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12

Sita

By the time she returned from her visit to the temple, Sita’s hands were shaking so severely she was afraid one of the servants might notice. She’d avoided taking the Royal Road to get back, favoring one of the less-used side paths instead, so luckily she hadn’t met anyone on her way home.

She needed something to calm her nerves. Her thoughts turned first to wine, and then to another one of her recently acquired diversions.

Yes, that’s exactly what I need , she thought.

Late that evening, after her attendants had retired to their rooms for the night, Sita was in her chambers when Nebet came rushing in looking for a misplaced hair comb.

“I’m so sorry to intrude. I must have left it here earlier—”

Sita hurriedly sat up in bed, pulling a thin linen blanket over her bare chest. She gave Nebet a tight smile. “It’s there,” she said with a nod toward her ebony dressing table.

“Oh, thank you, thank you.” Nebet plucked up the comb. “Wake up to benevolence, Sitamun.” She gave a quick bow and departed.

As soon as she’d left, Sita let out the breath she’d been holding.

“She’s gone,” she said.

One of the heavy curtains covering her window flicked aside, revealing Femi hidden behind them. He puffed out his cheeks. “Thank Amun she didn’t stay to chat.”

Sita bent to reclaim the cup of wine she’d hidden under the bed. “How is it that such a strapping man as you could be afraid of little old Nebet?” she asked, taking a sip. It was her second cup, and her head already felt pleasantly light.

Femi chuckled. He still wore his usual short schenti and Eye of Horus collar, though it was a little askew. “It is Nebet’s mouth I’m afraid of. Despite her size, she is quite capable of seeing us together and telling someone. I risk everything every time I come to you, my princess.”

“And still you come,” Sita said with allure, handing him his own cup and letting the blanket slip from her chest.

Femi took the cup and drained it lustily. “And still I come.”

She beckoned to him, and he obeyed, moving to stand at the foot of the bed.

“What would you have me do, Sitamun?”

Sita spared a thought for the maidservant from the garden. The girl may not have appreciated Sita monopolizing her lover—but then again, was she really going to complain? Sita was the princess.

“You’ll do anything I say?” Sita asked.

“Anything.”

“Remove your collar.”

He did.

“Now your belt and schenti.”

He licked his lips. So far, since that night at the festival, they had only touched and kissed during stolen moments in shadowy corners of the palace. What she was suggesting that night was a step into unknown territory.

After only a moment’s hesitation, Femi complied, letting the schenti slip soundlessly to the floor.

Her breath caught in her throat as she beheld him, the taut angles of his body catching shadows in the candlelight. He was like the wine—thick, smooth, and intoxicating. But unlike the wine, she could drink as much of him as she liked and it would never stop feeling good.

Lying there, looking at him, all she wanted to do was drink, and drink, and drink.

“What shall I do next?” he asked, his voice a quiet rumble.

“Come here and kiss me.”

In an instant, he was there on the bed, slipping on top of her.

“As you wish,” he murmured.

His lips met hers, and in the sunburst of sensation that followed, she tried to forget.

Forget that night.

Forget the Bast Festival.

Forget Mery’s confession.

Her brother had been drunk. There on the boat, amid the festivities and indulgences, she’d first thought his claim that he was poisoning their father was another one of his cruel jokes. But then he’d leaned forward, his lips nearly touching hers.

“Murder is quite an exciting game, dear sister,” he’d whispered. “And now you’re playing it with me.”

He’d shared that truth with her for a reason. They’d suckled milk from the same breast, played with the same toys, grew up in the glaring light of the same expectations. And when it came to killing the king, Mery wanted to do that together too.

“How? How are you doing this?” she’d asked him once she’d recovered her voice.

Mery’s eyes had twinkled with mischief. “The same way one eats a hippopotamus. A little at a time.”

Sita’s first instinct had been to tell someone. To go to the first palace official she saw upon disembarking and admit everything. But by the time the boat reached the shore, she knew it wasn’t that simple. Mery probably wasn’t working alone, which meant others in the palace were loyal to him. She thought of the oft-maligned viziers. How could she know who to trust?

