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6

Sita

“Is it time?” Sita asked anxiously.

“Patience, sister,” Mery said. “Ripe fruit is sweeter, you know.”

They sat opposite each other at a small table near the front of the palace, waiting for the signal to begin the procession to the Temple of Amun. Sita and her brother were to offer their greetings to Bast as representatives of the king before joining the festival celebrations themselves. She could hear the crowds outside the gates—a constant murmuration of excited voices and beating drums—and longed to be among them, to throw herself into the blaze and burn, and burn, and burn.

The waiting was torture.

She stared at the ivory gaming board on the table between them, trying and failing to concentrate on her next move. They were playing Hounds and Jackals, which had been—along with Mehen and senet—one of their favorite games since childhood. She tossed the four throw sticks, counted up the black sides, and stared at her jackal-headed pieces, trying to decide which one to move. Mery had already gotten four of his five hounds into the protective shen hole at the top of the board, whereas Sita only had three. After a minute, she threw her hands up in defeat. “I give up! I can’t win.”

Mery was leaning back in his chair, one shapely leg crossed over the other, as relaxed as she was tense. He studied her with affectionate amusement. “Sitamun, Sitamun,” he tutted. “You look at the board, but somehow you don’t see it.” With that, he picked up one of her pieces and moved it across the board into the shen.

Sita studied the new configuration and huffed in irritation. With that one move, Mery had cleared the path for her victory.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, sister,” Mery said with a wink. “What you lack in strategic brilliance, you make up for in charm and wit.”

Sita stuck out her tongue at him, but it was impossible to stay mad at Mery. Ever since they were children, her brother had been the one person who was always there for her. When, at the age of seven, she was ill from a snakebite and their father didn’t even come to visit, Mery had been there to hold her hand. When Sita couldn’t sleep, she knew she could always sneak into Mery’s bed, where they’d curl up together like a pair of kittens. It was Mery who shared her love of stories, Mery who helped her choose what dresses to wear to the banquets, Mery who was always up for a game, no matter the hour—as long as he was playing with her.

He stuck out his tongue back at her, and they sat like that, laughing, their bodies mirrors of each other. They’d always been this way, matching each other’s expressions and movements without trying. It often annoyed her that, despite their similarities, Mery was the one people worshipped. In general, Sita did what she was told. Mery, on the other hand, could be extremely demanding—he’d been known to fly into rages if his needs weren’t met, or if anyone dared contradict him—but when things went well, there was nothing more wonderful than his praise. He was, in every respect, a prince destined for the throne, and everyone in the palace basked in his light.

Sita did too.

Mery grinned. His features were like masculine versions of her own—though Sita always thought they looked better on him. “Keep in mind, dear sister, things get a little wild at this festival. As soon as we leave the temple—”

She interrupted him. “I know, all right? I know. Mother already gave me the lecture. ‘People come from all over… Not all of them share our values…’” She rolled her eyes. “I don’t need a lecture from you too.”

“Fine, fine,” Mery said. “Just don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”

Sita snorted. “That isn’t saying much.”

One of the guards approached. “Excuse me, prince, princess.” He bowed his head. “The palanquins are ready to take you to the temple.”

Fifteen minutes later, after a twilight ride down a private temple road, Sita and Mery stood shoulder to shoulder in the open courtyard of the Temple of Amun. All around them, assembled under a purpling sky, priests and other servants awaited the goddess. Since her arrival from Bubas earlier that day, Bast had been kept in Amun’s sanctuary, the Holy of Holies, until her festival night began.

Sita squirmed, working hard to keep a noble expression on her face while her belly fluttered with anticipation. She felt shy and exposed in her filmy gown and bead-net dress, but at the same time, she was excited too. Her sheltered life in the palace had kept her more girl than woman, but that night, everything was going to change.

Scanning the gathered throng, she spied Kenna standing with some dour Sem priests who looked as if they hadn’t seen the sun in several seasons. Other than his messy thatch of black hair, her brother looked exactly like them. Gaunt, unsmiling, strange.

How could he have shared the womb with me and Mery, and yet share so little else?

He caught her looking at him and nodded in silent greeting. Sita nodded back, stifling the irritation she often felt when he refused to take part in his royal duties.

