The Kingdom
of Nefertiti
By
M.L. Bullock
Text copyright 2016 Monica L. Bullock
All Rights Reserved
Dedication
To Nicole, my cousin and fan of my first story, “Eyes in the Fire.” We scared ourselves silly!
All my love, Mimi
I hear thy voice, O turtle dove
The dawn is all aglow.
Weary am I with love, with love, Oh, whither shall I go?
Not so, O beauteous bird above
Is joy to be denied
For I have found my dear, my love; And I am by his side.
We wander forth, and hand in hand
Through flowery ways we go
I am the fairest in the land, for he has called me so.
—Anonymous Poet, 1580-1085 BC
Chapter One
Astora—Sacred Markings
My Meshwesh husband’s tribesman raised his bushy eyebrows at me when he saw my new sacred markings. The scrolling stars were now emblazoned across my forehead, and I refused to wear a head cloth to hide them while they healed. I was not ashamed! Let the people know that I had power! In fact, let them fear me. Orba left my presence as quickly as he came, forgetting what he wanted to say to me. I laughed at his back. Weak man.
Good, I thought, I was in no mood for his petty complaints today.
I had bigger things to think about. I let my mind wander as I sewed the last stitches on the robe’s hem. How fortunate that I had saved this fine fabric; it would prove useful since no one had seen it. Except my husband, Omel, who had given it to me. I could trust him. I rubbed the soft silk and touched it absently to my cheek.
I missed Omel. It had been a long time since we had lain together, shared bread or even spoken to one another. Our relationship was not a romance like the one I had dreamed of as a young girl, but it was practical and comfortable. When I married him, I had been sure we were destined for greatness. This painful separation was all thanks to the half-breed girl who called herself both mekhma and Queen of Egypt. I snorted at the idea. The world had far too many queens these days. How could it be that she, a commoner from an obscure bloodline, could be queen? I hissed at the thought of my husband’s niece wielding power—power she would undoubtedly use against us. How could she deny him rulership of the Meshwesh? Pah was of no use to anyone, and with Alexio’s interference I could neither visit her nor speak with her.
Omel and I had given so much for these people to have received so little in recognition and honor. Did my husband not deserve honor? It was his tribe that saved the Meshwesh. They were the bravest and fastest warriors in the Red Lands, and yet the one-armed king still reigned, thanks to his daughter’s influence, no doubt.
And I? I had lost Suri—my only son—my heart and breath. My reason for living. Everything I had done until that day had been for him. He had only begun to ride with his father, to learn how to rule. Now he was no more.
When I agreed to marry Omel, long before Suri entered this world, I had prepared the way for my dear son. Omel had promised to put all his sons aside for mine, for I had been sure I would have a son. He had easily agreed, for he had not loved his other sons’ mothers as he loved me. He had been handfasted twice before me; one woman died in childbirth, another of a mysterious fever.
How easy that had been!
No one brought me Suri’s body to bury or even presented me a clipping of his hair. I begged Omel to retrieve him, but he refused, saying it would do no good. I assumed that there was not much left of my son’s young body. My husband’s refusal made me hate the Meshwesh even more.
To this day no one recognized Suri’s sacrifice—he was a king’s son, after all. No one missed him. None of his brothers or cousins mentioned his name; it was no secret that they did not love my child. Even my husband did not mention his name except on the occasion that I presented him with a votive dedicated to Suri. I could then see the emotion in his eyes and feel his brokenness. We held one another for a long while, but then he was gone again. Now I had empty arms, and the pain of the loss was so deep that it had stolen even my tears. I would no longer touch my son’s warm brown skin or shove his dark, silky hair out of his eyes as he swatted my hands away. I would no longer need to make honey cakes every day for his hungry stomach or wash his feet at night.
I accidentally stabbed myself with the needle and quickly shoved the finger in my mouth to stop the bleeding. I could not stain this garment. The spilled blood could reverse the magic or present a result I did not expect. What I was doing was dangerous enough. I snatched up the robe and walked inside my home. The light had faded, and I had much to do. It was usually about this time of day when my son would burst into our tent and ply me with kisses for food.