Set himself gathered seventy-two conspirators when he plotted to kill Osiris , Sita had thought, remembering the legends of the gods.

Besides that, Father was so sick, he could die at any moment. If she revealed that the son in line for the throne had murdered the pharaoh, what then? Such knowledge could easily throw the entire kingdom into chaos—and war. She had studied enough Khetaran history to know that such revelations almost always ended in bloodshed. Was she prepared to have all those innocent people’s deaths on her conscience? And if Mery ended up facing execution for his actions, who was to say she wouldn’t meet a similar fate? Wasn’t that part of the reason he’d told her in the first place?

Murder is an exciting game, dear sister. And now you’re playing it with me.

One after another, her thoughts tightened around her like the coils of a snake until she could hardly breathe.

There’s no way out.

Sick with horror and excessive drink, she’d stumbled back to her chambers without saying a word to anyone.

The days since had been a waking nightmare. The day following the festival, she’d walked around in a daze, feeling as if she were floating above her own body as it went from place to place, woodenly eating meals and nodding blithely as some courtier spoke about hunting expeditions and chariot racing. On the second day, she’d begun drinking wine at every meal, and found that with enough of it, her mind softened like butter, and she didn’t have to think quite as much. On the third day, she’d spirited a jug of wine into her chambers for mornings and late nights. On the fourth day, she’d needed a fresh jug.

On one of those nights, she couldn’t really remember which, Sita had lured Femi to her quarters to finish what they’d started at the Bast Festival. He’d been terribly nervous at first, keeping one eye on the door even as she pulled him to her, but she’d assured him that Mery no longer posed a threat.

I’m keeping his secret , she’d thought, he’ll keep mine.

She became skilled at covering up these excesses, making sure no one knew that she was sneaking wine from the kitchens and liaisons with Femi. Forgetting, however, was proving to be extremely difficult. That morning, she’d woken in a panic, and had the idea to speak with Kenna.

She’d never been particularly close with her strange, quiet brother, but defying their parents’ every expectation took courage. She may not have understood his obsession with funerary rites and the priesthood, but she still respected his ability to ignore custom and do what he wanted.

It was an ability Sita never had.

If she could hint to him that something was amiss at the palace, maybe he would come investigate. Knowing Kenna’s talent for deduction, he’d probably figure out what was going on and find a way to fix the situation. Somehow.

But Sita realized her error the moment they started talking. Kenna only cared about his work, and he still saw her as a silly little girl. Her brother may be extremely intelligent when it came to scrolls and rites, but he knew nothing about navigating palace life. If she told him the truth, he’d only see it in black and white.

For all she knew, he’d make things worse.

The visit had been a mistake. Not only that, the entire time they were talking, she’d had the distinct feeling of being watched. So she’d left without telling Kenna the truth, feeling more alone than ever.

With those intrusive thoughts crowding her mind, Sita wrapped her legs around Femi and pulled him closer in an attempt to block them out. She could feel the urgency of his desire, but he gently shifted his body away, kissing her all the while.

“Don’t you want me?” she asked, feeling slightly hurt.

“More than anything,” Femi replied, stroking her cheek. “But you’ve had too much wine, Sitamun, and I don’t want you to do anything you’ll regret.”

Sita sighed. Why did he have to be so good ? Somehow it felt like more than she deserved.

“However,” Femi said roguishly, “There are other ways for me to satisfy your appetite.”

Sita stifled a laugh as he slid his head beneath the blanket.

Afterward, Sita lay on the bed, feeling sleepy and muddleheaded. She stared at the elaborately painted frieze on her wall, which featured a group of men in the marshes, capturing wild birds in a clap net.

Femi bent down to refill his cup from the jug on the floor. When he straightened again, he was holding a papyrus scroll in one hand. “What’s this?”

Sita’s eyes widened. “Hey! Give it here!”