It’s fine if he wants to hide away here in the temple . But on days like this, the least he could do is stand with us as our brother. She closed her eyes and gently pushed her annoyance aside. Not worth it. Not tonight.

The crowd rippled with low chatter. Something was happening. One of the lowly Wab priests ran up to Master Montuhotep and whispered in his ear. The high priest nodded and waved the younger man away.

Sita scowled. She’d never liked Montuhotep. He was so… clean . Sure, all the priests maintained similar standards, but the high priest was different somehow. Every time she saw him, with his shiny skin and his crisp white robes, she had a sudden desire to throw mud at him.

Despite her feelings, Montuhotep was her father’s right hand. The viziers were meant to be the king’s most valuable advisers, but everyone knew role belonged to Montuhotep alone. His interpretations of her father’s dreams, as well as his portents of the future, were sacrosanct. No one could speak against the high priest’s word without earning themselves painful—and often permanent—consequences.

Montuhotep turned toward the sanctuary, and everyone else followed suit. Sita’s pulse quickened. The goddess was on her way.

Only one person wasn’t turned toward the Holy of Holies. A bald young girl, no more than thirteen years old, her neck long and birdlike, dressed in the standard garb of a priestess. She stood rigid at Montuhotep’s side, as if on the edge of flight.

She was staring at Sita.

Their eyes met, and Sita was surprised when the girl didn’t lower her gaze in deference. Sita found herself unable to look away, despite the goddess’s imminent approach.

“ Sitamun ,” Mery whispered in her ear.

There was something deep and treacherous about the girl’s eyes. They made Sita feel exposed, as if all her secrets were laid bare. Who is she? she thought, still staring.

“Sitamun … ”

Sita felt herself falling, as if into a deep well. She heard a roar, and a rhythmic, percussive sound, like a heartbeat.

The lamb …

“Sita!” Mery elbowed her in the side.

Sita blinked. “What?”

Mery pointed toward the center of the courtyard, where the high priestess of Bast and her retinue stood with the goddess, awaiting greetings from the prince and princess.

“Oh,” Sita breathed, her cheeks reddening. She could have sworn she’d only looked at the girl for a moment, but it must have been longer. Perhaps I spent too much time in the sun today , she thought. When she glanced back at the young priestess, the girl was watching the goddess like everyone else.

“Focus, please,” Mery muttered through a smile. He bowed his head, and the high priestess returned the gesture.

Sita cleared her throat and bowed her own. Mery had probably seen the high priestess before, when he’d attended the previous Bast Festival, but this was Sita’s first time. High Priestess Karo was an imposing woman, tall and broad with a roughly hewn, chiseled face and glossy deep-brown skin. But what was most striking were the tattoos on her shoulders.

They were wedjat—Eyes of Horus.

High-ranking priestesses were rare in Khetara, but the ones Sita had seen had all shared those particular markings. Her tutor told her that priestesses usually had a pair of wedjat on their lower backs as well.

“Those women are divine vessels,” her tutor had said, “not to be sullied by the acts of man. The eyes remind all who see them that the gods are watching.”

High Priestess Karo saw Sita peeking up from her bowed position and studied her with interest. As if she and her many eyes could see right through her.

“Rise, Princess Sitamun,” the high priestess said. “You may both approach the goddess.”

Sita and Mery walked forward and knelt before the statue of Bast, who was barely visible behind her gauzy curtains. Sita thought of Nebet’s words back in the dressing chamber.

She said I should pray to the goddess to deliver my father from evil.

Taking a deep breath, Sita closed her eyes.

She tried to pray for him. She really did. But like a drop of ink in water, another thought pervaded all others, coloring her mind with one, singular desire.

I wish to be free.

She immediately wanted to take it back.

No, no, no , she thought, desperate. Do as Nebet told you to. Don’t pray for that. Why did you pray for that? That’s stupid, and selfish, and—

But the moment was over. The high priestess laid a hand on Sita’s shoulder, and she opened her eyes.

