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Sita

Sita sat on the steps of the palace swimming pool, her feet ankle-deep in the cool water. Nebet perched on a low stool behind her and brushed almond oil into Sita’s hair with long, rhythmic strokes. Of all the women bathing, the middle-aged attendant was the only one clothed. The pool was cross-shaped, deep in the middle, with a shallow area for lounging on each side. It was surrounded on three sides by a shaded colonnade, and because it was situated at the back of the palace, offered a view of a desert so empty and still that one could almost forget that the city was mere steps away. The columns were painted with lush floral patterns in blue and green, and depicted images of naked women luxuriating in the water, almost identical to that afternoon’s tranquil scene. Some of the king’s lesser wives and concubines had gathered to spend the afternoon swimming and chatting quietly about trivial things.

New dresses.

Boat rides.

A child’s toy, misplaced.

Anything but what they were all thinking about. Anything that might distract them from what was really going on.

They, like everyone else in the palace, were waiting.

After the king’s collapse in the pleasure garden the night before, he’d been rushed to his chambers to be attended to by the priests. Sita knew that her father had been roused from his faint, but beyond that, there hadn’t been any further news of his condition all through the night and morning.

Sita hadn’t slept. She watched the other women chat but kept to herself. She was numb, exhausted, incapable of pretense.

Tadia was there, chatting amiably with one of the other, less-favored concubines. Despite putting on an air of solemnity, the girl hid a smile in the corner of her mouth. Sita got the feeling that Tadia was secretly quite eager for the opportunity to court a young, handsome new pharaoh. Sita wondered how many of the other women felt the same. Most of the lesser wives were at the pool too, with one notable exception.

Maet’s mother.

Sita swallowed. Her mouth was bitter despite having eaten a whole plateful of sweet, fresh melon.

Was it worth it?

Part of her wanted to walk to the jar of wine sitting on a little table nearby and guzzle the entire thing, but ever since Maet fell sick, she’d been unable to drink another drop. The smell of it made her want to vomit. In fact, she couldn’t bear the thought of pleasure anymore—carnal or otherwise.

She wanted to suffer.

She’d buried the truth, wrapping it in excuses and justifications, only to find that she’d buried an innocent child along with it. Something about her father’s anguish over Maet’s death, his own collapse right in front of her, all while she’d been thinking the most horrible, selfish thoughts, had given her new perspective. Her guilt was a physical presence now, a vulture that circled her. Because wherever she went—death seemed to follow close behind.

Her blood is on your hands.

Sita still believed in Mery’s vision for Khetara, still believed his intentions were good—though she had started to wonder if, in fact, this had been the only way.

The sting of remorse made her wince.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Nebet said, thinking she’d caught a knot in Sita’s hair. “I’ll try to be gentler.”

“No, no, it’s nothing,” Sita replied.

Misconstruing the true source of Sita’s grief, Nebet laid a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “Losing Maet so suddenly was a terrible thing. But you did everything you could to save her, Sitamun. Your actions got her home quickly, so that she was able to spend her final hours with her mother—”

“I’m going to swim for a bit,” Sita said abruptly, no longer trusting herself not to cry.

“Wait, your hair!” Nebet objected.

But Sita had already risen to her feet and pushed off the step, diving into deeper water. She swam most of the length of the pool, then blew all the air out of her lungs, allowing herself to sink to the bottom. She sat there, the sun-warmed water soothing on her naked body, her hair hovering around her in a black, shimmering nimbus. The alternating blue and green tiles made her feel as if she were suspended in a multifaceted jewel, protected from the passage of time. She was tempted to stay forever in that glittering silence.

Eventually, though, her traitorous lungs cried out for air, and she had no choice but to push up from the bottom and back into the world. She tossed back her hair, sleek and shining, and wiped the water from her eyes.

Her mother strode toward her from the colonnade. One by one, the other women fell silent as they caught sight of Queen Bintanath’s approach.

The queen stopped at the edge of the pool, the kohl lining her eyes unblemished by tears. “He’s asking for you,” she said to Sita, loud enough for all to hear.

A collective breath was released. Everyone knew what those words meant.

The pharaoh—King Amunmose III, Son of Amun, Sacred of Appearance, Lord of the Two Lands—was dying.

