Servant of the Gods Page 6

  Like the King, he was a tall, strong man in his prime, although Kamenwati’s visage was harsher and darker than that of the King, his eyes black and cold. There was no humor in him, no lightness, no kindness. She knew the rumors, the stories Irisi had told her, and she felt his wizard’s magic prickle her skin. Priestess of the Goddess of magic, she wasn’t yet prepared to do battle with him, not now when so much depended on her.

  She showed none of her apprehensions to Kamenwati.

  “Welcome, my lord. To what do I owe a visit from the Grand Vizier?” she asked mildly.

  Turning, he fixed his black eyes on her. The fury in them whipped at her.

  “I want my slave returned.”

  His anger was as intense as a slap to her face, so much so that she warded herself against dark magic, invoking the Goddess here in her own temple as she cloaked herself in the Goddess’s protection.

  Keeping her voice even, Banafrit said mildly. “We have no slaves, only priests and priestesses. Any who reside here have been chosen by the Goddess herself.”

  She turned her eyes to the representation of Goddess on her pedestal as reminder. Isis saw everything. If she did not, her son Horus did.

  The Goddess looked down on them benignly.

  Would he dare?

  Beneath that gaze even Kamenwati hesitated, it seemed.

  “Would you gainsay the Goddess, my lord Kamenwati?” Banafrit asked, her voice carefully calm and reasoned.

  Even he wouldn’t dare risk the Goddess’s wrath…would he?

  Kamenwati looked at the priestess.

  “She is mine,” Kamenwati spat.

  Rage boiled and burned in him. How dare she deny him what was rightfully his? Either she or the Goddess? If he could but reveal the truth of his nature, if he dared it...? Now, though, was not the time. He was close, too close, to his goals. He dared not risk them over a mere slave. Yet that slave had defied him, escaped him. It infuriated him. All his plans for her…all the power he could have raised from her… All the power he’d anticipated raising from her in her time below stairs…

  She’d have suffered for a very long time.

  Banafrit met Kamenwati’s harsh gaze evenly. “She isn’t yours any longer, she belongs to Isis now.”

  To him she said nothing of prophecy. By silent agreement, that was a thing of the Gods and the priests and priestesses who served them. As Grand Vizier, Kamenwati should have been informed of Horus’s prophecy on the day of Narmer’s naming as Heir to the old King, of the words given to Kahotep, Horus’s high priest, on that auspicious day. This, though, was Kamenwati, and he hadn’t been present that day, having not yet been named Vizier. None of them dared give him such power.

  If he learned of it…

  All the priests and priestesses knew he lusted after power. Knew there were whispers he sought to be more than Grand Vizier, that he longed to be King himself. What would he do if he knew of the threat to Egypt? How would he use that knowledge? They feared it and, seeing the man before her with his true face, rightly so.

  It was on Kamenwati’s lips to say, to demand, “How dare you take from me that which is mine?”

  But he wouldn’t, not to the High Priestess and not beneath the eyes of the Goddess herself.

  He looked from Banafrit to the Goddess, his eyes narrowed in thwarted fury.

  “You may have her,” he said, “but she is mine. I bought her. I own her. She will be mine in the end.”

  With that, he stormed out.

  It was a great relief for Banafrit to feel him go.

  Chapter Eight

  As Irisi had each morning in the months since she’d come to the temple, she prepared herself for her service to the Goddess. She washed in a mixture of water, oil, natron, and herbs so her body was clean and smelled sweet, giving a care to her hair. Within the temple, she wore it loose and long. Some of the other priestesses liked to play with it, braiding it, or combing it to Irisi’s embarrassment. She knew the color attracted them, but still…

  Outside the temple walls, though, she wore a wig, the hair dark and straight, bluntly cut at the shoulders, so only her eyes gave her away as foreign.

  It felt good to feel the cool scented water sheet over her skin. As she stepped out of the bath she rubbed scented oils and emollients into her skin, to moisten and soften it against the heat and dryness of the day ahead.