“‘How do I name this love that we share?’” he recited, his eyes scanning the scroll. “‘A love that spills over me like water, and warms my heart like a flame? It has no shape. It is everywhere at once. I breathe it from your lips when we are together, and when you are gone, I feel it in the wind…’”

“Give me that!” Sita said, snatching the scroll, her cheeks reddening.

“A love poem from another man?” Femi teased.

“It’s not from a man,” Sita retorted. “ I wrote it.”

Femi’s eyebrows shot up. “Princess Sitamun, you are full of surprises.”

Sita stuffed the scroll back under the bed where more than a dozen others were stored in a messy pile. “I’ve always loved reading stories about the gods, so a few seasons ago I started writing some of my own. Poems and retellings of the great legends, things like that. I’m working on The Death of Osiris now. It’s always been my favorite. It’s so… romantic.”

“Is it?” Femi echoed, sounding unconvinced. “Doesn’t Osiris’s brother Set murder him and cut his body into a dozen pieces?”

“Fourteen pieces,” Sita corrected him, staring at the stars painted on her bedroom ceiling. “Which he scatters all across the kingdom. Instead of simply mourning her husband’s death, Isis turns into a bird and takes to the skies in search of the pieces, and she finds them all except for one. So she fashions the missing part out of gold and puts Osiris back together again.

“Then, with her magic and her love, she stops time and brings him back to life. In that frozen moment, they make love and conceive Horus, the avenger. But when time restarts, Osiris dies again, and they are forced to part. Osiris enters the Duat, and from that day forward, reigns as the Lord of the Dead.”

She smiled. The story and the kissing and the wine were all a comforting distraction from the world outside her bedroom. “Can you imagine loving someone enough to stop time for them?”

Femi looked at her, a bit of sadness in his eyes. “I can imagine it.”

Sita wondered if she’d said something wrong.

He sat up and picked up his schenti from the floor. “I beg your pardon, Princess, but I must be going. The captain of the guard has been keeping a closer eye on the men lately, and if I’m gone much longer, I’m afraid I’ll be missed. A few of the other guards have been sent away recently, for reasons unknown, and I’d rather not join them.”

Sita thought of the empty wine jug and her soon-to-be empty bed. Already she could sense dark thoughts seeping back into her mind. She felt cold.

“Very well,” she said dully, pulling the blanket tightly around her.

He stopped in the doorway and looked back at her. “Perhaps I could return tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow night I must attend a banquet,” she replied, rubbing her temple. She felt a headache coming on. “Some ambassadors and a prince are visiting from Tash.”

“Ah,” Femi said, nodding.

“I will call upon you again soon,” Sita said, the formality returning to her voice.

It was a dismissal, and Femi knew it. She could tell by the way he straightened his shoulders and nodded crisply, his jaw set.

“Of course, my princess.” And then, “I look forward to it.”

When he’d gone, Sita went to the basin and poured herself some water. She drank three cupfuls, but her mouth remained bitter and dry.

He gives himself to you, and still you treat him cruelly.

Despite his valid reasons, she hadn’t liked that he’d left before she’d wanted him to, so she’d punished him with her coldness.

You’re using him.

She stared at her reflection in the brass mirror, her thick hair pleasantly tousled, her copper skin tinged with the blush of pleasure and drink.

She was beautiful and perfect, and she hated herself.

But what else could she do? Carrying Mery’s secret became more difficult with each passing day. It had nearly gotten to the point where no amount of wine or distraction could prevent the dread from spreading through her every waking moment. She had to do something to keep from going mad. Besides, I’m not hurting Femi, not really , she reasoned.

But the thought didn’t ring true.

Sita blew out the lamp on the table and fell back into bed, praying for a dreamless night. But sleep stayed far from her chambers, and she turned to gaze at the frieze again, illuminated by the moonlight. In the hunting scene, the colorful, elegant birds were painted midflight, their wings spread as the net closed around them.

For the birds, time had stopped. Their eyes were forever turned toward the sky, but they’d never reach it. They were trapped.

She closed her eyes, but the crisscrossing clap net remained like an afterimage, tightening around her in the darkness of her mind.

***

The Tashan prince was speaking to her.