“Mery is gathering the viziers and will meet us there. But I must send a messenger to fetch Kenna.” The queen gave Sita an appraising look and sighed. “Get dressed,” she commanded, and turned on her heel.

Sita stared at her mother’s retreating back until it disappeared around a corner. Then she swam to the set of steps at the other end of the pool and walked out of the water. Nebet rushed over, wrapping a linen towel around her body and placing sandals at her feet. Sita stepped into them, her chest suddenly heavy and tight.

“Shall I help you dress, Sitamun?” Nebet’s voice was soft, like a caress.

“Thank you, Nebet,” Sita heard herself say, “But I’d rather do it myself.”

“As you wish.”

Sita took the quickest route back to her quarters. The passages were eerily quiet and empty, and the few maidservants she did pass bowed their heads, not meeting her eyes. She was relieved when she finally reached her rooms. She was pushing her door covering aside, trying to remember if her simplest white kalasiris was clean, when she saw someone standing in her bedchamber. It was a short, stooped woman wearing a mottled green robe and a pair of rough leather sandals that barely contained her wide, flat feet.

Sita stopped in the doorway, blinking at the stranger’s back as she stood examining the Hounds and Jackals board sitting on the table by the window. She had one of the jackal-headed pieces in her hand, and was moving it forward, one space at a time, until she finally placed it in the shen hole at the top of the board.

Sita stiffened. How had a peasant woman wandered into her rooms? She knew most of the guard were on call at the king’s chambers, but this was ridiculous.

“All these games, they’re much the same, aren’t they?” the woman croaked without looking up from the board. Her voice was gravelly and slow, as if she had something stuck in her throat. “Snakes, hounds, jackals… a little strategy here, a little luck there, but they’re all a race to the finish. I don’t really like playing, myself, but I like watching. I like waiting to see who will win.”

Sita cleared her throat. “Excuse me, but who are you? I don’t know how you got in here, but I’m afraid you’ll have to leave. I don’t have time for visitors. I’ve been summoned.” She grimaced, realizing how much she sounded like her mother.

“I’m an old friend,” the woman said, unhelpfully, and looked up from the game board. Sita was shocked by the sheer unsightliness of the woman’s face. Her mouth was too wide, and her eyes, which had a yellowish cast to them, bulged from her head. The worst of it, though, were the dozens of warts that covered her leathery, sun-weathered skin. She took in Sita’s barely concealed dismay but didn’t seem to be bothered by it. She didn’t even blink.

“My two friends and I met your mother many years ago, on the night you were born. The queen was in quite a state without her nurses and priests, so we assisted her through her laboring. I came to pay my respects. And to see you.”

Then, her entire face split in two—or rather, that’s what it looked like, until Sita realized she was smiling. “The others wanted to come, but they were…” She paused, thinking, and at long last, blinked. “Busy.”

Sita was amazed. She’d grown up hearing Nebet tell the story of her birth, and of the three strange dancers who’d appeared to help bring the triplets into the world. In the seventeen years since, no one had ever seen them again, or discovered who they’d been.

Until now.

In her stories, Nebet had described the three women in detail. There had been the fair one and the dark one, who looked like sisters. The fair one, Nebet told her, had been the first person to hold Sita after she was born. And then there was the short one with bad skin, who Sita had to assume was the same woman standing before her.

She must be ancient , Sita thought, and yet the woman moved without a hint of stiffness, and her unusual yellowish eyes were bright and lively.

The woman began examining other items in the room, arranging Sita’s cosmetics palette and brushes in straight lines and tutting at an empty wine jar on the floor. Sita followed her, wanting to tell her to stop but sensing this woman couldn’t be controlled. The woman found the white kalasiris Sita had been thinking of wearing and set it out, along with a pair of fresh sandals, before glancing at Sita expectantly.

Feeling as if she had little choice, she allowed the woman to help her dress.

“Does the queen know you’ve come?” Sita asked as the woman slipped the kalasiris over her head. “I’m sure she’d be pleased to see you after all these years.”

“I came to see you ,” the woman replied, as if that was an answer. “I came to remind you during this difficult time…” She moved to smooth the strap of Sita’s dress over her shoulder with small, dexterous hands. “That death is only the beginning.”