  If ever there had been a time in her life that could be called idyllic, the last few months had been it.

  She joined the others in preparing the Goddess for the day, as others laid out the food and offerings that would be set before the Goddess in Her honor.

  Carefully, amidst the usual laughter and teasing, Irisi painted the Goddess’s face, laying the color on lightly, enhancing the carved stone features as Miu settled the wig over the goddess’s head and Saini draped Her robes around her. In the background, Kemisi read from the scrolls of the Book of Life that gave honor to the Goddess.

  Watching, Banafrit smiled.

  It was as it should be, the temple filled with laughter and joy.

  “Irisi,” she called, “come awaken the Goddess…”

  Startled, Irisi turned.

  It was an honor she hadn’t yet achieved, a skill she was still learning. Soon she would know all the spells, all of the enchantments. Yet she couldn’t deny the summons or the honor.

  Taking her place by the Book, Irisi bent her head to the hieroglyphs and read. Her voice was steady as she called the Goddess to awaken even as the doors to the temple were opened and the first morning light touched Her face.

  Banafrit smiled fondly on her protégé.

  Once Irisi had learned to read it had been as if a fire had been ignited inside the girl. She couldn’t seem to get enough. She read every scroll, every papyrus and every clay tablet she could find. She’d devoured the spells of the Book of the Dead and the Book of Life. She pestered the scribe endlessly, demanding explanations of this hieroglyph or that script. Learning one language plus her native tongue was not enough. She wanted more, badgering foreign priests, priestesses and tradesmen to teach her more. It was as if she hungered for knowledge, a suitable trait for a Priestess of Isis.

  With the offerings made, accepted, and the Goddess awakened, they gathered the food that had been offered and took it into the common room. Some was set aside for themselves to break their fast. The rest fed the poor, the orphaned children, and those who came for healing.

  Irisi had taken her place there as she had everywhere, becoming truly one of them.

  Healing was not a new skill, every soldier learned how to bind his own wounds and those of others, but this was a new thing. Different. There were spells, arts, herbs and such, healing compounds and poultices such as she’d never known.

  How would she ever have guessed that moldy bread would kill infection?

  She liked playing with the children, too, but first, she had to go take care of her own – of a sort.

  First, she stopped in the kitchens to gather up their bowl.

  Those cooking set aside the remains of antelope haunches and the offal of the fowl and fish for the rapidly growing cubs. Three growled expectantly as she came around the corner. Emu, Kiwu, Alu awaited her impatiently. Out of long practice, Irisi danced away from Nebi’s pounce from the shadows, laughing as the cub tumbled over himself. She tossed him a gobbet of meat just for the effort he’d made and he growled happily at his prize as she set the bowl down for the others.

  Kiwu came to roll into her lap for a belly rub, rubbing her head around in Irisi’s lap as Irisi settled to the ground, cross-legged.

  She played with them for a time, let them roll and pounce on her, chew lightly on her arms, leaving welts. Not that she minded, as those marks would fade.

  Already she was teaching them to hunt, drawing a piece of hide around for them to stalk and pounce on or dangling it on a string in the air above for them to leap at.

  Then she took up her swords as she did each day for practice, using the cubs as
challenge or check, pulling the blades, dodging and stepping around them. Some of the others called her Isis’s Warrior. The title made her smile. So far she’d had little need for those skills, but she remembered Banafrit’s words the day the Goddess had accepted her. So she practiced every day without fail, against future need.

  It was time, though, to judge by the sun, for her to go shopping for those few things the temple didn’t receive as gifts or offerings.

  Bundling her hair up, she went into her room to fetch her wig and settled it on her head, tugging it into proper place. It didn’t make her look more Egyptian, her skin was far too fair for that; it simply made her stand out less. After being the source of such looks too often, it was simpler to go out wearing the wig.

  She caught up a basket in the crook of her arm and went out into the city.