“Women of Khetara!” the high priestess announced, raising her arms high. “Tonight we honor the birth of our goddess! We honor her by laying down our burdens and our silence and filling the sky with a glorious noise! The greater our rapture, the greater praise we give to our divine mistress!” She paused and gazed out at the throng with a catlike smile. “Let the Festival of Bast begin!”

A deafening, ecstatic roar erupted from the crowd beyond the gate, and Mery turned to lead the procession. Sita followed him between the massive pylons and under the shadow of Amun’s gate, her heart thrumming. When she stepped out into the open, her blunder with the goddess was forgotten. She stopped, so overwhelmed by what she saw that it took her brother’s prodding to get her going again.

There were so many people.

Beyond the road lined with ram-headed sphinx, the crowd was like a rolling ocean reaching as far as the eye could see. As the king’s daughter, she had gone to other well-attended festivals and sailing days. But this… this was different. Holy days were formal, serious affairs, with a lot of prayers and rituals and standing very still. Yet there were no serious faces in the crowd before her, no stillness. Everything was sound and movement, from the drumbeats that echoed from every corner of the city to the dancing women who waved to her as she passed by.

Beside her, Mery glowed in the dying light, imperishable as a star. Nothing ever seemed to rattle him—not the pressure of his position nor the thousand eyes upon him as he faced the endless throng. He fed on their adoration, suckling at it like mother’s milk. Sita walked one step behind him, attempting to mirror his confidence by keeping her shoulders back and her head held high.

They processed slowly down the main temple road toward the river. Palace guards flanked them on each side, protecting Sita and Mery from the crush of people. Still, the crowd pressed close, the heat of them stirring something passionate in Sita’s soul, tugging at the door where she kept her desire locked away, willing her to set it free.

With every step, the crowd’s energy grew. Women—both young and old—tossed their hair to the rhythm of the music, lifting their skirts to reveal all that lay beneath.

There was a reason that only people of a certain age were allowed to participate in the Festival of Bast.

The half-clothed women danced with each other, with the wide-eyed, delighted men, and screamed their joy into the night. Sita felt herself blush, but she could not look away from the flesh around her, the curves of those bodies, the intoxicating way their movements cast shadows. She thought of her own body, separated from the night air by that thin layer of cloth, and had the urge to rip her gown away. To throw herself into that sea of noise and skin and ecstasy.

She must have veered toward the crowd because suddenly a guard’s hand was at her elbow, guiding her back to the center of the road.

“I’m all right—” She stopped short when she saw the guard’s face.

Femi.

He met her eyes. Like the other guards, he wore only a short black schenti, its cinched waist and elegant pleats accentuating the sleek animal quality of his body. Her frustration gave way to desire.

He must have sensed it. In the turn of his mouth, the widening of his pupils, the new tension in the muscles of his neck, he seemed to say, I want you too .

She edged closer to him, so that the curve of her hip just barely brushed against his as they walked. The contact, light as it was, sent shivers up her spine.

They soon reached the riverbank, where the pharaoh’s ship waited to follow Bast’s boat to the edge of Thonis as the goddess slowly made her way back to her temple at Bubas. Dozens of people were already on board. Several of the king’s lesser wives and concubines were there, as well as a few of the younger up-and-coming palace officials, and of course—more guards. They cheered as one as she and Mery approached, raising their cups in greeting as Femi helped her up the ramp to join them.

Someone handed her a rattle, and someone else gave her a cup filled with wine. It was sky blue, shaped like a lotus flower, and fit perfectly into her palm. Hands touched her back, her shoulders, her arms. She was in among them now, their smiling faces flashing in and out of the firelight as her name echoed around her.

“Sitamun!”

“Sitamun!”

“Sitamun!”

The voices were all young and sparkling and beautiful.

Then she felt lips at her ear.

“Drink deep, sister,” Mery whispered. “This is your night.”

She smiled and took a sip of wine. It was thick and honey-sweet. She licked her lips. Normally, a sip was all the wine she was given—usually as part of ceremonies at the palace.

Tonight, I can have as much as I like , she thought, and drank the rest. It slipped down her throat and filled her with a slow, satisfying heat. When the cup was empty, she held it out, and someone filled it to the brim.

By the time the boat was floating down the river, its banks overflowing with revelers, Sita had begun to float too.

