Crescent Moon
Authors: Delilah Devlin
Crescent Moon
Crescent Moon
by
Delilah Devlin
The
characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to
real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text
copyright © 2013 by Delilah Devlin
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored
in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written
permission of the publisher.
Published by Montlake Romance
P.O. Box 400818
Las Vegas, NV 89140
eISBN: 9781477859612
Table of Contents
One last time, her mind
drifted, peacefully content … no shadows or disquiet to disturb her …
allowing her to separate the parts of herself, first body from spirit … and
then the mournful, dying part of her soul to dwell forever in the pit, while
what remained, the part that would be born again, floated upward on golden
wings.
Her sprit
ba
left her mortal shell and spread its wings,
flying through the small bright hole in the ceiling, leaving behind her swaddled
human form, which lay on a bare wooden bench.
One, two, three strong surges of
her fluttering wings and she flew toward the sun, free at last and feeling
grateful to her husband for his generous gift. Her wings caught an updraft and
she held them still, floating on the wind, the glorious waning sun warming her
back.
Her spirit flew above white
limestone cliffs and past a deep quarry littered with enormous blocks of carved
stone. A sudden gust riffled through her feathers, forcing her to fly west, high
above a barren valley.
But at last, her
ba
tired, circling downward, searching for the
great river to lead her home. But no familiar white-washed city dwellings, no
temple walls lay below. No fields of cotton and wheat.
Confused, she made her way back to
the dismal pit. Not wanting to enter, she flitted around the opening, feeling
weary and afraid. Something dark awaited her. Some horror in the shadows.
And then she spotted the man with
the dark, watchful gaze standing beneath the opening, his arms outspread to
catch her …
Her heart pounded against her chest, the sound intruding on the vision. Khepri’s
eyes slammed open.
Freedom was only a dream, a memory. How long had she been sleeping?
Slowly, Khepri grew more aware of her surroundings. Pressure enveloped
her from head to toes. Frayed edges of linen strips surrounded her eyes. An
ache centered in her head made her want to gasp, but when she tried to draw a
deep breath, the constriction around her chest made the movement impossible.
She couldn’t feel her fingers or toes. Her body, other than her head and chest,
was numb.
Something was terribly wrong. Short, panicked breaths huffed in the
silence.
She blinked, bright sunlight streaming through a hole in the rock ceiling
above, blinding her, making her eyes tear. Unable to turn her head, she peered
beneath the fringe of her dark lashes, through the openings left in the fabric,
gazing upward. Her sight cleared slowly, but was filtered as though looking
through the gauzy curtains that surrounded her bed in her tiny house inside the
temple walls. But the haze obstructing her sight wasn’t merely physical. It was
a thin curtain pulled over her mind. One placed there, purposely, to confuse.
Her head reeled, not understanding, not recognizing where she lay. The
sickly sweet scent of frankincense tickled her nose.
“Precious little warrior, you are awake.”
If she could have drawn a deep breath, she would have spit. Sudden fury
trembled through her body. She didn’t understand what was happening, but knew
he
was the one to blame. She wanted to
rage against him, ask how he dared abduct her. She was Amun’s wife, his mortal
consort. But the only sound that scratched from her throat was a tiny whimper.
“You have questions,” he crooned from beside her. “We have little time.
Pharaoh’s army marches. They will find us soon. We must bury the nameless one,
hide him before they can entomb him. No one must ever find his body. He will
not sleep in a sarcophagus. No texts will be written to reawaken him, no mask
placed over his head so that he may recognize himself in the afterlife. He must
not rise.”
Her lashes drifted downward. She remembered the moment the handsome,
lying vizier stepped off the plank lowered from the side of the barge.
“Pharaoh is dead,” he’d said, his voice uninflected.
Her heart had grown still. The news was devastating to be sure, but why
had he traveled so far from Luxor to tell her?
And then snippets of memories bombarded her mind.
Khepri moaned, spreading her lips and baring her teeth to catch the edges
of the strips surrounding her mouth, but they were stiffened and wouldn’t give.
Her eyes rounded in fear as she realized how dire was her predicament.
He bent closer, his dark eyes alight with sympathy. But then he moved
away. Taking with him his masculine scent, musk she’d once found attractive.
The odor mocked her now.
Although she feared him, she wanted to cling to the sight of him, didn’t
want to feel so alone, so trapped and helpless. Perhaps she could reason with
him. But he was insane. Would no one stop him?
