Magic of the Nile (36 page)

“Of course.” Nidiamhet drew Tyema to her feet with surprising strength, putting one arm around her waist. “Lean on me and I’ll take you to one of our spare bedrooms.”

Tyema closed her eyes for a moment, allowing the other woman to lead her through the room. “I’m sorry to cause a fuss, but I think I need a basin. I’m going to be sick.”

“Probably a passing thing,” her hostess said in soothing tone. “Maybe the food was too rich for one unaccustomed to our northern cooking. You’ll be fine by sunset.”

“May I help?” The Minoan attaché’s daughter joined them, taking Tyema by the other arm.

Alarmed despite the onslaught of nausea, Tyema raised her head, searching for some other assistance, only to realize in her pain and confusion she’d allowed herself to be led from the chamber where all the women were gathered. Nidiamhet and Jadikiria were guiding her rapidly down a corridor. She pulled back against them. “Please, you’re both very kind but I’d rather go to the palace. Just call my litter. The court physician can treat this.”

“Nonsense,” Nidiamhet said, gripping her arm more tightly. “You’re under my roof and my responsibility for now. I know what’s best. You’re far too ill to travel.”

Tyema tried to dig in her heels but strength was rapidly leaving her body. The two women half dragged her the length of a corridor and then into a smaller side hall, ending the journey in a windowless room dominated by a small bed. They dropped her onto the mattress and she turned her head to be sick on the floor. Wiping her mouth a few moments later, trembling, she said, “I insist you call for my litter and let me seek help at the palace.”

“You can insist all you want, but you’re wasting your breath,” Nidiamhet said, reaching to get a grip on Tyema’s crocodile amulet. “You’ll be going somewhere else all right, but you’ll find no one to help you. Quite the contrary.” With a yank that jerked the weakened Tyema half off the bed and sent hot pain through her neck and back, Nidiamhet broke the fine gold chain holding the amulet, slipping the stone into her pocket. “Your precious Sobek won’t hear you now.” Her hostess grabbed some linens from a nearby table and mopped the floor where Tyema had been sick, swearing under her breath.

Head spinning, Tyema tried to stand, but the Minoan woman waiting nearby easily shoved her flat on the bed. Head pounding, barely conscious from the nausea, Tyema said, “You poisoned me?”

“Nothing fatal.”

Those were the last words Tyema heard for a few moments until Nidiamhet started shaking her roughly by the shoulder, jarring the bed. “Open your eyes, I want you to see this.”

Blinking, surprised and frightened she’d passed out without even realizing it, Tyema took a deep breath and opened her eyes as ordered, the lamplight in the room making her nausea worse. The intensity of black magic in the air and the aura around Jadikiria only heightened her fear. Between agonizing abdominal cramps, curling into a ball, Tyema whispered, “What could you possibly want to show me?”

Nidiamhet reached down and yanked a few hairs from Tyema’s head. “I think I got the resemblance remarkably right, don’t you?” She held a wax figure close to Tyema’s face. The tiny figurine was female, wearing only a loose kilt. Tyema’s name was inscribed in hieratic on the doll’s bare chest. Seating herself on the end of the bed while Jadikiria hovered nearby, Nidiamhet busied herself wrapping the strands of stolen hair around the neck and head of the effigy. “I learned to make these spell dolls from a most excellent book of black magic I discovered, locked in a cabinet in Pharaoh’s library. The librarian was almost no challenge at all. A few simple spells and he was only too happy to reveal the deepest secrets, the most forbidden tablets, to me.” One eyebrow raised, she glanced at the Minoan. “He admires my poetry, you see, which gave me a starting place for my magic to work on him. Hand me a quill from the basket on the table, will you?”

Hand on her head, which stung where the hair had been yanked out, Tyema made another futile effort to rise. Again Nidiamhet shoved her flat, scratching Tyema’s shoulder with her long fingernails in the process. Unable to control her urge to be ill, Tyema retched, holding her aching stomach. Scarcely above a whisper, she asked, “Why are you doing this?”

