by Judith Tarr
Seti had gone to drift for a while in Gebu’s shadow, to be certain that no suspicion tainted him. There was no one in the stable at this hour of the night. The one man who should have been on guard had been lured away on an errand that would keep him occupied for a little time.
Kemni was alone, then, and Amonmose found him among the horses, resting for these few moments in their peaceful presence. The man’s eyes rolled white at the sight of them; he stopped short, as if his feet had failed him.
Kemni had forgotten what fear the rest of his people had for these great gentle creatures. He left them regretfully, but Amonmose was too stark with terror to be coaxed closer. He breathed a long sigh when Kemni came to stand in front of him. “My lord, it’s done,” he said. “I have the letters.”
And so he did, wrapped in the pack with the golden collar. “Did the prince say anything,” Kemni asked, “about the number of tokens?”
Amonmose shook his head, a shift of shadow in the light of Kemni’s one small lamp. “No. He gave me the packet, that was all.”
Kemni breathed his own relief. “He never looked. Thank the gods. Here, I’ll take these, with thanks to you for winning them. You’ll go as we bade you, yes? Rest as you can where you told the prince you would, and go some distance in the morning. Seti will come to you on the road and set you on your new way. You are still determined to go as far as Nubia?”
“I always wanted to see it,” Amonmose said. “If the gods grant I live that long, then I’m content. If not, I’ve earned a reward with this thing. I’ll ask that my spirit complete the journey.”
Kemni regarded him half in amusement and half in respect. “Well, and why not? I’m sure they’ll grant what you ask. But go now, and may the gods protect you—the gods of good faith and loyal service.”
“And the gods of gold,” Amonmose said with a flicker of wry laughter. “Don’t let your man forget that part of it.”
“By my name, he will not,” Kemni said.
Amonmose was content. He and Kemni between them restored the weight of his pack with stones that Kemni had brought for the purpose and bound it anew. He shouldered it then, grunting a little for it was heavy, and slipped out into the night.
When he was gone, and no sound to be heard above the night noises, or beneath them either, Kemni allowed himself a moment’s boneless collapse. But he could not linger. Though he craved sleep, he must not succumb to it. Not till he knew what he must know.
~~~
She lived still. Lamps were lit about her, many more than were strictly needed, but the light was blessed. Imhotep had gone—to rest, Ariana said, though her own eyes were hollow, her voice thin with exhaustion.
“You let him go?”
Kemni must have sounded grimmer than he knew. Ariana bridled a little, though she was too tired for anger. “There’s nothing he can do that I can’t do as well. It’s all in the gods’ hands.”
“I pray that’s so,” Kemni said. He sank down beside the bed, in the chair that, he remembered vaguely, Imhotep had claimed for himself while he was there. “It’s done. The messenger has gone. In the morning Seti will complete the plan. And then . . .”
“And then,” she said, “we go on.”
“I don’t know if I can,” said Kemni. It came to him as something he had been thinking of for a long while, though he had not even shaped the thought before. “I know we agreed. We’ll let him think all’s well, and betray nothing of what we know, until the time comes when we can destroy him.”
“After the war has begun,” Ariana said, “when there’s no danger of its being stopped. Unless there’s more to the plot than we know.”
Kemni shook his head. “I can’t do it, my lady. I can’t pretend to be his brother, to love him, trust him. Not knowing what he is, and what he’s done.”
“You’ve known it for rather a while,” she said, “and he’s not suspected.”
“But now I know,” Kemni said. “Lady, please. I can’t do it.”
“That is difficult,” she said. “I can’t let you run away again—I need you here. And I can’t send him away without a plausible excuse.”
“Might not the king summon him to Thebes? He is a prince. Surely there’s something that he’s required for, away in the city.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Wouldn’t you rather he was here, where we can keep him in sight, than there, where he can plot the gods know what?”
“But there,” said Kemni, “the king can watch him, once it’s known that there’s something to watch for. And he won’t learn any of our secrets here.”