Deep in her throat, she gurgled, nearly choking on the tears that leaked
from her eyes and burned the back of her throat. “Please,” she whispered. From
a distance, she heard his footsteps. He drew nearer, holding in one hand a
slender reed with one end frayed and trimmed to form a brush and dripping red
paint, and in the other a palette, red pigment swirled. He leaned over her and
made strokes on the coverings enclosing her chest, down her belly, splitting
over her thighs and moving down to her toes.
“What are you doing?” she rasped, as some of the cool liquid seeped through
to touch her skin.
“Painting spells, Khepri, Amun’s wife. Introducing you to Anubis, the
protector of souls, entreating him to keep you close until you are needed. To
hide you from Osiris so your soul will not be judged. Not yet.”
“Until I am needed? I am needed at the temple.”
He tsked and continued to paint, accompanied by the soft chuffing sounds
of bristles rasping on resin-hardened fabric.
Her tears quickened, soaking her skin beneath the wrappings and leaking
into her hair. “I am The God’s Wife. You have no right.”
He sighed and strode back into view. When he leaned over her, sympathy no
longer shone in his eyes. A deep furrow dug between his sharp dark brows. “I
need quiet to think,” he said, his words peppering her like hard pellets. He
placed a hand over her nose and mouth, cutting off her air.
Panic made her gurgle, but she was unable to fight. She stared upward at
his gleaming eyes until darkness closed over her vision.
That morning, Khepri had washed her hands in a clay bowl held
by a servant at the darkened doorway of the sanctuary. One last ablution before
she entered the small marble surrounds, a purity ritual she persisted in
performing despite the high priest’s laxity. Akil was lazy, undeserving of the
honor bestowed upon him.
Khepri dried her hands on the towel the servant provided, gave her a nod
that she might leave, and then reached for a candle in the basket sitting on
the table next to the door.
In the distance, the dulcet sound of the temple singer’s voice echoed in
the hypostyle as the girl danced among the tall columns. The sound was soothing
to Khepri who, of late, needed daily reminding of the privilege the gods had
extended to her—a common farmer’s daughter.
That she needed reminding should have shamed her. She had so much, and so
little was required in return. Her duties weren’t all that
time-consuming—prayers four times daily, oversight of workers inside the
walls—but perhaps that was the problem. During her idle hours, she dreamed of
things she had no right to even imagine, of faraway places and exciting
adventures … of handsome nobles and wicked bandits. The men entering her
dreams being the most shocking, the most sinful secret she kept, because she
was already wed. All her passion and loyalty belonged to her husband.
Dreams were not a haven, but a place where demons frolicked, waiting to
seduce a woman from her righteous path with impure thoughts.
Or so she’d been taught. A sentiment she repeated to herself often, but
to no avail.
Lately, she had doubts about her suitability for the role she’d been
thrust into. She was irritable, easily distracted, and at night she felt
yearnings for another sort of life, one where she wasn’t exalted or adored from
afar, but loved in a much more intimate way.
Today, she was glad of the niggling annoyance that followed her here. For
once, her irritation came from a source outside herself. She schooled her
features into a neutral mask, hoping her thoughts would follow and assume a
similar calm. Just conjuring the high priest’s name made her back stiffen and
her stomach boil. Akil saw to his duties only one month in three at Karnak and
didn’t make use of the quarters she kept for him inside the temple walls.
Instead, he stayed in Thebes, preferring beer and debauchery to daily offerings
and prayer.
Usually, his casual devotion suited her, because when he entered the
temple grounds dark spirits surrounded him like a noxious cloud. His lecherous
nature made her uncomfortable. And although her exalted station permitted her
to refuse his overtures, she had no such power to save the other women who
lived inside the walls from his advances.
Just this morning, her handmaiden hadn’t met her gaze while she’d
assisted at her morning bath.
“Aliyah, what is wrong?” she’d asked, expecting to hear about yet another
argument between her servant and the temple singer. The two women shared
interest in the same handsome ferryman, whose flat-bottomed boat crossed the
great river several times a day, ferrying worshippers and workers. So far,
they’d kept their rivalry friendly, but Khepri didn’t need to be an oracle to
know trouble lay ahead.
“The high priest,” Aliyah said hesitantly, “he asked me to attend his
bath in the sacred lake upon his return.”
Khepri had sucked in a deep breath. Aliyah was pretty and round, her dark
eyes shaped like golden almonds but tilting downward. Of course she’d drawn
Akil’s roving eye. “You’ll be far too busy,” Khepri had snapped. “I have
errands for you to run in Thebes. You’ll be gone at least two days.”
