“I did it for you, Hori,” Antef reassured him. “Sleep if you can.”
“Koptos is a terrible place,” Hori whispered. “So much heat, so much undiluted light. The loneliness, Antef. The unbearable loneliness. Vulnerable, unbearable …” Tbubui sucked the word from his mouth. He could see her chewing on it reflectively, then she swallowed it and smiled at him sympathetically. “Unbearable,” she repeated. “My poor, beautiful Hori. Hot young blood … so hot. Come and make love to me. Warm me, Hori, warm me.” When he next came to himself, Koptos was far behind them. Antef stirred beside him at his movement and held a cup to his mouth.
“My head is on fire,” Hori said, “and my guts feel as though they have already been burned to ashes. What is this?”
“Soup,” Antef told him. “Try to keep it down, Prince. You need the nourishment.”
“Where are the scrolls?” Hori cried, struggling up, but Antef pushed him down gently.
“They are safe. Drink, Highness. The Inundation has begun and the river is running a little faster than before. The oarsmen are finding their task easier. We will be home in less time than we took to reach Koptos.”
Obediently Hori drank. His stomach immediately rebelled but he kept the broth down. He felt it inside him, wholesome and comforting. “I want to sit in the chair,” he told Antef. “Help me.”
Once uptight his head gradually ceased to spin. He smiled weakly at his friend. “I cannot fight the magic of hundreds of years,” he said with a trace of humour. “But royal blood must count for something, Antef. Is there much poppy left?”
“Yes, Highness,” Antef answered gravely. “There is more than enough poppy left.”
19
The Lord of Truth abominates lies:
beware then of swearing falsely,
for he that speaketh a lie shall be cast down.
SHERITRA ALIGHTED from the skiff, drew a deep breath and started along the winding, palm-lined path. The day was breathlessly still, a stifling late summer afternoon, but she disregarded the discomfort. Today, this morning, Father had finally agreed to allow a betrothal. She had given him no rest, approaching him at every opportunity, and her persistence had won. Oddly, it had been at the moment when she told him where Hori had gone that he had capitulated. He had not fretted over-much at his son’s disappearance, it seemed to Sheritra. Having banished Hori from all family gatherings, he had not even missed him for several days. But on the fourth day he had begun to make inquiries and Sheritra had waited, heart in mouth, mindful of her promise to Hori to wait one full week before disclosing his whereabouts. Hori’s servants could shed no light on his disappearance. Khaemwaset had even inquired to Tbubui at one noon meal, but she had replied in the negative.
Khaemwaset had come up empty until the seventh day, when Sheritra had gone to him in much trepidation and had confessed that Hori had set sail for Koptos and the truth.
“He is determined to blacken her name,” Khaemwaset had roared. “He corrupted Ptah-Seankh and that did not work, so he is hatching another scheme. I understand how an unreturned love can blight an otherwise generous nature, but this spite …” He had controlled himself with an effort, and when he next spoke his voice was lower. “This spite is so unlike the Hori I thought I knew.”
“Perhaps it is not spite,” Sheritra had dared to argue. “Perhaps Hori has not changed at all and he is trying desperately to make you see something you very much wish to overlook, Father.”
“Are you turning against me also, Little Sun?” he had countered sadly, and she had vigorously denied the accusation.
“No, Father! And neither is Hori. Listen to him when he returns, please! He loves you, he does not want to hurt you, and he is suffering terribly because of your rejection of both of us.”
“Oh you know about that, do you?” Khaemwaset had frowned. “It was a precaution against my untimely death, Sheritra, that was all. Marry before I die and of course you shall have your dowry.”
But Hori cannot claim his inheritance, Sheritra thought. Not ever. This was not a moment to anger her father further. However, she took the opening he had provided.
“I want to marry long before that,” she said swiftly. “Grant my entreaties, Father, and give me my betrothal to Harmin. As a princess it is my place to ask him, not the other way around, and if you do not give your permission we must wait forever.”
This time he had not brushed her off. He had stared at her speculatively for some moments, then, to her surprise and delight, he had nodded brusquely. “Very well. You may go to Harmin and offer him marriage. I have lost one son, and already I have begun to think of Harmin as a replacement for Hori. I am fond of the young man, and he at least is loyal to his relatives.” He smiled thinly. “I see the disbelief on your face, Sheritra, but trust me. I mean it. Go to Harmin.”