“He and his fellows were plotting under the king’s very nose. Do you think it would be any better in Thebes?”
“I wonder if the king knew, but for some reason chose to let it continue. Maybe he expected us to stop the messenger?”
“He is a god,” Ariana conceded. “But—”
“Suppose,” said Kemni, “that you contrive a summons from the king—and while you do that, send a messenger to Thebes with word of all that’s happened here. Then when the prince comes there, the king will know what there is to know, and be prepared for him.”
“What if the king won’t do as we ask him?”
“I think he will,” Kemni said—which was a great presumption, but he could not help it. He had trusted Gebu with his life, and Gebu had become a traitor. What if the king had no more honor than that?
The king was the king, the living Horus. Kemni must trust him, or trust nothing in the world.
Ariana pondered what he had said. While the silence stretched, he bent toward Iphikleia who lay unmoving as she had done since he came there, and laid his palm softly against her cheek. Her skin was cold, though not quite as cold as death. She breathed, but faintly, almost imperceptibly.
Imhotep had warned him that she would lie so; that the potions he had given her would bank the fire of life in her, and cause it to burn low—the better, he had said, to preserve her body’s strength. She was pale and shrunken, her face too still, its beauty leached away. And yet he loved her more than he ever had, loved her with force that shook him to the soul.
She would have died for him, for his dream that she had believed in even more strongly than he had. She might still die. Death’s claws were sunk in her heart. Imhotep’s art and his magic might not be enough to win her free of it.
Kemni had only love to offer her. Love, and anger. If the gods had any care for that, then maybe they would let her live. And if not, not.
It was a cold world. Cold and dark, if she was not to be in it. His brother a traitor, his kin dead or conquered—what did he have, anywhere, but this one woman?
Ariana spoke beyond her, startling him out of his maundering. “If I do as you ask, promise me something.”
“If I can,” Kemni said.
Her lips twitched. “Or if you will? Very well. Promise me, if you can or will, that you will stay in this world. No matter what happens.”
“Even if there is nothing left for me?”
“I would hope that I am something: I and our king.”
Kemni lowered his eyes. Her tone had not been aggrieved, nor was she rebuking him. And yet he felt most thoroughly chastised.
“May I take that for a promise?”
He nodded.
“Then I will do my part. That one will leave here as soon as I can contrive a message—and his father will know what I did and why. Whatever consequences there may be for that, I take on myself.”
“But—I don’t ask you to—”
“But you did,” she said with composure. “It’s no matter. You, I need. He’s better disposed of where his father can keep watch over him.”
“He won’t be killed?”
“Not yet,” she said, “nor by my asking.”
Kemni sighed a little. “It might be best if he were. But . . . not for my asking, either, or by my doing. I never wanted this.”
“The gods shape us,” said Ariana, “and Earth Mother brings us forth. What we do thereafter
, we do of our own will. He will pay whatever price the gods—or the god his father—will set. Not you. Not I.”
Kemni bowed to that. There was little else he could do.
~~~
It was a long night, endless as he might have thought, measured in Iphikleia’s slow breaths. Ariana had gone away at Kemni’s urging, to rest; and she had promised that she would see to the matter of Gebu before she came back. He kept watch alone.
Now and then a servant came, to bring food or drink, or to see that Iphikleia was tended. None of them stayed. In the hours between, the silence sank deep.
Somewhere in the deep night, Kemni stretched out on the bed, close by her but not touching, save for his hand that he twined with her thin cold one. He did not sleep, he was sure of that. Nor did he dream. He had dreamed enough for one lifetime.
As the hours darkened toward dawn, and the cold crept in, the cold of the Red Land that overcame the Black Land then and most strongly, something changed. Kemni lay unmoving, as if any motion, any sound, might disturb whatever had roused him.
It was silent. Utterly silent. The only sound was the beating of blood in his ears.