“Because you stand in my way. Until he met you, Sahure was eager to marry me, use my connections to further his career.” Nidiamhet stood taller, smoothing her wig with one hand. “I only had to influence that stupid girl Baufratet. Cause her to disgust Sahure by being too openly eager for his attention, and then there was no other rival. Our marriage was just a matter of time. Now you’ve had his child and all he can think about is you and your problems.” Nidiamhet snorted as she leaned closer. “I’ll be a good mother to the brat, I promise. All Thebes will sing my praises as a doting stepmother.”

Thoughts of her baby in peril gave Tyema renewed strength. Kicking out, she knocked Nidiamhet off balance. Rolling off the bed in the next moment, Tyema staggered to her feet, heading for the door, screaming for help. The Minoan launched herself at Tyema, carrying them both to the floor, where she continued to struggle as best she could, slapping at the other woman’s hands and face. Suddenly she lost all feeling in her arms and legs, falling on her back as if paralyzed, head striking the floor with a jarring thud. The Minoan extricated herself from Tyema’s limp embrace and stood, aiming a swift kick at her ribs, saying as she did so, “No one heard you, we’re in the farthest wing of the house.”

Nidiamhet bent over, showing Tyema the doll, whose hands were now tied behind its back with Tyema’s hair, wax ankles similarly hobbled. “Your god was a fool to send you to Thebes. Neither you nor he has the slightest idea how to fight the kind of magic I can wield, even if he did somehow protect you from me while you were in Ibis Nome last year. Of course I wasn’t as powerful then, and I didn’t know much about you.”

“You’ve been an excellent student since I was sent to tutor you this year.” Working to replace the ivory pins in her complicated hairdo as she complimented her accomplice, Jadikiria said, “Granted you started from a strong place, owning the magic ring your mother looted from the Usurper Pharaoh’s bedchamber during the chaos when Nat-re-Akhte took Thebes. Our god still hungers for domination over Egypt and our group of exiles would be only too happy to regain the Black Lands for him, with you as our secret agent inside the Court.”

“Help me put her back on the bed.” Placing the wax doll on the table, Nidiamhet took Tyema by the shoulders and Jadikiria scurried to pick up her feet. Unceremoniously the women dumped her onto the bed, flopping helplessly as if she’d become the doll.

 
“I’m not sure you’re ready for this level of spell casting, though,” Jadikiria said as Tyema’s head banged against the head rest, unable to control her own movements or even cry out with pain. “I wish you’d consulted me first. This course of action is risky, invoking Qemtusheb’s demon servants without the proper preliminary sacrifices, lacking a consecrated altar, no priests to support you—”

Sobek, help me!
Tyema couldn’t move a single finger now. She felt tears trickle down her cheeks as she thought of her son. There was no answer from the Great One
.
Anger at her god and her own naiveté fought with the nausea and pain in her gut.
I never should have come to Thebes, and he should have known I’d be no match for a true sorcerer. It was exceedingly reckless to come here today. Why didn’t I just report Baufratet and Nidiamhet to Pharaoh and let him sort the matter out?
Tyema prayed Sahure would resist Nidiamhet’s black magic, would shield their child from her evil intentions.

“I know what I’m doing. The book of spells was clear enough. I send the
ka
of a living being as a sacrifice to Qemtusheb, for his pleasure, and he grants me tremendous power as a result.” Nidiamhet shrugged. “Her being a priestess, and a mother, just makes her more valuable as a sacrifice.”

Jadikiria stared at Tyema, who tried to project her hate and loathing in a glare, her powers of speech having fled under the influence of the spell doll. Jadikiria glanced away, rubbing her arms as if cold or uneasy, frowning. “Still, my high priest is due to arrive in Egypt within the next week or so. I wish you’d wait till he was here, to consult and assist. All your guests saw how unwell the priestess was, you could administer a fatal dose of the poison now and no one could possibly question her death. Your rival would be removed and you could pick another target to be your sacrifice later. Rituals are important to approaching Qemtusheb. This is rushed and not according to form, which worries me.”

“Watch then, and let your fears be assuaged.” Nidiamhet came back into Tyema’s field of vision, holding the doll. Speaking to Tyema, she said, “Pay attention, she-viper, for now I’m sending your
ka
to the realm of Qemtusheb’s demons.” With the quill, she wrote something on the doll’s left leg. She yanked Tyema’s dress up and peered closely at her leg.

Tyema screamed soundlessly as raised red weals appeared on her skin, symbols spelling out a word or name she didn’t know as if she was being branded.