No, I would never forget Suri. In fact, I would avenge him if it was with the last breath I took.
I had taken my blood vengeance on the Kiffians for their part in his death. I had simply stolen a cloak from one of their dead and snuck into their city once the gate had been breached. Very few women and children were in their camp, and I suspected many were merely prisoners, but I found a boy-child who had the look of one of the Kiffian giants. I found him and quickly killed him. When his screaming mother charged at me, I killed her too. By then the chaos of the battle had crept into their small encampment in the west of Zerzura, and no one thought anything else about me. In fact, no one even knew I had left the wagons. Except perhaps Orba, who had dogged my every step. Or so he thought. I smiled as I smoothed the robe.
What pretty fabric! Rose gold silk with a shimmer of metallic thread. The perfect outfit for a seductive dancer. It had been a thoughtful gift, but it hardly made up for the loss of my son. My husband had showered me with Kiffian plunder before he left for Thebes.
Poor Omel. I had no illusions when it came to him. He married me because the blood of Neferue, the daughter of Hatshepsut, the long-dead Queen of Egypt, flowed through my veins. She had been a true queen! My Egyptian family had long since fallen out of power, but unlike them, I would not deny the blood that coursed through my veins. And I planned to be a queen of another sort.
I had not told Omel my plans beyond a few whispers on our pillow. As always he warned me about my scheming, but I knew he appreciated my work. Besides, he would know soon enough, for he would see me. The less he knew at this crucial juncture, the better.
He had seen my painted skin bring the power he desired time and time again, yet this power frightened him. Men had frail souls. What a joke of the gods! They gave men the physical strength and women the mind of leopards; intelligent, fast and able to make a decision—even a deadly one when needed.
If only I’d had the power to kill Orba! That would have solved many problems. But his magic always overwhelmed me. Sometimes it blinded my second sight, and other times it came at me in waves and made me physically sick. Once I thought he had poisoned me, so sick was I, but it was only magic. Gnarly, old Meshwesh magic. But it was no true match for one who had the power of Egypt coursing through her body!
I needed to leave, at least for a little while. If Omel could not come to me, I would go to him. He needed me—of that I was sure. And my Suri needed his blood vengeance, or he would dwell in darkness for all eternity. The debt must be paid, and it must be paid with the blood of Semkah’s children! Pah had the mind of an idiot now; killing her would be doing her a favor. She had been useful in the past, but not anymore. It was Nefret, the upstart, who must pay the price for Suri. Her father’s stubbornness had caused this! How long had Omel warned him to accept Egypt’s hand of protection? If it had not been for Semka
h we would not have been in Timia when the Kiffians stormed across that oasis. If it had not been for Semkah, Suri would be alive—my son would have breath in his body. Now he was no more.
And that was why I called the little boy to me from my window.
I spotted him after I finished folding the robe. I smiled at him in an attempt to allay his fears. My tattoos frightened children, but I had a friendly smile and wide, dark eyes—eyes that children seemed to trust if I wanted them to. Ah…I knew what to do. I picked up Suri’s old toy and walked to the doorway. I tapped on the toy goat skin drum and offered the cautious boy a chance to play with it. As I did, I surreptitiously glanced around me to make sure no one saw me. It was dusk now, and the approaching darkness cast purple shadows on the white stone buildings and walls of Zerzura. A lute played tumbling notes a few doors down. I could smell chula bread cooking somewhere. The boy stepped closer—he was only a few feet away now.
“Sumer! Come to me, son!” the boy’s stupid mother called to him from a nearby doorway. The boy smiled at me once and then turned and ran home through the white stone arch.
“Curse you, child,” I muttered under my breath, scowling at his shadow. I stormed inside my home and flopped in a chair until opportunity brought me another warm body. Another child, a girl-child, came into my home unbidden and unwelcome. Intrigued by her boldness I did not beat her or turn her out.