Sita frowned. To say that the phrase was a timeworn Khetaran maxim would be an understatement. It was like saying, “The sun is hot.” The concept of a glorious afterlife was central to Khetaran belief, beginning with the story of Osiris’s resurrection and ascension to King of the Underworld. Why someone would make a special trip after nearly two decades to tell her this… well, it made no sense.

Maybe age has addled her mind , Sita thought. She’d seen it happen before. “I appreciate the message,” Sita said carefully, “and I’m honored by your visit. But perhaps we could—?”

“My husband,” the woman croaked on, undeterred. “He always said you were meant for great things.”

“Your husband?” Sita asked. “Do I know him?”

The woman laughed, a low, wet chuckle. “Oh, everyone knows him! Or rather, he knows everyone. He’s a potter—always at the wheel. He told me a story, a long, long time ago, about you and three others. Such an exciting story too! But he only told me the beginning, not the end.

“Isn’t that awful? I scolded him, because I hate being teased. He said I should stop being so impatient.” She snorted. “He doesn’t understand. But you love stories, don’t you, Sitamun? I bet you understand. I bet you want to know what happens next. Well, I have good news for you.”

At that, she leaned in confidentially and said, “You get to decide how it ends.”

How did she know I love stories? Sita wondered dimly. The woman spoke in riddles, yet there was an odd sort of sense in her words. Perhaps her husband was a seer of some kind?

You don’t have time for this! an urgent voice reminded her.

“I’m very sorry,” she said to the woman after she’d finished getting dressed, “But I really must go. My father is quite ill, and as I said before, I’ve been summoned to his bedside.”

“Ah, yes, your father,” the old woman said, nodding. “For his sake, I hope that he leaves this world with a light heart, as we all should.” She smiled up at Sita meaningfully, as if she knew much more than she was letting on.

“One thing before I go,” she added. “Do not forget, Sitamun, that you are She Who Knows All the Names. Your words have power. When the time comes, remember that the word is the deed.”

A chill settled over Sita at the ugly woman’s portents. She backed toward the door, trying to remain cordial. “Yes, I’ll do that. I’m, ah, sure Nebet would love to see you… She’s probably still at the swimming pool, if you’re interested.”

The old woman clapped her hands in delight. “Ah! I love a good swim.”

“Good,” Sita said, gesturing toward the door. “I can show you the way if you’d—” She started to lead the old midwife out of her chambers, but when she turned to hold back the doorway drapery, the woman was nowhere to be seen.

She must have slipped out the other door while my back was turned , Sita guessed. Though I’m surprised she could move that fast. Hopefully she wouldn’t wander into trouble with the guards, but they had better things to do than worry about a harmless old woman roaming the halls.

And so did she.

***

By the time Sita made it to her father’s bedchambers, both Mery and Kenna were standing by his door. They stood a distance apart—Mery bedecked in his finest scarlet schenti and blouse, cinched at the waist with an obsidian-encrusted leather belt; and Kenna, unadorned, clothed in a simple white tunic. They were like the sun and the moon, her brothers, rarely seen together, yet unable to escape each other’s orbit.

“Sister,” Mery murmured in greeting, his eyes shining.

“Sitamun,” Kenna said curtly.

Sita stepped into the space between them. “So this is what it takes to bring the three of us together?”

“Who better to share my sorrow with than with my beloved siblings?” Mery said, in tone so artless Sita almost believed him.

Kenna crossed his arms, but said nothing.

A moment later, Queen Bintanath emerged from the king’s chambers. “Good, you’re all here. He doesn’t have much time.” She scrutinized each of them in turn—first Mery, then Sita, then Kenna—her favor dimming as she went.

“For gods’ sake, Kenna, is this the best you’ve got to wear? We’ll have to commission something decent for the coronation.”

“The king has moments to live, Mother,” Kenna said mildly. “Forgive me if fashion wasn’t my primary concern.”

The queen looked annoyed at this rebuke, but also a little pleased.

She adjusted a pleat on Kenna’s tunic. “Perhaps there’s some fire in you after all, Bakenamun.” Then she beckoned them all forward. “Hurry now. Your father is waiting.”