No breath. She was not breathing. She had stopped.
A great cry welled up in him, welled and crested and held just short of bursting free.
She gasped. Convulsed.
He caught at her. She was breathing hard, but breathing deep, and her eyes were open. They were not quite empty of self. He watched them fill with his face.
“Beautiful man,” she said with the whisper of a breath.
“Don’t die,” he said. He was not pleading with her. It was a command.
“I’ll try,” she said.
“Don’t talk, either.”
But that, she would not obey. “Tell me what—” She shifted, and gasped. “I hurt!”
“You are alive,” he sighed.
She lay very still. “I remember—he had a knife. I didn’t want you to know—”
“Idiot.”
“Yes. But it would have distracted you. Is he—”
“Ariana has him. He’ll be dealt with.”
“Killed?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t asked.”
She nodded. Her eyes closed; she sighed, carefully. She was still awake. “And . . . the rest?”
“It’s ended.”
“Tell me—”
“Later. When you’ve rested.”
“I’ve been doing nothing but rest.”
Kemni did not answer that, nor argue with it. He moved a little closer, till his body rested lightly against hers. She sighed and let him take her in his arms, with great care, because even that little movement caused her pain. “Only tell me,” she said, “how bad is it? Will I live?”
“I pray so.”
“Of course you do.” Her lips brushed his shoulder. “Beautiful man. I love you immoderately.”
“You’re babbling.”
“While I babble, I’m alive.”
She was frightened. Bright, strong, indomitable Iphikleia, who had never been afraid of anything, was afraid of this; of the dark that took every living creature, if not sooner, then later.
“You won’t die,” he said to her, putting into it every scrap of power or conviction that he could muster. “If any prayer of mine has ever mattered, or any word I’ve spoken, or any rite or duty or service to the gods, they will not let you die. On all my souls I swear it.”
“Why,” she said. “You do love me.”
“You doubted it?”
“No,” she said. She let her head rest on his shoulder, and yawned as a child will, wide and unabashed. “I’m sleepy. Will you watch over me?”
“Always.”
“Then I can sleep,” she said. “Promise you’ll be here when I wake.”
“I promise.”
She nodded against his shoulder, sighed and yawned again, and slipped into sleep.
It was sleep, not death. Deep and healing sleep, within the circle of his arms.
VI
Gebu left on the second morning after Iphikleia was cut down. A messenger had come to him, purporting to be from his father, and commanding his presence at once in the court of Thebes. Kemni’s fear, that Gebu would suspect at last that he was unmasked, seemed unfounded. The prince prepared to depart with suitable though not excessive speed.
In the evening before he left, he sent a man to Kemni, inviting him to share a farewell feast. Kemni declined, politely. “The lady whom I serve,” he told the servant, “is still very ill. I’ve promised not to leave her side.”
The servant bowed to that, which was manifestly true.
Kemni was not surprised, some time later, to find Gebu himself at the door like a supplicant. Iphikleia was asleep, as she had been much of the time—healing sleep, Imhotep said, and forbade anyone to disturb it.
Kemni hated to leave her. But Gebu was not going to go away. Nor could Kemni escape him. To do that would be to betray everything.
He could keep a bold face for an hour. Surely he could do that.
He went to the door therefore, set finger to lips and tilted his head toward Iphikleia, and let Gebu follow him back into the outer room. Gebu’s expression mimed sympathy exceeding well; and it allowed Kemni to forswear a smile, or any warmth of greeting.
“Is she well?” Gebu asked as they sat in the light of the lamp-cluster, and a maid brought wine.
“Not well,” Kemni answered, “but she lives. Imhotep thinks she may recover.”
“So sudden a fever,” Gebu said with a sigh, turning his cup in his hands, gazing down into the swirl of wine. Kemni tensed, but Gebu did not tax Kemni with the lie. “I pray it leaves her quickly.”
“So do we all,” Kemni said.