“Astora? I am Ziza. My mother has sent me to find you. She says my sister Amon is not well. Will you come see her?”
Cautiously I asked, “Why doesn’t she call Leela? I am no camp healer. Leela will be happy to heal your wretched sister.” I felt sullen and petulant, not realizing the gift the goddess had sent me.
“She does not trust Leela, Astora. She says she trusts only you.”
Curious now, I asked, “Does she indeed? Who is your mother?”
“Mareta. You know her. She brings you doves sometimes and the purple flowers that make ink. She says you know how to make the water flow, but I am not sure what she means.”
Finally, I recognized the hand of the goddess at work! The girl’s mention of the flow of water was a secret phrase that only another acolyte of Ahurani would know. I had thought to take the boy’s blood, but it was the girl’s blood that the goddess wanted—and she had sent another servant to convey that message to me. “Go now, Ziza. Tell your mother to come to me at once. There can be no delay. If she wants her child healed, she must pay the price. And you must return with her.” Thoughtfully I added, “Tell your mother that the flowing water needs a rock to wash over.” A true follower would understand my meaning.
Confused but not stupid enough to ask more questions, the girl sprinted from the tent to tell her mother the good news. While I waited, for I was convinced she would return, I prepared the things I would need. A small, gold-handled knife, two leather straps with the sacred knots tied into it and a small offering bowl with a lid. The bowl was made of green jade, something not often seen in the Red Lands or even in the White City of Zerzura for all its hidden treasures. No, this gift came from my father’s homeland, and its beauty and craftsmanship rivaled any Egyptian example. It was Persian-made, by the hand of someone who understood and respected the dying magic. I had dwelt there for a time as a girl. It was a good place to live—until I was cast out. One day, I would return in victory, taking my Meshwesh husband with me. Then he would see true power!
“Step inside, please,” I called to the woman without looking up from my table. She lingered outside my door, and I heard her gasp in surprise. I did not bother to explain to her that I had heard her sandals on the stones outside and needed no magic to perceive her approach. I could tell she was easily impressed. That both pleased and saddened me.
I welcomed her inside and pointed to the table. I recognized Mareta but had not spoken to her much before this day. She had a square face, small, pale brown eyes and a sleeping, plainly sick child in her arms.
I wondered how she would react when I demanded the due price for my healing magic. Fortunately for her, I did not need to kill the girl—not today. All I needed was her blood—at least a small bowl full.
Rather than alarm the sick child or her sister, I spoke to Mareta in the old language. “I need your daughter’s blood. The goddess requires it.”
“Which daughter? This one is sick.”
“I need good blood, so this one. Ziza is her name?” The girl looked from her mother to me; hearing her name mentioned must have surprised her. With a nod, Mareta laid the sick child on the table and without hesitation clapped her hands once in agreement and bowed her head.
“As the goddess wishes,” she said respectfully.
“Good. I will heal your child, but first we must tend to this other matter. The stars that guide me are traveling this way, and this spell is at its most potent under the sign of the bear.”
“What is this spell, Astora?”
Although she had the courage to ask me, I did not feel compelled to tell her. I merely smiled. I could feel the woman’s excitement at being included in Ahurani’s work. We were sisters even though I barely knew her, sisters serving our goddess. Ahurani was a goddess of water and healing, but we kept her name quiet here for many feared her and her husband, Ahurani Mazda. I am glad they feared her, for that meant they would fear me too.
“We will have to tie her down, I am sure of it. She is a fighter. I can tell by the look of her. Does she know nothing of our goddess?” I scolded her.
“Yes, she is a fighter. I have not trained her in our ways, priestess,” Mareta replied in the secret language. I could hear her thoughts…for I barely know them myself. If I survived this and returned to Zerzura, I would have to remedy that.
I could see the curious girl cast a fearful eye over my knife and bowl. In a flash, Mareta clapped the girl’s mouth shut with her hand as I lifted the child’s small body up and placed it on the pallet. Vainly she kicked and twisted.