Aliyah’s gratitude had shown in her gleaming eyes and watery smile. Her
problem had been easy to fix. Besides, the chances Akil might actually awaken
from his drunken stupor to make the journey to the temple this day were slim.
If he did return, his irritation at Aliyah’s absence would spill over on Khepri.
He’d likely demand
her
services at
his bath in the pool inside the temple walls. But she would simply sniff and
turn her back, even though what she really wished was to fly at him and use
some of the warrior’s moves she’d been practicing with her tutor, skills Akil
had no clue she possessed. In her exalted role, all that was expected was that
she study the papyri, make her offerings to Amun throughout the day, and see to
the workers inside the temple walls. The training she received by a wrinkled
slave from the East was just another secret the people inside the temple walls
kept.
No, Akil didn’t know about the training, and would have been appalled, no
doubt, by her unseemly practice. For she was to keep her body soft, and her
mind even softer, for the pleasure of her husband. A husband who could never
enjoy the feast of beauty and sacrifice she embodied in life.
As “The God’s Wife,” Khepri was untouchable by any man, save the living
god,
Pharaoh
—not an event she
concerned herself with since Re’s current incarnation had yet to journey this
far south. Inviolate and virgin, she devoted herself to her role as the living
consort to Amun, the one chosen to deliver his words.
Her position was more exalted than Akil’s, something that irritated the
odious man to no end. Although why he should feel that way she didn’t
understand. Akil was born of privilege, his title gifted by the current king,
which made him the recipient of all the temple’s wealth.
Khepri stood inviolate, but also helpless, while the walls crumbled due
to a lack of funds for maintenance and the people in the nearby village grew
hungry because Akil demanded more and more grain as tribute.
Her hand curled tightly around the candle, her fingers leaving greasy
impressions in the wax. She twisted the wick, then drew back her fingers as
flame sputtered—hotter than needed—but her anger interfered with her control of
simple magic.
Closing her eyes to center herself, she took a deep breath, exhaled her
anger, and then entered through the open doorway of the chamber, automatically
beginning a chant, one to cleanse her spirit before she cleansed the room of
mischievous spirits and offered her prayers.
O Husband, I call to
you.
All evil which lay upon my skin is
gone,
Washed clean by Anuket’s great
river,
And dried by your gentle winds.
Then she touched the candle’s flame to the lumps of resin in
the copper bowl sitting atop the
naos
housing the statue of Amun. The sweetly pungent scent of frankincense quickly
filled the small, unventilated room. Next, holding the candle and the bowl, she
walked in a circle around the room, wafting the incense to chase away the
spirits.
Irritation still stiffened her body, making her movements ungraceful, and
she bit her lip. For all that she was beginning to resent her station in life,
she did hold respect for the gods. “Husband, please forgive this wife. I bring
my troubles into your house.” Sighing, she knelt before the statue, setting the
candle upright in the bowl, and then bowed her head, at last clearing her mind,
and hoping for a gift—either of vision or of calm.
Slowly, her breaths regulated, stretched. Her mind drifted. At that
moment, her husband gifted her with a vision.
Her
ba
peeled away, spreading its golden wings to fly through the narrow
doorway of the sanctuary, leaving behind her human form, which knelt before the
statue of Amun, expression lax, hands pressed together in prayer.
Her spirit flew to the hall outside
with its soaring ceiling, darting between tall columns, and then out toward the
courtyard before lifting high above the temple walls.
Three strong surges of her wings lifted
her toward the sun, and her heart nearly burst with gratitude for her husband’s
generous gift of freedom. Although these moments were brief, the knowledge she
led a blessed life was reinforced—a gentle reminder from the gods she ought not
to take their favor for granted.
At long last, her
ba
tired, circling downward, over the great
river, high above green fields filled with cotton and wheat. To the west lay
Thebes, just across the river. Looking like small rafts, ferry boats bobbed,
pulled by ropes to the opposite banks. The faint echoes of the passengers with
their goats and sacks drifted upward, faint echoes of laughter and chatter, though
nothing distinct enough for her to understand.
At the moment her spirit would have
turned back toward the temple, something glistened on the water below, coming
around the snakelike bend. A barge. One painted red and with gold symbols, long
oars chopping the calm surface of the water. Reed panels enclosed the deck. A
man strode from beneath the curtain to stand near the prow, his tall figure so
still, his dark gaze staring at the walls of the Temple of Amun, just coming
into view.