“What?” Sita had to shout to be heard over the music of flutes, harps, and drums.

“I said, ‘Do you want some lentils, princess?’” the prince shouted back.

“Oh. No, thank you,” she replied, and turned back to her cup. The shedeh she was drinking—a kind of fermented pomegranate juice—was a nice change from the wine. Though she’d had so much of it already that she’d ruined what was left of her appetite. Normally she loved the savory lentils they served at banquets. They were stewed with onion, garlic, and cumin—but that night, the mere sight of them turned her stomach.

She’d been seated between Harsi, the Tashan prince, and a sleepy old vizier who nodded off after the first course. She was certain her mother had put her there on purpose, in the hopes she and Harsi would strike up a rapport. After all, the prince was a striking figure in his bright green sash and emerald-encrusted circlet, and the queen was eager to find a suitable match for her only daughter. The prince was handsome, with a broad, elegant face, an easy smile, and deep brown skin. He was also courtly, and, most important of all, he was the next in line to the Tashan throne.

Unfortunately for the queen, enticing the visiting prince was the furthest thing from Sita’s mind.

She’d managed to engage him in some banter when he’d first arrived, placing a garland of flowers around his neck, but now that she was five cups into her shedeh, her charm had faded. Harsi was courteous to a fault, but Sita was certain he’d noticed.

Despite her many years of diplomatic instruction at the hands of her mother, she couldn’t bring herself to care. The mounting sense of unease had so completely overtaken her life that even polite conversation felt like an impossible task.

The banquet table overflowed with dishes piled with roast oxen and goose, bowls of plump figs and red grapes, bright radish and cucumber salad mixed with vinegar and parsley, and honey and tiger nut cookies baked into crescent shapes and dotted with sesame seeds. The table stretched nearly the full length of the open-air hall, with guests seated on each side, one and all bedecked in their finest robes and gowns, their necks dripping with gold. Many of the women wore head cones over their wigs, which melted with the heat of their bodies, releasing a spicy-sweet fragrance into the air. Made of a combination of myrrh, wax, and resin, the cones got smaller and smaller as the night wore on, ticking away the minutes until the party was done.

Sita adjusted the silver circlet around her head, which was inlaid with white papyrus flowers in mother-of-pearl. There was silver thread woven into the fabric of her dress as well, a long formfitting indigo kalasiris accented with ostrich feathers that her mother had procured for just such an occasion. She nibbled on a cookie, unable to tear her eyes from her father seated at the head of the table, his sunken face ghoulish in green eye paint and rouge. He wore the double crown, and his neck strained visibly beneath it. The tall White Crown of Low Khetara, crafted of electrum and diamond, sat within the curved crimson-gold basket of the Red Crown of High Khetara, the rearing cobra upon its brow staring upon the scene with sparkling garnet eyes. He’d taken to only wearing it for special occasions, favoring a simpler gold circlet the rest of the time. Sita could see why. The double crown was so heavy, her father looked as if he might collapse under its weight.

While the rest of the guests chatted and ate, the king spoke to no one. Once every few minutes, he ate a grape or a piece of one of the little cone-shaped honey cakes that he favored, but otherwise he was very still.

Sita’s stomach lurched again, and she set the cookie down, unfinished.

Her mother sat nearby, doing her best to sweeten the sour-faced Tashan ambassadors with bottomless cups of shedeh. They all wore richly patterned robes in the same bright green as Harsi’s sash. The queen’s smile was dazzling, but Sita could see her casting anxious glances toward the king.

She’s doing his job, and everyone knows it , Sita thought.

In the absence of conversation, Prince Harsi had turned his attentions to the dancing girls. There were four of them, naked except for translucent loincloths and white beaded necklaces, their braided hair swinging in time with the music. They moved with practiced ease, contorting their lithe bodies into deep backbends and high kicks while maintaining eye contact with any guest that glanced their way. Among the dancers was Tadia, one of her father’s favorite concubines. She made the most of her voluptuous body, managing to catch Amunmose’s eye as she rotated her hips invitingly in his direction. He gave Tadia a weak smile and raised his cup to her.