Mery went first and Sita followed, pushing through the heavy curtain with Kenna trailing behind her. The air in the chamber was thick with incense, and sunlight streaked in through blousy curtains, striking the clouds of smoke and giving the room a blurry, dreamlike quality. Everything that Sita remembered cluttering the room—jars of carob tree extract and propolis resin from the palace beehives, used but not useful; plates of food, untouched and swarming with fruit flies; foul-smelling bowls strategically placed by the bedside—had been removed. All the messy remnants of life had been cleared away to make room for death.

Sita felt a great weight on her chest as she approached the bed where her father lay, gray and fleshless. They’d dressed him in the same river-blue robes he’d worn at his coronation, the ones embroidered with golden fish with malachite eyes. The robes had been made to fit his once robust frame, but now he was drowning in its folds. His thin, berry-black hair had been hidden once again beneath a striped headdress. His eyes were closed, and for an instant, Sita thought he might already be dead. But he stirred at the sound of their approach, his unfocused gaze lost before it found them.

“Well,” he said hoarsely. “Whoever said the wicked live longer was grossly mistaken.”

Sita put one hand over her mouth to catch the sob rising in her throat. He was a neglectful parent, a feckless king, and a lech of the highest order, but…

He’s still my father.

The king beckoned them closer. Mery and Sita moved to kneel on one side of the bed, Kenna on the other. The king glanced at them each in turn, a sense of wonderment on his withered face.

“My children,” he said with a chuckle. “I remember the night of your birth like it was yesterday. What a surprise that was! Not a single priest foresaw that there would be three of you. For all their visions and their Heka, it took three dancers from Amun-knows-where to predict your arrival.”

Sita nodded. “One of them is here in the palace, Father. She said she came to pay her respects.”

The king’s eyebrows shot up. “You’ll have to tell Nebet. She was convinced the women were goddesses incarnate, come to earth to usher in a new dynasty.” He scoffed, then paused. “It’s a nice sentiment, and believe me, I ran with it. It was a great story to tell those fools who challenged my place on the throne. Three children born to three goddesses! A triad within a triad! I couldn’t have written it better myself. Still, one would think that Isis, Nephthys, and Heqet would have better things to do than attend to a squalling woman during a rainstorm.”

Sita sat back on her heels, remembering. Nebet sometimes referred to the three women as dancers, but other times, she had told Sita that they were three goddesses. Isis was the fair one, Nepthys the dark one, and Heqet was the short one with the …

She gasped.

With the warts.

Heqet… compared to Isis and Nepthys, she was a lesser-known goddess, but Sita remembered her tutor explaining she was the frog-headed goddess of fertility and rebirth. Heqet was also the consort of Khnum, a god represented either as a ram-headed man or occasionally, a lamb, and otherwise known as the Divine Potter, who formed man out of clay on the Great Wheel.

Sita thought about the strange old woman in her bedchamber and what she’d said about her husband.

Everyone knows him! Or rather, he knows everyone.

He’s a potter—always at the wheel.

The earth tilted sickeningly beneath her.

It couldn’t be … could it?

“You’ll need to wrangle the viziers,” the king was telling Mery as Sita snapped back to attention. “They’re a bunch of nags. They’d tie up this kingdom in endless bureaucracy if given the chance.”

The king paused, his breath labored and shallow. “Take one of my lesser wives as your own—perhaps Tadia. She’s young and ripe, she’d suit nicely for your Great Wife.” He patted Mery’s hand. “Rule as I have, son, and Khetara will continue to flourish.”

“You have taught me much, Father,” Mery replied. It sounded like a compliment, but Sita was sure he didn’t mean it that way.

Then, the king turned to Kenna.

“Bakenamun, you’ll oversee the embalming ritual and the completion of my tomb. I’m depending on you to get it right. Only the best of everything, understand? Sematawy’s should look like a pauper’s tomb compared to mine.”

Kenna frowned as if he’d tasted something bitter, but he nodded. “As you wish.”

Satisfied, King Amunmose licked his dry, peeling lips with a pale tongue. “You know,” he muttered, his voice heavy with irony. “We spend so much of our lives thinking about death, imagining how glorious it will be when we reach the Duat, we never stop to remember that no one has returned to tell us what it’s really like!”

He laughed and was seized with a horrible fit of coughing. When it finally abated, his eyes were wet and red.