Khepri gasped and shook herself free of the vision. She recognized the
man on the bow. Pharaoh’s vizier, and the one man who’d ever caused her to
blush. He traveled on Pharaoh’s barge. Did that mean the king was at last
coming to visit? How awkward Akil wouldn’t be here to greet him. He’d only
blame her for the lost opportunity to ingratiate himself to their ruler.
She blew out the candle and strode out of the room, purpose in her step.
Her papyrus sandals slapped the cool marble. “Tawaret!” she called to the
singer. “Gather the staff. We have visitors coming—royal visitors.”
She found Bes, the temple’s messenger. The servant was young, slim, and
fast. She gave him instructions to find Akil at his house in Thebes and tell
him she had seen a vision of the Pharaoh’s barge approaching.
After giving instructions for the already immaculate temple to be cleaned
again, she signaled Tawaret to accompany her to her chamber. The small house
inside the walls had only two rooms—one for her to greet her guests, the other
where she slept and bathed. A copper tub sat in her bedroom, already
half-filled with clean water since she bathed four times daily to purify. This
time, she quickly stripped and stepped into the water.
Tawaret’s eyes rounded. “Mistress, I will send to the kitchen for hot
water to warm your bath.”
“There’s not time,” Khepri said, drawing a deep breath as she submerged
her body in cool water. “My husband sent me warning. Guests approach. I must
greet them in better than my oldest linen gown.”
Tawaret nodded. “Do you want the lavender
kalasiris
?”
“No, a sheath in its natural flax coloring will do. I don’t want anyone
thinking me vain.”
One of her dark brows rose, a sparkle in her eyes. “But you are a God’s
Wife. Shouldn’t you be dressed in leopard skin?”
Khepri didn’t scold the girl for her impertinence. The quality was one
she adored. Only with loyal Tawaret could she abandon decorum and be herself.
“I am a woman of humble birth, chosen for my purity of heart and body. While I
will rim my eyes with kohl to ward away an evil eye, I will not dress myself in
finery other than the best linen our farm produces.” Khepri wrinkled her nose.
“Besides, animal skin is not permitted in the temple. You know that.”
Tawaret chose a plain
kalasiris
that boasted
one shoulder strap and would fall to her ankles.
The
linen was fine and thin, nearly transparent, but Khepri wouldn’t let herself
think of that now. If the linen was the best her temple had to offer, she
wouldn’t shame the workers for the sake of modesty.
“I could rouge the tips of your breasts,” Tawaret said, one corner of her
mouth quirking. “They would show very nicely through the fabric.”
Khepri’s eyes widened. “Do women do that?”
“For such a wise woman, you aren’t very worldly.” Tawaret shook her head.
Tawaret was a temple worker and so not constrained to keep her body pure.
Khepri was sure Amun had sent the imp as a test of her resolution. “I am a
priestess, the antithesis to worldly. If I am beautiful, that blessing exists
only because my beauty will please Amun.”
“Does that mean you want the rouge?” she asked slyly.
Khepri laughed. “I could have you whipped for impertinence.”
Although a smile curved her mouth, Tawaret instantly dropped her head to
show obeisance. “I’ll bring oil to scent your skin, mistress.”
Khepri sighed, and then rose from the water and dried herself with a
thick linen towel from the stack beside the copper tub. When she finished, she
dropped it and stood still while Tawaret anointed every inch of her skin with
fragrant oil. Khepri’s eyes glided closed as firm hands molded the muscles of
her back and shoulders. A momentary pleasure she savored, because the massage
was the only intimate touch she’d ever known.
“Your hair is getting long. I could shave your head …”
At the suggestion, Khepri sucked in a breath. She knew her hair wasn’t
fashionable, and that she risked attracting nits, but she’d never shaved her
head when she lived on the farm. She didn’t like the way a bald scalp felt. So
long as she could hide her lapse beneath a wig, she would. Already, she submitted
to a sharp bronze knife for removal of hair over the rest of her body. “There
isn’t time,” she murmured.
From Tawaret, she accepted a mirror of polished bronze and a small reed brush.
Khepri wet the brush with her tongue, pressed it against the cake of kohl
powder her servant held, and painted black circles around her eyes. Then she
strode to the wall and lifted her best gown from a peg. The linen was smooth
and cool, breathed better than any of the other garments she owned. If she wet
the fabric like the loose women in Thebes did, she’d never perspire.
Tawaret took the gown from her hands and bunched it carefully to hold out
for Khepri to slide over her outstretched arms.
The dress settled around her body, falling straight from her shoulders,
but hugging her lithe hips and swishing around her ankles.