He let the conversation stop there, leaving it for Gebu to resume if he pleased. Exhaustion was his excuse, and fear for his lady.
Gebu obliged willingly enough. “I leave in the morning. My father has matters for me to settle, matters of the war and the kingdom. I’d ask you to come with me, but they tell me you’re needed here. And,” he said, “I know you’ll not leave her.”
“No,” said Kemni. “I won’t. I can’t.”
“My poor brother,” Gebu said with more warmth than pity. “I’ll pray for her in Amon’s temple, when I come there.”
“I thank you,” Kemni said.
“It’s the least I can do,” said Gebu. “Have you any messages for me to carry? Any word you’d like to send to anyone? My father, even?”
Kemni tensed. Here if anywhere would be betrayal—would be suspicion. “Just tell them,” he said, “and him, that I do my best for the war and the kingdom.”
“I’ll do that,” Gebu said.
Kemni bowed his head; let it droop, in fact, with weariness that was not at all feigned. “May I—”
“Yes,” Gebu said. “Go back to her. Fare you well, brother.”
“Farewell,” Kemni said. He could say that much, in a fading whisper of a voice.
“Rest,” Gebu said. “Be at ease. She will live.”
Kemni bit his lip before he cried out against this liar, this traitor, this speaker of false words. His flight looked, he hoped, like a weary plod back to his lady’s side.
He did not embrace the man who had been his brother. When the door shut, it shut with Gebu on the other side of it. And if the gods were kind, he would not again force Kemni to wear the face of amity when all beneath was hate.
~~~
Gebu was gone. Iphikleia recovered slowly. Much sooner than Kemni would have wished, she pressed him to return to all of his duties, not simply those he could not pass off to whoever was convenient. The closer the war came, the more of those there were, and the more completely he must devote himself to them.
Every morning he woke in dread that she would take a turn for the worse. Every night, as he fell into bed beside her after a long day’s labor, he prayed that he would wake to find her yet alive. She had had a fever, as if to prove the truth of the s
tory that people were to believe, and it had weakened her terribly; but she had rallied. She was, Imhotep insisted, improving. But slowly, so slowly. Breath by breath and day by day, till she was a pale shadow with great dark hollow eyes.
“Wounds in the belly are the worst,” Imhotep said wearily, one morning when Kemni should have been doing a dozen things at once, but lingered instead to fret over Iphikleia. “They fester most often, and too often, when you think the patient has recovered or near to it, he dies all unlooked for. But,” he said before Kemni could cry out against the words, “if she were going to do any of that, she would have done it a good while since.”
“Then why is she still so weak?” Kemni demanded. “Why isn’t she getting better?”
“She is getting better,” Imhotep said. “The wound and then the fever weakened her greatly. It will take time for her to be strong again.”
“How much time? The rest of her life?”
“I do hope not,” Imhotep said. “Now go, before you wake her. Don’t you have chariots to drive? Wild horses to tame? Recruits to beat into submission?”
Kemni sucked in a breath of pure rage.
“Go,” said the man who was, people said, the living image of the healer-god Imhotep—who had also, once, been a mortal man. “Train your charioteers. Trust me to keep your beloved alive.”
There was nothing Kemni could say to that, that Imhotep would listen to. He turned on his heel and stalked out.
Anger carried Kemni through much of that morning. He knew that people were walking shy of him, but he did not care. While he did what he was required to do, that was enough.
Unfortunately, anger could not carry him through with the horses. They took it from him and returned it tenfold, in rearing and fighting and bitter resistance. For them he had to put anger aside; to be calm, to speak softly. In spite of himself, he left the anger behind somewhere, lost on the trampled field amid the turning of the chariot-wheels.
In that state of hard-won calm, he saw a messenger coming at the run, one of the lightfoot boys who ran errands about the Bull of Re. This one’s eyes were so wide the whites showed all around them, and he was desperately out of breath, as if he had run without stopping all the way from the river.