  While this wasn’t the first time she’d gone out on such errands, she’d only recently done so alone. Banafrit had sent another with her until she’d learned her way through the byways of the city. Irisi had enjoyed having the company, but she couldn’t complain much of having some little time to herself. There was also the pleasure of seeing what the shops had to offer that she hadn’t seen before or finding some delicacy to bring back to the others.

  For the first time in a great long time, Irisi felt truly happy, content.

  As almost always, it not being the rainy season and the Nile not in flood, the day was sunny and clear with few clouds. It was a pleasant day to walk about, still early enough for the air to be comfortable.

  Shop owners in the souk called greetings to her warmly.

  It was outside the second shop she visited that she felt a presence, a darkness that was unsettling and disturbingly familiar…

  The Grand Vizier. Kamenwati.

  She went still, calling up all she’d learned from the Druids and now from the priests and priestesses of Isis, asking the Goddess for strength.

  His darkness battered at her.

  Turning in his direction, she bowed respectfully as a Priestess of Isis to the Grand Vizier. Even so she kept her eyes slightly averted, never looking him directly in the face. He was a powerful magician and his glamour seemed stronger somehow.

  Had it always been so? Was it only because she had been away from it or had he enhanced it somehow?

  Either way, she felt it beat at her.

  “My Lord,” she said, quietly, cautiously, all too aware she didn’t have her swords on her.

  Not that it mattered, as a number of items nearby would have stood as weapons for her, if she needed to defend herself. If she could have or would have dared draw a weapon on the Grand Vizier…

  Kamenwati looked at her. Those pale foreign eyes met his evenly.

  Meeting his eyes. A slave. If he’d dared to strike a priestess of Isis, he would have cuffed her just for the liberty she took. Just as he had to speak to her himself, directly, she who had once been his slave. It infuriated him. It burned in him.

  That she’d escaped, denied him the power he needed and would have given him in time, only enraged him further.

  “Know this,” he said, softly, his eyes locked on her face, “you are mine. I own you. You may be a priestess of Isis and even I won’t tempt the Gods so much yet, but there will be no other save me in your life. I cannot touch you or risk the wrath of the Goddess, but if I cannot have you, no other will. Understand this. They will die. This is my will. By assassin, by magic or by poison… they will die. There will be no other but me.”

  Then he was gone in a swirl of his dark kalasaris.

  Irisi caught her breath once again, watching him stalk away.

  When she returned to the temple she said nothing to Banafrit of the encounter.

  There was no point.

  Chapter Nine

  Outside, beyond the veranda, Irisi watched as the sun sank below the horizon and the first stars appeared in the azure sky. Within, torch light flickered over gold-streaked marble floors, glistening sandstone and polished granite walls. Great pillars supported the ceiling of the King’s palace. Down the center of the room, a long reflecting pool filled with the silver water of the Nile glimmered. Servants and slaves offered food to all gathered there, going to one knee as they held up golden plates filled with delicacies.

  The scent of perfume drifted in the air lightly and softly, as the cool night breeze swept through the hall.

  Below in the courtyards folk wandered about, greeting friends, whispering to this one or that, speculating about why they had been summoned this night. All were dressed in their finest gowns, kilts and kalasaris. Gold dripped at ear, throat, and wrist. Gems sparkled in the torchlight.

  It was not the first time Irisi had stood at Banafrit’s side in the King’s palace but the first on such a grand occasion. Just what the occasion was hadn’t yet been announced, but rumors were running rampant. Some whispered that the King was finally going to name his heir, lacking one of his body. A few speculated that Kamenwati would be named, and there were fearful glances among those who spoke that name.

  The man himself was there, standing behind the King as always as his chief advisor, as he had on those other occasions, his face expressionless. Irisi kept her glance from meeting his directly although she’d learned better how to guard herself against such glamours during her time in Isis’s temple.

  Still, she was wary of him.

  This was a far larger and grander hall than the small one where the King usually took his audiences. The number of people was greater here, too.

