spent in that tiny, airless room. Bener swallowed hard to rid herself of tears that would betray weakness. She’d never contemplated dying, never really known what it was to fear for her life until she was abducted. Now she understood why Father was always so concerned for her welfare. But the trouble hadn’t been her fault. Father’s enemy was far more clever and powerful than any he’d ever fought. That was the crux of the matter.
It wasn’t fair. In spite of the ordeal, Bener knew she could be of help if everyone would stop treating her as if she was lackwitted. All her efforts to help Father had come to ruin because of the abduction. No one would remember her clever heart now that she’d nearly gotten killed, and Father was too frightened of losing her to admit she had been making progress. If she’d continued with her investigations, she would have discovered the most secret of secrets Pendua and Usermontu possessed.
Now she wouldn’t be allowed even to read royal dispatches, much less do anything adventurous. Bener scowled at Irzanen, who reddened and looked away. Turning her back on the young man, she blew on the soup again and proceeded through the reception hall. As she passed the master’s dais she saw a small wicker box. Setting the soup down she picked it up and opened it to reveal the piece of bone Father had found at the well where poor old Satet had drowned. Bener sighed, thinking of the lively old woman whose goose still terrorized the kitchen yard. Neither Kysen, nor Bener or Meren, were willing to believe Satet simply fell into the well, but so far no witness to the contrary had been lo
cated.
Bener closed the box lid, slipped the container under her arm, and took the soup to Kysen’s room. Her brother was sitting in bed with his back propped against the headboard of polished cedar inlaid with ivory. Bener handed the soup to Kysen. When he’d finished half of it, she produced the wicker box and lifted the lid.
“I found this in the hall.”
Kysen glanced at the fragment. “Father told you not to interfere.”
“I’m not interfering. I want to know where to put it.”
“Give it to me.”
Bener put the box on top of a chest. “You don’t need it. Nebamun said you wouldn’t be able to remain awake for long, and I can see you’re already tired from holding the soup bowl.”
“I may look tired, but I can’t sleep,” Kysen said. “I’m weary of sleeping. I’ve done too much of it.”
Bener regarded him for a moment. His face had lost most of its color, and his eyes seemed twice as large as they’d been before his illness, probably because of the hollows under them and in his cheeks.
“I’ll play for you,” she said. Then she smiled. “You always told me my music put you to sleep.”
Kysen looked embarrassed. “Sorry.”
“I think I saw Anath’s lute outside Father’s rooms.”
Bener hurried down the corridor that led to the master’s suite, retrieved the instrument, and returned to find Kysen had lain down again. She sat on a cushion beside him and strummed the lute. Sooner or later she was going to persuade Father to speak of his relationship with Anath. She liked the Eyes of Babylon, who had the kind of adventures for which Bener longed. But Anath had changed since her last stay at home. She seemed more deliberately charming and far more biddable than Bener remembered.
To put Kysen at ease Bener played an old tune said to have been composed in the time of the pyramid builders, a slow, soft melody. Then she played one her sister Isis had composed. As she finished she shifted the lute to a more comfortable position, and something caught on her gown. The body of the instrument had been constructed from a large tortoise shell, and when she reversed the instrument she found a jagged hole in it.
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