Time fell away. The singing, talking, and music became an amalgamated hum of joy. She was unsteady on her feet—either from the rocking of the boat or the drink, or both. There were bowls of roasted tiger nuts and platters of fresh plums, and when Sita pierced the skin of the fruit with her teeth, the sweet juices dribbled down her chin. Her body tingled with every casual touch, every brush of fabric against her nakedness, every cool breeze through her hair. She sang and laughed, shaking her rattle high in the air, her voice joining the great cacophony and getting lost among many.

It felt so, so good.

Sita looked for Femi but couldn’t find him, and she worried that he might have stayed behind on the riverbank. But then, all at once, he was in front of her, not dancing, not drinking, simply watching her with those hungry eyes. She grinned, delighted, and fell into him. Her inhibitions long since drowned in wine, she pulled Femi into the shadows of the ship’s empty cabin.

It was cool and quiet inside, and they were blissfully alone with the jars of wine and baskets of uneaten fruit.

Great goddess , she thought as she touched him in the dark. I honor you tonight.

She pushed him against the wall, her hands caressing the slick muscles of his chest.

I open my heart to you, Bast, and celebrate you.

She pressed herself against him, feeling his hot breath on her lips.

I honor you with my body.

“Sitamun,” Femi murmured.

In the thousands and thousands of times someone had spoken her name, no one had ever said it quite like that.

I honor you with pleasure.

She slid her fingers across his jawbone, through his short-cropped hair, around to the nape of his neck. And then she kissed him. He lingered there, tasting her and rumbling with approval.

“So sweet,” he murmured, and pulled her toward him once more.

She smiled into his mouth and breathed him in, all salt and heat and longing.

I honor you with my whole self.

I honor you.

I—

An amused chuckle severed the moment like a blade. Sita jerked back from the embrace.

“Mery!” she gasped. “What are you doing?”

Her brother leaned in the cabin door, his face half-cloaked in shadow, a lotus cup in his hand. He took a long drink from it and smiled innocently. “What? You’re not the only one who likes to watch.”

Sita felt the blood drain from her face. She swallowed, feeling naked again and not in a good way.

Femi had taken several steps from her and glanced between them, his face filled with barely disguised terror.

“I apologize, my prince,” he said to Mery, bowing his head. “Forgive me, I—”

Mery waved a hand at him dismissively. “I don’t concern myself with my sister’s toys. Particularly when I have so many of my own. You don’t think me greedy, do you, soldier?”

“Of course not, my prince.”

Mery strolled past Sita toward the guard. “I am, in fact, immeasurably generous, am I not?” He trailed one elegant finger along Femi’s bare shoulder.

The guard stood rigid, his eyes downcast. “Yes, my prince.” A bead of sweat trickled down his temple to his throat.

“Mm,” Mery said, as if he were tasting a sweet and deciding whether it was worth eating. “Good. Now get out of my sight.”

It was almost imperceptible, but Sita saw Femi’s body sag with relief. He chanced one last look at her—half regret, half apology—before hurrying out of the cabin and back into the crowd.

Sita wrapped her arms around herself, embarrassed and shaking with anger.

“How could you?” she demanded. “Humiliating me like that? You know how much tonight meant to me, and you still thought it funny to—”

Mery scoffed. “You humiliate yourself , chasing common beasts. Not that I don’t see the appeal of him.” He stepped close to her, his fingers twisting in her hair. “In fact, I quite enjoyed seeing you get what you wanted. In a way, it’s almost like watching myself.” He tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “You know how much I love getting what I want.”

Sita recoiled, swatting his hand away. “You’re drunk.”

“So. Are. You.” Mery tapped her on the nose to punctuate each word. “Why else would you throw yourself at one of the guards?”

“I don’t interfere in your dalliances,” Sita shot back, trying to keep her feet under her as the boat swayed in the water. Or was it her head that was swaying? “What gives you the right to meddle in mine?”

She’d intended to be imperious, but instead sounded like a petulant child.

“Fine, fine,” he said with a laugh. “I’m sorry for ruining your fun.”

Sita crossed her arms and turned away. She heard him sigh. When he spoke again, the teasing tone had gone, and he sounded apologetic.