Suddenly Sita felt hands gripping her shoulders and heard her mother’s voice in her ear. “What has gotten into you? The prince has been trying to engage you all evening and you’ve been as charming as an ox! I’ve got my hands full as it is without you dishonoring this house with your behavior. Are you trying to make me look like a fool? Stop drinking and compose yourself. Now. ”

Sita’s cheeks reddened. She’d forgotten that the queen noticed everything.

“Yes, Mother,” she murmured, her voice thick.

With that, the queen stood, offered Harsi another dazzling smile, and melted back into the crowd of lesser courtiers and attendants who mingled around the banquet table.

Sita didn’t think Harsi had heard her mother’s blistering reprimand, but he must have sensed the tension. He glanced at Sita uncertainly.

Just then, Maet bounded up to the king, having wriggled out of her mother’s grasp from where she sat with the other lesser wives. Sita watched her father’s eyes brighten. With great effort, he pulled the girl onto his knee and offered to share his cake with her.

Seizing the opportunity to make conversation, Harsi said, “Sweet girl. The king seems quite taken with her.”

“He is,” Sita replied, hoping the prince wouldn’t notice the pain in her voice. She knew she shouldn’t be jealous of little Maet—she loved her too. Everyone did. But Sita couldn’t help it. Seeing her father lavish affection on the child, something he’d never done for Sita, tore her heart to pieces every time. Maybe the little girl represented freedom from the constraints of the throne, of which Sita was a constant reminder. Maybe he’d reached a time in his life when he could appreciate the simple pleasures of a child—something he couldn’t do in the early days of his reign when Sita was young.

Or maybe the king just liked Maet better.

Sita looked away from the pair, forcing her thoughts back into the dark where she kept them. Harden your heart , she told herself. Make it as a stone that grief cannot penetrate.

“My father was surprised to receive the invitation to visit your kingdom,” Harsi began again, trying a new tack. “There hasn’t been much exchange between Tash and Khetara in many seasons—and suddenly we find ourselves here. I wonder why that is?”

Sita licked her lips. He was fishing. Perhaps he hoped the shedeh would have loosened her tongue and he’d get some valuable information out of her. She knew the invitation was her mother’s doing, having convinced the king that it had been his idea all along. The viziers were only too happy to oblige. Normally, Sita wouldn’t have paid attention to any of these political machinations, but since Mery had so effectively revealed her ignorance about matters of import when he’d confessed his plans, Sita had made it a priority to learn everything she could about the state of the kingdom.

She’d begun eavesdropping on conversations and writing what she’d learned on scrolls kept under her bed, hidden among her love poems and stories. Even if Nebet or one of the other attendants came across them, she wrote them in the gods’ words instead of the common script, so none of the servants would be able to decipher them. She had even asked her tutor to give her an overview of Khetaran current affairs during their last lesson. He’d been surprised, perhaps even a little frightened, by the request—as if she’d asked for a weapon that might one day be used against him. But she was the princess, so in the end, he’d complied.

What he told her was shocking.

The ongoing drought leading to crop reductions and mass hunger across the Two Lands.

The weakening of trade and relations between Khetara and the surrounding kingdoms.

The unrest in Low Khetara, where the king’s nomarches had been receiving growing resistance to Amunmose’s steep tax increases.

Mery was right , she’d thought . While he sits and eats cake, outside the kingdom falls.

By killing their father, Mery believed he would save Khetara from the poor leadership that was driving it into ruin. Sita had thought he was exaggerating, but the more she learned, the more she saw she was wrong.

The queen had likely arranged the visit from Tash in an attempt to strengthen ties with the kingdom at their southern border, so that in the event of violence in Low Khetara, they would have an ally to come to High Khetara’s aid.

A marriage between me and their eldest prince would certainly do the trick. But she didn’t say any of that to Harsi.

“Time rushes by so quickly, does it not?” she said instead, nimbly sidestepping the question. “Sometimes we blink and seasons have passed without our notice, and we’ve failed to reunite with old friends.”