  King Narmer, a tall handsome man, sat only scant feet away from them, his lady wife beside him, raised on a dais that put him slightly above Banafrit, as Banafrit stood on the level above Irisi, as befit the High Priestess of Isis. Around them were the High Priests and Priestesses of the other Gods. Irisi smiled to see Djeserit, Sekhmet’s priestess, giving a small nod of her head to the other priestess.

  Smiling in return, Djeserit inclined her head as well.

  They’d become friends of a sort, in the rare times they met.

  At the King’s side was his Queen consort, Paniwi, despite rumors that she was barren. A few whispered that, despite Narmer’s love for her, he would have to put her aside or else take a concubine.

  Paniwi wasn’t a particularly beautiful woman in appearance but she was in soul. Wisdom was reflected in her deep brown eyes, a sense of calm knowledge graced with kindness and fortified with steely resolve. A redoubtable woman in every sense, she’d studied among the priests and priestesses in her time. Her dark eyes watched, observed, and Irisi noted from Paniwi’s expression that she held no love for the Grand Vizier, either, nor he for her, although it was nothing anyone would have seen who wasn’t looking to see it.

  To each side of the King and a step below were the King’s Nubian guards. Another pair stood at the bottom of the dais so that there were six in all.

  The King had even called back his generals, which bespoke the importance of the occasion. To Irisi’s pleasure she saw that Khai now numbered among them. She’d seen him only rarely since she’d come to Thebes, usually riding past with his men, but he hadn’t seen her. Which was as well as each time the sight of him sent an odd pang through her. Her heart lifted a little too, a small curl of warmth moving through her at the memory of their short time together. Remembering that one night, the pleasure of it, sent a shiver through her.

  It was good, though, to find he’d been promoted. Having faced his troops and seen him in command, she knew he was a good and able leader – and now a General. She was glad for him. He’d treated her well when it hadn’t been necessary.

  Nothing about him had changed. He was still as handsome a man as she’d ever known with his high cheekbones and slightly aquiline nose. As she’d remembered, his dark eyes were touched a little with gold, and his neatly trimmed beard framed his full mouth and his square jaw. The dark kilt he wore suited his tawny skin, the brief garment revealing the strong muscles of his arms and chest.

  Feeling eyes on him,
Khai looked over to where the priests and priestesses stood. He knew many of them but he also saw a new face among them…a familiar one…with eyes like no other, kohl-rimmed and brilliantly blue for it, her golden hair streaming over her shoulders.

  His heart lifted and his breath caught.

  She’d haunted him, the warrior from the northern lands. The thought of her in Kamenwati’s house had sickened him, especially after he’d heard rumors of what went on there. He’d learned that Kamenwati had put her in the ring to fight for wagers. Fearing to find her spirit broken, Khai had gone to see her fight on one of his return journeys to Thebes. It had been a relief to see her still as sure, her bearing still proud but it had disturbed him to watch Kamenwati’s avid eyes on her.

  Then the tales had stopped and Khai had feared her fate…

  To see her now, whole and alive? Relief filled him. Such as Kamenwati had offered her shouldn’t have befallen so true a warrior. If Khai could have spared her that he would have. Now though she stood high among the priests, standing second only to Banafrit. She’d come far in the years since last he’d seen her.

  He nodded slightly in acknowledgement, with a small smile, inordinately pleased at the sight of her, and alive. But more…she was still beautiful to look upon. Even more so than he remembered, it seemed.

  Khai remembered well the first night they’d brought her to him. She’d been as lovely then as now. Fine linen graced her slender, full-breasted body, trailing almost to her sandal-clad feet. Her hair streamed like sunlight over her kalasaris, the beads on it and those braided into her hair a match for the color of her eyes, so like the sky… She was incredible, her kohl-rimmed eyes brilliant in the torchlight. Gold lay against her throat and hung from her ears, but could not rival her hair for brightness.