“Let me tell you,” he gasped, “from someone standing at the border between here and there… that dying is absolute shit. ” He grinned. Mery was the only one who smiled with him.

“What about me, Father?” Sita asked. She knew she should stay quiet, but she couldn’t help herself. “What do you wish me to do?”

King Amunmose shifted his head to look at her. He lifted a skeletal hand to caress her hair, as one might admire a flower in a garden. “Marry well.”

Sita waited for more, but none came. And just like that, her fragile grief was smothered before it could take its first breath.

“I’m… tired,” King Amunmose murmured, his voice weaker than before.

On cue, both Mery and Kenna stood.

Kenna bowed his head. “May your heart be light, and your westward journey be swift, Father. All of Khetara will join in celebrating your ascension to the House of the Gods.”

Kenna’s words echoed in Sita’s mind.

May your heart be light.

A light heart was free of sin. Of guilt. Of shame.

She couldn’t know the weight of her father’s heart, but her own felt as heavy as a stone.

Without another word, Kenna turned on his heel for the door. Mery went to follow but stopped when Sita spoke up suddenly.

“May I have one more moment with you, Father?” she asked. “Alone?”

The king made a low sound. The visit had exhausted him.

Mery shot her a look. What are you doing? he mouthed.

She ignored him.

“I won’t be long,” she assured the king.

“Neither will I, Sitamun,” King Amunmose murmured. With a sigh, he waved Mery out.

Mery hesitated, eyes flitting from Sita to their father and back, before departing.

“If you aren’t satisfied with the Tashan prince,” her father said before she could begin, “surely your mother can find—”

“This is all my fault,” Sita blurted, the words rushing out like water from a burst dam. “I could have stopped this. I could have saved you, but I didn’t.”

Her father’s breathing had become more labored.

“It’s not your fault, child,” he wheezed. “Only the gods themselves could have—”

“No, you don’t understand,” she said.

This is your last chance . Unburden your heart before it’s too late.

Sita squeezed her eyes shut, a toxic mixture of love and hatred for her brother and her father swirling inside her. She’d do it, but she was too much of a coward to meet his eyes and see her betrayal break what was left of his spirit before he died.

She listened to the sound of her father’s breathing grow quiet as he waited for her to speak.

She kept her gaze trained on his hands and the golden ring he always wore.

“It was the honey cakes,” she finally said, her voice flat. “Mery has been poisoning them, and I knew about it.”

Her father didn’t gasp, didn’t cry out in horror. So she took a deep breath and told him everything.

When it was over, she felt empty. Lighter.

“I’m so sorry, Father,” Sita said into the silence, her voice a little stronger. She laid her hand on his—and found it cold. She glanced up at his face. “Can you ever forgive me?”

The king stared back at her, unblinking, his pupils dilated. Sita searched his expression, desperate for a hint of shock, horror, rage—anything.

But he was dead, and her chance at forgiveness had died with him.

How much did he hear? she wondered. All of it? None?

She’d never know.

The reign of King Amunmose III was over.

May he live forever in the West.

***

Sita stepped through the curtain, still reeling. In the corridor, the crowd had grown. The viziers had arrived, as well as palace officials and a few of the lesser wives. When she appeared, they all stopped talking and turned toward her.

Sita wished with all her heart that the duty would have fallen to someone else. Anyone else. Her hands shook.

You are a princess , said a voice in her mind. Try to act like one. The voice was her mother’s, and it was already disappointed.

Sita straightened her back, and when she finally spoke, she relayed the message as simply as she could.

“He’s gone.”

Her words struck the crowd like a lightning bolt. The reaction was immediate.

“Send messengers to every nomarch in every city,” the queen told the viziers, while a bevy of priests pushed past Sita into the king’s chamber. Guards sent unnecessary onlookers on their way and swarmed around Mery—their new charge.

Kenna stood to the side, his long hands clasped in front of him, his face settled comfortably into mourning. He caught Sita’s gaze, and for an instant, she was a little girl again, crying as Kenna helped her bury a dead bird she’d found in the garden. He’d always been a strange, quiet boy, but he’d always been kind. He treated even the smallest creatures with respect—in life and in death. Mery had never understood him; the brothers were too different to relate to each other in any way. But Sita understood them both. Until Kenna left them for the priesthood.

We were close once. What happened to us?