“Indeed,” Harsi said with a small smile. Despite not getting the information he wanted, he seemed to appreciate the clever deflection.

Even after five cups of shedeh , Sita thought with satisfaction, I can still play this game.

“Harsi, my friend!” Mery waved from across the table as he flitted around the room like a peacock. “Are you enjoying yourself?” He was resplendent in a midnight-blue robe and a collar decorated with blue and white lotus flowers. A golden scarab made up the center of the collar, its shell a great emerald that subtly honored the visiting Tashans. Sita couldn’t help but notice that he’d adopted a familiar tone with the prince, calling him “friend” despite their never having met before.

“Very much, Prince Meryamun, very much,” Harsi replied, raising his cup in appreciation.

Mery then turned his attention to her. “Sitamun, it’s not like you to remain hidden behind the table during such a feast. Come, allow me to introduce you to some of our other guests.”

“Ah, but I’m keeping Harsi company at the moment,” Sita demurred. “Perhaps I shall join you later.” It was true, she and Mery were normally joined at the hip during formal occasions, but she couldn’t bear the idea of prattling on about fashion and perfume with the lesser nobility that night.

Mery’s eyes narrowed for only a moment before he grinned and said, “Very well—later then,” and moved on. She watched him work the crowd, his slender body glowing with health and vitality, and his infectious smile spreading to each person he spoke to, disarming one scowling Tashan ambassador after another. The queen was never far from his side—clearly relieved to share the burden of diplomacy with her very capable son. With every laugh, every shared whisper, every cup poured in fellowship, Sita saw the crown shift invisibly from her enfeebled father’s head to Mery’s.

She couldn’t help but wonder who else saw it too.

“Your brother cuts a fine figure,” Harsi said after a moment. “As do you. The two of you are alike in many ways, no?”

Sita picked a fig from the bowl in front of her and inspected it carefully before taking a bite. The shedeh was making her wistful for better days.

“We are,” she said finally, gazing into the fruit’s soft pink flesh. “In looks and in temperament, I’ve been told. Mother tells us we were most unmanageable children. Though Mery was always better at getting away with things than I was. We both love the old stories, perhaps I more than him; and we both love a hunt on the river, perhaps him more than me. I prefer watching the birds to killing them, though given the chance, I can throw a spear as well as any man.”

The musicians finished their song and started a new one: the mirror dance. The four dancers faced each other, two by two, and began to move, each pair mirroring the other’s movements in perfect harmony. Slow and seductive, each musical phrase was punctuated by a tinkling of the tiny silver bells each dancer wore on their fingertips. The boisterous chatter quieted somewhat as the guests turned to watch, mesmerized by the sway of the dancers’ hips.

“But we’re different too,” Sita added.

“Oh?” Harsi said, his eyes still on the dancers.

Not everyone was watching the performance, though. Mery stood across the room, and while the other guests were drinking in the sight of those sleek, light-footed bodies, he was looking at her.

“Mery has courage,” Sita said, trapped in her brother’s gaze. “I do not.”

“I’m certain that isn’t true, Princess,” Harsi replied with a good-natured chuckle. He popped a fig in his own mouth and chewed it with vigor, as if he wished it were something else. “And even if it is, you are young. Perhaps in time, you will find your courage, as your brother has done.”

Mery’s secret sat on the tip of her tongue, bitter and unmoved by the sweetness of the fruit. She could be free of it—all it would take was a few words to unburden herself. But it had seeded in her belly and grew there like an unwanted child. What chaos would she bring into the world if she let it be born? And what tragedies would come if she didn’t?

The dancers continued to move in unison as the song went on—when one raised an arm, so did her reflection, and when she tilted her head toward the sky, her reflection did the same. And at the end of every phrase, the little bells chimed.

Sita considered Harsi’s words and the elusive nature of courage.

“Perhaps I will,” she said, uncertain. She could feel the force of Mery’s will tugging at her, willing her to get up and take her place by his side. Instead, she took up the shedeh jug and poured herself another drink with a trembling hand.