“If you were wise,” I said in a low whisper, “you would not fight this, Ziza. Today, you serve the goddess of your mother. This is an honor only a few get to enjoy.” But Ziza did not stop screaming, and Mareta continued to muffle her cries. She whispered to her, trying to calm her, but her daughter saw the knife and feared it.
“I am going to take your blood, Ziza, but not all of it. The goddess does not require your life today. Your blood is precious to her; it is sweet and innocent, a fitting offering for this work.” Expertly, I tied her feet and hands together with the straps. She struggled as her mother clamped her hand harder over her mouth.
I could have been kind and numbed the area before I sliced it, but I did not. I took my curved blade and slid it into the plump flesh of the child’s left palm, right where it curved to make the mound of Ahurani. Many did not know it, but this was the seat of power for the soul. I made a clean slice, and the girl screamed in panic. If I had cared to look, I would have seen her eyes full of tears. I did not. Did she think she was the first child to feel pain?
I pressed the wound with expert fingers and drained the blood into the bowl. Feeling victorious, I covered the jade bowl and slid it with its precious contents back into place in my cabinet. I would use it when I was done with this current task. “See? You are not dead.” Mareta untied her daughter while I wrapped her hand with a clean bandage. As soon as she was free, the girl ran out of the house like a fool. Mareta called after her, but she did not answer or return. What did it matter? I did not care who she told now. I had what I wanted, the blood of an innocent. What could be more powerful for what I had in mind?
I quickly examined Mareta’s sick child and sent the goddess-sister home, promising to send for her soon. The child had a climbing fever, but I assured her mother it was nothing serious. The child would not die. Once Mareta left me, I quickly forgot about the sick girl. I took the blood-filled bowl and searched for a quiet place where I could be alone under the stars. I remembered the abandoned courtyard that no one visited. I had half claimed it as my own, and it wou
ld be perfect for what I needed to do. I drew the sacred symbols in the sand and tossed the holy items into the center of the circle. Still holding the bowl, I fell on my knees and beseeched the goddess to send me to Egypt. “Send me,” I pleaded with her. “My son needs his vengeance. Please do not doom him to dwell in darkness.”
I raised the bowl above my head and removed the lid. In the holy language, I spoke the words of power and drank the bowl of blood. It was bitter and metallic, so I swallowed it quickly. I had not eaten in many days, and I thought I would vomit it up, but I did not. I lay on the ground in the circle and waited for the change to happen. I waited for Ahurani’s response.
Again I pleaded with her, “Take your revenge through me, goddess. I will defeat Egypt’s queen for you! Let all fear you!” I whispered into the darkness. Even though my stomach felt sick and my head swam with grief I waited, hoping to see the evidence of Ahurani’s approval. I began to wonder if she refused me, but then I felt the change begin. My skin crackled and my bones hurt. In the darkness I stared at my hands and could see the skin smoothen. I now had smaller, younger-looking hands. The tattoos had disappeared! I lay still for a little longer, allowing the goddess to shape me how she wanted. I knew this had been her will! I had indeed heard her voice! She accepted me and approved my plans. Ah, but this was deep magic. What price would this cost me? In my excitement I pushed the fleeting worry away. This was a grand honor!
My body began to convulse, and pain shot through me like a dozen flaming arrows. I flailed under the weight of Ahurani’s invisible hand until I passed out. Sometime later, I woke to see that the stars had moved in their courses significantly. I had slept for many hours, but now the process was complete. I scrambled to my feet and walked back to my white stone abode. I was so ready to see my new self in the mirror that I practically ran to my table. I stared into the gold-framed mirror. Moonlight bounced off the white stone outside my window and illuminated the room enough for me to see that I had truly changed. I was younger, fairer. I appeared a strange blend of Ziza and Astora, with no tattoos and extremely long hair. If I had to guess, I would say that I appeared to have seen a mere fifteen seasons. I was very pleasing to look upon. Yes, this incarnation would do quite well for the Egyptian court. Even Pharaoh would not be able to refuse me.
The Kingdom of Nefertiti (The Desert Queen Book 3) Page 1