She wanted to go to him, fall into his arms, and confess. She wanted him to tell her how to begin to fix all that she’d broken. But the last time she went to him, he had scorned her and turned her away. Perhaps she deserved that. Still, as she looked at Kenna across the bustling crowd, her own sorrow reflected in his face, she wondered if he didn’t wish he could go to her too.

Suddenly, a hand was on her shoulder and lips at her ear. “Come with me.”

Seeing his brother at Sita’s side, Kenna grimaced and turned his back on them all, walking briskly back the way he had come.

“Wait,” Sita said, but Mery’s grip was firm as he pulled her away.

A sob rose in her throat, but she forced it down and allowed Mery to lead her.

They’d only gone a few steps before the head guard caught up to them.

“My prince,” he said, “I must insist that you come with us. There is much to attend to, and we must ensure your safety.”

Mery stopped. “You forget yourself,” he said sharply.

A momentary hush fell over the gathered. Mery’s normally charming, cajoling tone was gone, replaced by something fearsome that had been waiting for its time to emerge.

“I may not yet wear the crown, but you are speaking to your future king. Our father is dead. You will give us a moment to grieve.”

The guard’s throat bobbed, and he bowed his head. “Of course, my prince. Please forgive me.”

The guard stood pinned by the prince’s imperious glare, until Mery released him with a dismissive wave.

Mery led Sita to a quiet corner and folded her into a tight embrace. It was exactly what she’d wanted from Kenna, but she didn’t feel comforted. It felt like it wasn’t for her benefit, but for the people watching. As soon as Mery bent to whisper in her ear, she knew her instincts were correct.

“You told him, didn’t you?” His hand cupped the back of her head, his touch both tender and predatory. “You told him our secret. Before he died.”

Sita’s breath caught in her throat, the sound proving her guilt just as surely as words could.

“Just couldn’t keep your mouth shut, could you?” Mery snapped. “Not that it matters now. But I’ll remember this, Sitamun. I’ll add it to the list of all your other indiscretions .”

He smoothed the back of her hair with his hand, like one might stroke an animal. “You’ll need some work before you’ll make a fit queen. Lucky for you, I’m up to the task.”

Sita went rigid.

“What are you talking about?” she whispered.

Mery scoffed. “Did you really think I’d let you be sold off to some foppish prince from Tash? Did you really think I loved you so little?”

What is he suggesting? He can’t possibly think that I would, that we would …

“Y-you can’t,” she stammered. “I’m your sister, Mery. No one does that anymore, not for a thousand years!”

He pulled back to look at her, his beautiful face inches from hers. “But that’s exactly why we must .” he purred. “Khetara lost its soul when it rejected the old ways. It’s up to us to bring them back, to restore our kingdom’s prominence—and you are part of that, Sitamun. Of all the women in the land, your blood is the purest, the closest to the divine. The priests must bend their noses to papyri to learn the ways of Heka. But not us. You and me, our very flesh is godsflesh. We have magic in our veins. Don’t you see? We belong together—it’s our birthright. Just as Osiris had his sister-wife Isis, and Set had Nephthys, so will I have you. My twin. My mirror.”

His arms around her were suffocating. He was so close that the only air she could draw came from his lungs as he narrated her fate. She had no choice but to breathe it in.

“Once I am crowned, Khetara will have a god-king once again, in name and in action. This kingdom has been crumbling while Father buried his face in cakes and concubines.”

His lip curled in disgust, but only for a moment. Then he smiled, his hand moving from the back of her head around to her face, his fingers soft and fragrant. “No more. With me on the throne and you by my side, Khetara will be powerful once more. You’ll see.”

He let her go, then strode away, off to attend to the multitudinous duties of a king-in-waiting, to plans and decisions and fittings and ceremonies and condolences followed by pledges of allegiance. He gathered a crowd around him as he went, guards and viziers and officials swarming like moths to a flame.

Sita watched him go, and her mind traveled once more to the night of the Bast Festival. She thought of her prayer to the goddess, the one she’d made instead of asking for her father’s salvation. Not that it would have mattered. Even Bast could not have saved the king.

It had become abundantly clear that Bast wasn’t going to answer her prayer either.

Sita wasn’t free. She never would be.

The net had snapped shut around her.