Nidiamhet leaned over to check the results. Apparently satisfied, she started writing on the effigy’s other leg. “In case you’re curious,” she said to Tyema in a conversational tone that was horrifyingly matter of fact, “These are the names of the demons I’m calling to accept you as my sacrifice, names which can’t be uttered aloud. It may take some time, but they’ll collect your
ka
all right.”

The pain was fading in her left leg even as it increased in her right. The weals disappeared as the next name was written, the symbols seeming to sink into Tyema’s body through her skin. As Nidiamhet began scrawling the final two names on the doll’s arms, Tyema—unable to bear the pain any longer—lost consciousness. Her last prayer was for her child to be safe in Sahure’s arms.

****

Sahure’s day had been excellent, doing practice drills with some of his comrades on the training ground, followed by a round of archery and an impromptu chariot race. It was good to be back in Thebes among his fellow warriors. Anticipating escorting Tyema to Pharaoh’s banquet later in the evening, followed by another leisurely session of lovemaking in the privacy of her rooms, he’d bathed and shaved and was donning his dress uniform when there was a peremptory knock on the door.

“Enter!” Fastening his cloak, he turned to greet the newcomer.

It was the scribe who’d been appointed to sit outside Tyema’s door in case she had need of Edekh. He leaned on the door jamb, breathing hard as if he’d been in a race. “You must come quickly, sir.”

“What’s amiss? Did Lady Tyema send you?” He grabbed his dagger and pushed past the scribe into the hall, striding rapidly in the direction of Tyema’s rooms.

Hurrying to keep up, the scribe said, “No, my lord, it was Lady Renebti. She insisted you be summoned. Lady Nidiamhet wished to deal with the situation herself but—”

Alarmed, Sahure stopped, grabbing the other man by the arm. “Speak plainly. Where’s Tyema?”

The scribe gulped. “She fell ill, sir, and has been brought to her quarters unconscious. The ladies argue over how to care for her, as I understood matters.”

At a dead run, Sahure left the scribe behind and reached Tyema’s suite moments later, passing the saluting guards in an instant and coming to a halt in the first chamber.

“Thank the gods,” Renebti cried. White-faced, wig askew, makeup ruined by tears, she was clutching a screaming Seknehure. Backed into a corner, she was facing Nidiamhet, who’d apparently been trying to wrest the baby from her arms. Renebti seized the distraction afforded by Sahure’s entrance to dart around the lady-in-waiting and scoot across the room to the door of Tyema’s bedroom.

“What is the meaning of this? What’s going on?” Sahure stood in the center of the room, hands on his hips, dread like a knife in his heart.

Niadiamhet sauntered to him, her eyes soft with unshed tears, although he noted in passing her elaborate eye makeup was untouched. Placing one hand on his arm, she leaned closer. “Your lady was taken ill today at my home. I’ve brought her back to the palace as she requested, but I’m afraid now she’s unconscious.”

Removing her fingers from his forearm, Sahure strode to the entrance to Tyema’s room, shoving aside the draperies, Renebti meeting him at her aunt’s bed. Tyema lay in the center, a small, still figure. Makeup smudged and running, her eyes were closed and sweat beaded her brow.
 

Sahure bent over her, hand on her shoulder, calling her name, but she didn’t open her eyes. “She was healthy this morning,” he said in disbelief.

Leaning over, Nidiamhet smoothed the hair away from Tyema’s face in a maternal gesture. “And she was fine at my family’s home, until shortly after luncheon concluded. Then she began to complain of stomach pains. I took her to lie down in peace in a spare room and when it was time for the party to break up I found her as you see her now, feverish and unresponsive. Perhaps I should have left a maid to sit with her in the afternoon. I feel badly not to have checked on her sooner, but Tyema insisted on being alone to nap.”

Sahure had no time or patience for any excuses. “Has the royal physician been sent for?”

Holding the furiously crying child as best she could, Renebti nodded. “As soon as they carried my aunt into the room, I asked the scribe outside to fetch the doctor, then to get you.”

“Then where is the man?” Sahure reached for his son. “What ails Seknehure? Is he also falling ill?”

“He’s hungry, my lord.” Renebti handed him the baby, who was momentarily distracted by Sahure’s golden falcon badge. “I gave him water and juice, but he needs milk.”