“What was I to do?” he asked. “Mother told me to watch over you.”

She turned to look at him, and he pouted. Sita’s heart softened.

“You didn’t have to frighten Femi like that,” she said, determined to remain annoyed at him. “He wasn’t doing anything wrong.”

“Oh, but I had to frighten him. Can’t you see that?” Mery asked, putting his arm around her and leading her to the door of the cabin.

“No, I can’t.”

Mery shook his head. “One day soon,I will be pharaoh. Not only will I be his commander, but I will command the entire Khetaran army. It would not do for him to think me soft. Thoughts like that are locusts—they multiply, destroying everything in their path. That guard and all the others must believe, with their whole hearts, that they live only through my benevolence.”

Sita glanced at him. The wine had certainly loosened Mery’s tongue. Everyone in the kingdom knew that he was their father’s successor to the throne, but she’d never heard him speak of it with such seriousness before, and the words somehow didn’t sound like his own.

“Where is this coming from? Father?”

“Not him,” Mery said with a snort. “Sematawy.” An expression of reverence passed over his face. “I’ve had his complete letters brought over from the House of Life. Our tutor taught us about him, of course, but it’s different to read of his exploits in his own words. ‘If it can be done, it will be done.’ That was one of his favorite pronouncements. When he set his mind to something, he made it happen—no matter the cost. Because of that, Khetara saw greatness during his reign, as it will see again in mine.”

King Sematawy. The name swept her back to her tutor’s chambers, where she’d spent so many sweaty afternoons poring over dusty papyri. Sematawy was the king that preceded her father. He was the Great Uniter who slaughtered the unholy king of Low Khetara and joined the two lands as one. His exploits were legendary, and everyone in High Khetara—from pauper to prince—considered him their hero.

Mery was no different, of course, and he’d taken an interest in the old king from a young age. It made sense, given his own path to succession. Still, the immediacy in his voice, the fervor, was new. She’d have thought—despite the lack of intimacy between them, that Mery would have turned to their father for guidance about becoming pharaoh. After all, Sematawy was a wartime king, and Khetara had enjoyed peace throughout their father’s reign.

Thoughtful, Sita gazed upon the boat and jubilant masses in the moonlight. “Look at the people, how they celebrate. Is Khetara not already great?”

Mery chuckled without humor. “Again, sister. You look, but you do not see. These festivals give the people relief, but it is fleeting. Tonight they celebrate, tomorrow they return to their barren fields and hungry children. It’s a bandage over a festering wound, one that has been eating away at this kingdom since the first years of Father’s reign. Just because you choose to ignore it, whiling away your days in the pleasure garden, doesn’t mean it isn’t there.”

Stung, Sita’s cheeks grew hot.

Suddenly, she felt awful. Where before it had been joyful, the noise of the festival had begun to make her eyes ache. The drumbeats pulsed in time with the pounding in her head.

The festivities were winding down. Out on the deck, some still sang and danced to the music, but many revelers had stretched out together in the shadows on soft furs. A huge crescent moon hung over them, its mirror image reflected in the river.

She stubbornly finished her wine, though her stomach rebelled against it. She was irritated at Mery, both for wrecking her time with Femi and for forcing her to think about matters of state on a night that was supposed to be fun. There might be truth to what he said, but in that instant, she didn’t care. She wanted to say something to hurt him back, to ruin his evening as he had ruined hers.

“You fancy yourself a king, but Father is still very much alive. I doubt he would appreciate talk of his death before its time, even from Mother’s favorite son. He will be well soon, and you’ll have a long wait to follow in Sematawy’s footsteps.”

Mery smiled widely and leaned his head against hers, as if to impart a secret. “No,” he whispered. “I don’t think I will.”

Sita squinted at him. “What do you mean? The priests are healing him. They’ve been conducting daily rituals. I saw the amulets.”

Mery yawned and stretched himself like a cat. “The priests may as well stop up the river’s flow as heal what ails our father, Sitamun.”

“I don’t understand.” Sita shook her head. “How do you know what ails him?”

The moon went behind a cloud, and the boat was thrown into darkness, lit only by firelight.

“I know, sweet sister,” Mery replied, his face in shadow, “because I have been poisoning him.”